Page 83 of Fake As Puck
Because the way West said it, the way he looked at me when he said it, didn’t feel like acting.
It felt real.
And I know I said I don’t want to complicate things, but boy, am I tempted to throw that out the window.
22
The reception is everything I expected and nothing I was prepared for.
String lights are draped between the trees, casting everything in warm, golden light. There’s an acoustic duo playing in the corner, guitar and violin, the kind of music that makes everything feel cinematic and significant. The wine is the expensive kind that people save for special occasions, and everyone’s laughing and talking like they’re in a movie about beautiful people living beautiful lives.
It should feel familiar. I’ve been to fancy events before. I know how to navigate small talk and open bars and the social dynamics of groups where everyone’s trying to impress everyone else.
But this feels different.
Maybe because these are people who knew me before I became whoever I am now. Maybe because I’m hyperaware of Liv next to me, the way she’s charming everyone she meets while staying perfectly in character as my girlfriend.
Maybe because every time someone asks about our relationship, I keep saying things that feel real, but I’m too chicken shit to be honest with her.
“You’re doing great,” Liv whispers to me during a lull in conversation.
“I feel like I’m performing.”
“You are performing. We both are. Dance with me,” she says when the music shifts to something slower.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
She takes my hand and leads me to the small dance floor that’s been set up on the terrace. A few other couples are already swaying together, lost in their own worlds.
I pull her closer than I probably should, closer than necessary for the performance, but she doesn’t resist. Her hand rests on my shoulder, and I can feel the warmth of her palm through my shirt. My hand finds the small of her back, and she fits against me like she was designed to be there.
“This is nice,” she says softly.
We move together slowly, and I try to focus on the music instead of how good she feels in my arms.
Her navy dress makes her eyes look darker, and her hair is soft against my cheek when she turns her head, and I can feel every breath she takes.
“You smell good,” I say without thinking.
“Thank you.”
“What is that? Your perfume?”
“Something I found at Target.”
“I thought Target wasn’t a boutique?” I tease and then continue, “Target perfume smells like that?”
“Expensive doesn’t always mean better.”
“Good to know.”
She laughs, and the sound vibrates through her chest where it’s pressed against mine.
“What’s funny?”
“You. Acting like you don’t already shop at Target for cologne.”
