Page 80 of Fake As Puck
The venue is exactly what I pictured when West said “upscale coastal wedding.”
Perched on a bluff overlooking the Pacific, all weathered wood and glass windows that frame the ocean like living artwork. There are white chairs arranged in neat rows on the lawn, an archway of eucalyptus and white roses facing the water, and string lights already twinkling even though it’s only four in the afternoon.
It’s the kind of place where people spend more money than I make in six months to have the perfect wedding.
“Jesus,” West mutters under his breath as we walk up from the parking area. “This is fancier than I knew it would be.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“It’s intimidating.”
“You’re intimidating. You’re six-foot-three and built like you could bench press a small car. These are just people in fancy clothes.”
“People in fancy clothes who knew me when I thought beer pong was a sport.”
“Beer pong is a sport.”
“See? This is why I brought you. You get it.”
We smile at each other.
Then I straighten his tie even though it doesn’t need straightening, just because it feels like something a girlfriend would do.
“You look handsome,” I tell him. “Very handsome. Like the kind of man who’s evolved past beer pong.”
“Have I though?”
“Definitely. Now you’re into sophisticated activities like... what do professional hockey players do for fun?”
“Golf. Fishing. Expensive dinners.”
“See? Very mature.”
He laughs, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. He’s always had a problem with anxiety, and I’m only now realizing how much it truly affects him. Maybe that’s why he needed a fake girlfriend so bad. Someone to show up with, be a buffer, and help with his anxiety.
“Come on,” I say, linking my arm through his. “Let’s go charm your college friends.”
The thing about being someone’s fake girlfriend at a wedding where you don’t know anyone is that you have to stay in character constantly. There’s no break, no moment to drop the act and just be yourself.
Which means I spend the entire cocktail hour attached to West’s side, smiling and nodding and playing the role of supportive girlfriend while he reconnects with people he hasn’t seen in years.
“West! Holy shit, man, how long has it been?”
“Dude, you look exactly the same. Still huge.”
“I saw you on SportsCenter last month. That goal against Calgary was insane.”
Everyone wants to talk to West, which makes sense. He’s the one who made it. The one who turned college hockey into a professional career while everyone else became lawyers and accountants and whatever else people do with their lives.
I stay close, listening to stories about fraternity parties and road trips and inside jokes I’ll never understand, and I watch West navigate it all with an ease that surprises me.
He’s not the nervous person from the car ride anymore. He’s charming and funny and completely in control, and I can see glimpses of who he must have been in college. Confident, popular, the kind of guy everyone wanted to be friends with.
“And this must be the famous girlfriend,” someone says, and I realize they’re talking about me.
“Liv,” West says, his hand finding the small of my back. “Liv, this is Jamie. We lived in the same dorm sophomore year.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, extending my hand.
