Page 35 of Fake As Puck
“Hungry?” he asks during what must be the third explosion scene.
“Yeah, actually.”
“Pizza?”
“Obviously.” I smile.
He heats up the leftover pizza and brings it over on plates, along with the honey mustard that he remembered I like.
“You don’t have to keep doing this,” I say, taking the plate.
“Doing what?”
“Taking care of me. Remembering what I like. Acting like...”
“Like what?”
“Like this is real.”
He’s quiet for a moment, and I can feel him looking at me.
“Maybe that’s what makes it convincing,” he says finally.
We eat in comfortable silence, and I realize this is the first time all day that I haven’t felt like we’re performing for each other. We’re just two people eating pizza and watching a bad movie, and it feels normal.
Easy.
Like we could do this every night if we wanted to.
Which is exactly the problem.
“I should probably get some sleep,” I say when the movie ends.
“Yeah. Good idea.”
“Thanks for today. The shopping, the practice, booking the flight.”
“Thanks for being a good sport about it.”
“I’m being paid to be a good sport.”
“Right,” he says, and something flickers across his face.
I head to my room and take a long shower, trying to wash away the feeling of his arm around me and the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn’t paying attention.
This is just a job. For money. He’s paying me. I need to remember that.
I wake up to the sound of sizzling bacon and the smell of coffee, and for a moment I forget where I am again.
Today is the wedding.
I walk out in my pajamas, my cotton shorts and an oversized t-shirt that definitely isn’t meant for public consumption. I find West at the stove, fully dressed and looking like he’s been awake for hours.
“Morning,” I say, heading for the coffee pot.
“Morning,” he says without turning around, but I can see his shoulders tense.
I pour myself coffee and lean against the counter, watching him flip bacon.
