Page 47 of Fake As Puck
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I drag myself off the couch and to my room to change out of my dress and into something that doesn’t smell like community center and beer. When I come back down in yoga pants and one of the oversized t-shirts I packed, West has coffee waiting and is scrambling eggs.
“You don’t have to take care of me,” I say, accepting the coffee like it’s a lifeline.
“Are you though? Right now?”
I consider this. My hands are shaky, my head is pounding, and I’m pretty sure if I tried to operate the stove I’d burn the house down.
“Point taken.”
He slides a plate of eggs and toast in front of me, along with a glass of something that looks suspiciously green.
“What’s that?” I ask, eyeing the glass.
“Electrolytes. It’ll help with the hangover.”
“It looks like swamp water.” I grab it anyway, tempted to smell it.
He quips, “It tastes like tropical swamp water.”
“Appetizing.”
His eyes meet mine. “Drink it. Trust me.”
I take a sip and immediately regret all my life choices. “Oh god, that’s horrible.”
“But effective.”
“Are you secretly a nurse? Is that your off-season job?”
“I’m just experienced with hangovers.”
“Right. Professional athlete. I forgot you probably have a PhD in hangover management.”
“Something like that.”
We eat in comfortable silence, and I have to admit the eggs are perfect and the swamp water is already making me feel more human.
“So,” I say, picking at my toast, “back to reality today.”
“Yeah.”
“Flight’s at three. I should probably pack soon.”
“You should.”
“It’s been... fun. The fake girlfriend thing. Easier than I thought it would be.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Your friends are great. The wedding was beautiful. I had a good time.”
“Good.”
There’s something off about his tone, but I can’t figure out what it is.
“I think we pulled it off,” I continue. “The couple thing. No one seemed suspicious.”
