Writing the Rules: A Fake Dating Standalone Page 16

  Me: Peacock blue?

  Me: Lilac?

  Paxton: My mom just painted her living room lilac. It might make you reconsider it as a contender.

  Me: What’s your favorite color?

  Pax: Blue.

  I scoff. That was too easy.

  Me: Seahawks blue?

  Paxton: That’s the one.

  Me: What’s your favorite holiday?

  Pax: Super bowl.

  Me: LOL. That’s not a holiday.

  Pax: Hang out with me long enough and you’ll see that it is.

  Pax: What’s your favorite holiday?

  Me: Easter or maybe Valentine’s Day, though I always claim to hate it. I like holidays where there aren’t huge expectations and chocolate’s involved.

  Pax: Why do you claim to hate Valentine’s?

  Me: Because it’s the cool thing to do. Everyone says it’s a commercialized day, and it’s true, but I don’t understand why they don’t just make it represent what they want. Rae and I used to make it Galantine’s Day—movies, chocolate, and hang out, and it was glorious. Why can’t couples just make it easy and simplify the day?

  Pax: Because they’re not smart enough to make rules.

  I read his response three times, each time trying to read less between the lines. We’re not a real couple. Real couples don’t make rules.

  Me: What are you doing?

  Paxton: Eating before practice. What are you doing?

  I imagine him standing near the stove in his kitchen, watching and smelling the food like he has while cooking for me.

  Me: Watching Dylan.

  I regret the word “watching” because it makes it feel like a chore, and while it is a responsibility, I enjoy hanging out with Dylan. Maybe it’s our ten-year age gap or because I’d always envied Rae and her close relationship with her siblings, but I loved Dylan as soon as I learned of his existence and have teetered between roles of a mother hen and an overly attached sister since he was born. I wear both badges with pride.

  Me: We’re playing video games and making cupcakes.

  Paxton: Sounds fun.

  Several minutes pass without another message. I feel strangely disappointed.

  Me: What time do you want to meet for the party tomorrow?

  Paxton: I’ll pick you up at 8.

  I check my phone for what feels like the hundredth time. It’s five after eight on Friday, and I’m waiting for Pax and our second party—not counting the bonfires. I’m wearing a new black shirt I picked out on Tuesday. The neckline plunges lower than anything I own. I paired it with a pair of dark green cigarette pants that hint at being too formal and a pair of black heels.

  I check my reflection in the small mirror hanging beside the door. My lipstick is called “rosebud”—the most daring shade I own. It’s not as bright or bold as a traditional red but still gives me a pop of color that makes me feel sexy. My eyes have a thicker dark brown line that I extended into a cat eye, and my cheeks have a subtle pinkish-orange glow.

  Is my eyeliner on my right side higher?

  I lean closer to inspect as the doorbell rings.

  Rae and Lincoln are out on a date tonight. A date date. Nice dress, full makeup and hair, and a heavy dose of nerves. I’ve realized from watching their relationship progress and seeing how she still gets butterflies that there’s another thing I want for my future boyfriend and it seems much harder to quantify because it’s a feeling. I want that edge of excitement. I want butterflies.

  I grip the door handle and take a breath as my stomach rolls and twists, nervous and also for our night.

  Pax is on the other side of the door dressed in a pair of dark wash jeans and a black Henley that looks like it was made for him, pronouncing the broadness of his shoulders, the width of his biceps, and the hard planes of his chest. I stare at him for too long, but when I look at his face his eyes are on my shirt. My cheeks flush, and I wonder if he’s going to tell me it’s too low. I fidget, and his eyes snake up to meet mine.

  “Do I look okay? Usually, I have Rae here to ask this question to.”

  He blinks and then blinks again, his cheeks ballooned like he’s struggling to know what to say. My cheeks burn brighter. Why did I buy a new shirt?

  “You look great,” he manages.

