Page 56 of Fake As Puck
Standing in the checkout line, I feel weird about it. Guilty, like I’m cashing in on something I didn’t earn.
Because what did I do, really? Showed up, wore a dress, smiled at his friends, danced at a wedding. That’s not work. That’s not worth five hundred dollars.
We even kissed three years ago. I’ve had a crush on him forever, and it doesn’t feel fair to take his money. Maybe I shouldn’t, but then I couldn’t afford these groceries.
Being paid by him doesn’t feel like a job I should be getting paid for.
Which is exactly the problem.
Because if it was just a job, I wouldn’t feel guilty about the money. I wouldn’t be replaying every conversation we had or wondering what he meant when he said I was perfect.
I wouldn’t be checking my phone every five minutes to see if he’s texted me.
Which he hasn’t.
Not since I told him that my flight landed.
That was four days ago. Radio silence since then.
Which is fine. Expected, even. We’re not actually dating. There’s no reason for him to text me random updates about his day or funny memes he found online.
But I keep checking anyway.
The next week falls into a rhythm that’s both familiar and somehow wrong. I babysit Charlie and Emma three days in a row while Tessa handles some work crisis. I apply for freelance gigs during naptime and playtime, sending out pitches that will probably get rejected by people who think AI can do my job better than I can.
“Are you crying?” Charlie asks on Thursday while I’m helping her build a princess Lego castle.
I smile, shaking my head. “I’m not sad, honey.”
“Don’t cry,” she says. “It’s okay.”
I smile at her sweet baby face. “I’m just thinking.”
Friday morning, I’m sitting at Tessa’s kitchen table with my laptop, halfheartedly responding to an email about a potential writing gig, when my phone buzzes.
For a second, my heart jumps, thinking it might be West.
It’s not. It’s a notification from Instagram.
But when I open it, it’s a photo that makes my chest tighten.
West posted a picture from the wedding. It’s the two of us on the dance floor, his arm around my waist, both of us laughing at something. We look happy. Like a real couple.
Like people who are actually in love.
The caption just says:Good times with good people.
I stare at the photo for way too long, zooming in on our faces, trying to remember what we were laughing about.
Then I notice the comments.
Reed:Told you she was a keeper.
Chelsea:You two are adorable!
Hurley:When’s the wedding?
Someone from high school:No way! So cute! Couple goals