  “Are you sure?” I don’t mean to sound so unsure. I constantly agonize over clothes and what I’m wearing. It’s been exacerbated with each mention of how cute I am.

  His gaze meets mine, reading my doubt. “Poppy, you look beautiful.”

  I pull in a breath through my nose. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

  “No finger pistols tonight?”

  “Not yet.”

  He grins, and I’m thankful to have an excuse to look away and lock my door because the more I see his smile, the longer I stare. I think I’m trying to memorize the details in an attempt to better read his expressions. I’m not positive what this grin means except that he’s happy.

  When we reach his car, Pax opens the passenger door for me, another detail I’ve noted I want in my future boyfriend. Before he rounds the car, I take deep breaths of his scent. It’s stronger here in his car and also in his room.

  “How was your night with Dylan?” Pax asks as he gets into his seat.

  “It was nice. I found a brand of frosting without palm oil which saved the cupcakes.”

  Another easy laugh. He’s definitely in a good mood. I like this about him. His good mood is nearly as dependable as his loyalty.

  “I saw Candace today,” I blurt out the words with no real purpose.

  Paxton stills, his gaze crossing to my side of the car. “What happened?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing, really.” In actuality, she called me a gold digger and told me Paxton would tire of me, insinuating I was a virgin and therefore dull. But explaining that to him lodges the reminder of Mike into my head because I lost my virginity to him senior year, and that all seems really irrelevant and super awkward to explain.

  Pax volleys his gaze from the road to me a couple more times. “That’s good.”

  I nod.

  “I’m hoping she won’t be here tonight. A few guys from the team will be here, so we’re definitely on show. You can drink if you want. I’ll be your DD.”

  “Sober buddy,” I say, pointing at myself.

  He scoffs. “I don’t need a sober buddy. It doesn’t bother me to be around alcohol or people drinking, it’s not like I have a substance abuse problem. I just have a problem getting out of my own head.”

  “I don’t really tend to drink unless Rae’s with me. We have a buddy system and watch out for each other.”

  “I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.” His gaze catches mine again.

  I simply nod in response as his words sink past the thin barrier of my thoughts and consciousness into my memory bank. I want to record these words tonight.

  When we arrive at the party, I’m glad it doesn’t immediately stink of smoke, and while it’s crowded, it’s a more familiar scene than the party we last attended. Paxton’s hand around my waist drops and finds mine, our fingers weaving together as we step inside. He has great hands, his knuckles wide and large so it doesn’t pinch my fingers. His forearm is warm against mine like his hand. I’m beginning to think I like his heat a little too much.

  “Paxton!” someone yells, drawing my attention. It’s a guy in a beanie hat who I don’t recognize.

  Paxton pauses and secures me to his side by releasing my fingers and wrapping his arm around my shoulders. It feels less causal to have his hand here, more intimate. The guy in the beanie hat stops in front of us, smiling with a cup in one hand. “What’s up? I haven’t seen you in a few weeks.”

  Pax’s face is a mystery. He’s wearing a smile, but it’s a contradiction to his demeanor which has changed in small measures. He doesn’t look mad or upset, but this guy has certainly brought something else to his mood. “Yeah, I’ve been busy with school and football.”

  Beanie guy nods. �
��I hear you, man.” He leans closer. “If you’re having trouble studying, I’ve got something to help you focus.”

  I probably have a fish face, an open mouth and wide eyes. Is this guy insinuating what I think he is?

  Pax shakes his head. “I’m staying clean, man.”

  Beanie guy turns his attention to me, but only a fraction. There’s an inquiry in his gaze, likely wondering if I’m the reason Pax is riding this straightened arrow. I smile primly. I think that’s my role here. Beanie guy doesn’t seem impressed since he turns his attention back to Pax. “You know how to get a hold of me.” He clamps a hand on Pax’s shoulder and then passes us.

  Pax grimaces as he meets my eyes. “Hopefully, that’s the only skeleton tonight.”

  “Was he offering what I think he was?”

  Pax nods. “I used to get weed from him.”

  Marijuana is legal here, and many smoke and bake with it, desensitizing me from the taboo that surrounded it when I was younger, but the other drug he was offering feels like a dark, cloaked figure in a darkened ally.

  We continue going through the house, Pax introducing me as his girlfriend. A few people turn and whisper to their friends, a couple laugh, but many are kind, complimenting my hair, my outfit, even my name. It’s weird because they seem happy to know me and eager to please me.

  Pax leads me deeper into the crowds, where we’re stopped once again by someone who recognizes him. This time it’s a girl who looks between our joined hands and his face a dozen times like she’s watching a tennis match. Each time her eyes return to his face, her shoulders push back a little farther, and she moves a little closer. Again, Pax introduces me as his girlfriend. She isn’t deterred.

  “See you,” Pax says as she inches closer. He places his arm around my shoulder and lowers his mouth to my ear. “We should probably kiss. I think that’s what would happen here.”

  I blink. “Because I’m claiming you?”

  He grins. “And because we’re supposed to be boning and touching and making out a lot like couples do.”

  His words replay in my head like a catchy tune, creating a new landscape in my thoughts that makes my heart quicken.

  He reels me in like we’re dancing. His blue eyes look black due to the dimmed lights. His gaze doesn’t slip from mine except to make a quick detour to my mouth. I swallow, waiting for him to make the first move. This is how it happens. Always. I wait, he kisses, I kiss him back. But this time, we stare at one another, our gazes dropping to each other’s lips. I’m memorizing the outline of his, the tiny scar that is where a dimple might be on someone else that he got when he was in middle school playing football without a helmet. He’d fallen and hit a rock and had to get three stitches. It had been October, and we called him Frankenface. Now, it’s perfect.

  He leans a little closer, his breaths tickling my lips. “You’re going to have to be the first to kiss me once in a while,” he tells me.

  I don’t tell him that I’m too nervous or that my mind seems to melt a fuse every time we get this close, and I forget how to kiss for several seconds. He clearly has mercy on me and leans closer, closing the gap and sealing his lips over mine. He has a hand at my waist that makes me feel small as it spans over my hip bone. He raises his other hand and slides it over my jaw, his fingers tangling in my hair, drawing me closer. I smell the forest and a hint of spice as he slants his mouth more fully against mine. God, he smells good. He tastes of peppermint and Burt’s Bees Chapstick, the plain kind that smells like honey. My hands are at his waist, timidly holding onto his granite sides. He kisses me harder, prying at my lips, trying to remind me that I know how to kiss. I inch my head back and try to match his rhythm, lifting my hands and grazing across his abs until I hit the hard lines of his collarbone, where I flatten my fingers and run them over his shoulders, twining my arms around the back of his neck.

  He makes a sound, something low and growly in the back of his throat that I feel against my chest as he closes the distance so not even air can pass between us. His tongue grazes my lips, and when I part them, he makes a similar sound, his fingers gently pressing into my skin with quiet approval.

  Someone cheers and Paxton kisses me once more, then pulls back but keeps his hands both securely on me, holding me close as I try to regain my breath and senses.

  Several people are watching us, smiling, mostly with adoration and a few with contempt when I look around. Pax is a wanted man.

  “Way to sell it,” he says, grinning.

  A pang hits me in the chest as his smile broadens, and his hands slip from me.

  “Let’s go have fun,” he says, twining our hands and turning toward his admirers.

  We spend the night mingling, talking to people I don’t know and that Pax later admits he doesn’t either. We laugh and have private conversations that mostly have to do with how this is going so much better than our first party and how much easier this is than we had both expected, and twice more we kiss, both softer and gentler. Silky kisses that are for show and performed at intentional times.

  17

  Poppy

  Wednesday, I arrive at Mario’s, starved and tired. I overslept again, and my hair’s a mess due to the rush and the torrential rain we’re experiencing today. My phone is running on fumes because I forgot to charge it last night, and I stepped in a puddle, so my foot is wet and soggy and uncomfortable.

  “Hey,” Pax greets me with a smile, patting the same spot at the same table he chooses each Sunday and Wednesday. His smile fades as I get closer. “Everything okay?”

  My breaths come out in a huff. “Fine. Just one of those days.”

  “Want a beer?”

  I roll my eyes, and he laughs like it’s amusing, and then heads to the counter and places our order with Dominic.

  “What happened?” he asks me.

  I start to reply with an automatic “nothing,” but before I can mutter the word, my bag slips from my lap. I try to catch it with my feet but end up hitting the stool with my shin instead. I wince and say a prayer for my laptop as I silently curse.

  When I open my eyes, Pax is in front of me. He squats and gathers my bag, placing it in the seat beside me, then puts a hand on the back of my seat. “Are you okay?”

  “I ran into Maddie today. She’s insisting we go on a double date, and I feel like such a jerk for telling her no.”

  Pax looks at me like he’s taking an inventory of my emotions or possibly my features. “We could go if you want. I wouldn’t mind.”

  I release a long breath. “I don’t understand my feelings toward Mike.”

  Pax cocks his head to one side, staring at me like he’s taking a new inventory of my expression. “Did something change?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe? I mean, I didn’t have feelings for him before he returned. I was getting over him—was over him.” I think. “And then he moved back, and all these stupid questions have been in my head, and now that we both know we have Modern Political Thought together, he saves a seat for me, and this should be cute, but instead I feel like a floozy meddling with someone’s relationship, and I don’t want that.”

  “You have a class together?”

  I nod. “Every Wednesday afternoon when I leave here, I see him.”

  Pax rights himself and blinks like the information catches him off guard.

  Dominic calls his name before either of us can say anything, and Pax goes to retrieve our order. He doesn’t joke or laugh with Dominic like he usually does, taking the food and returning to his seat across from me. “But, this is good, right? Him saving you a seat, making an effort.”

  “I don’t know. Rae commented last year about how she thought I was more in love with the idea of being in love with him than I ever was with him, and I don’t know if she’s right or I just want her to be right.”

  Maybe it’s my sour mood or the fact it’s busier today, but we barely talk. When it’s time for me to go, Paxton leaves his things and notifies Dominic that he’ll be back before he wal
ks me out, carrying my bag like the good fake boyfriend that he is.

  I’m regretting my sour mood before we even step outside. “I’m sorry,” I tell him.

  “For what?” he asks, holding the door open for me.

  “For being grumpy all afternoon.”

  He shakes his head, the hint of a smile visible at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t worry about it. You don’t have to be on with me. You needed some time to work through some thoughts. I get it. And if you want to discuss them, I'll be here for that, too.”

  We don’t touch as we take the few steps to my car where I open the backseat and heft my bag inside.

  “I hope your afternoon improves,” he tells me.

  I think about telling him that it already has, but that sounds cheesy, so I swallow the words and nod. “Thanks again for lunch.”

  “I’m waiting for you to tell me you’re tired of pizza.” He steps closer, so we’re toe to toe. He traces a wisp of hair with his finger that he smooths behind my ear.

  “That’s blasphemy. Who gets tired of pizza?”

  A crooked grin is my prize as he does that thing again, where his eyes slowly survey my features like he’s cataloging each of my thoughts and emotions and noting every detail. And I’m doing the same to him.

  Thoughts of Sunday and Monday flutter into my brain, chased away by his game on Saturday and the bonfire afterward. We’re getting better at our roles, better at pretending. It’s the little details like sharing a smile and locking hands that made Rae say she was even fooled. The grandiose acts like making out and feeling each other up are still slow to the draw for both of us. Fifteen years of platonic memories and deeply-seated respect are likely both to blame.