She almost smiles again, and I count it as a win.
She disappears into the bathroom with her toiletries bag and I hear the shower start. I unpack my own stuff, hanging up the nicer shirts I brought for dinners, organizing my toiletries on the opposite side of the vanity from hers. Her things are already arranged with the same precision she applies to everything, bottles lined up by height, labels facing forward.
I flop back on the bed, our bed, the bed we’re going to share, and pull out my phone to check in with the team.
Made it in one piece
Almardon
How’s Toronto?
Met the parents. Still alive.
Almardon
Damn. Was hoping you’d need a rescue
Thanks for the vote of confidence
Almardon
Seriously though, how’s it going?
Ask me again in 6 days
Almardon
That good huh
Talk later
I set my phone down and just sit on the edge of the bed. Through the bathroom door, I can hear the shower running. This is insane. I’m in Toronto, in a hotel room with a woman who barely tolerated metwo months ago, about to have dinner with her family and her ex-boyfriend, pretending to be something I’m not.
Except it doesn’t feel like pretending. Not really.
When I took her hand in the car, it felt natural. When I opened the door for her without thinking about it, that wasn’t an act. When I promised her nothing would happen unless she wanted it to, I meant every single word.
I’m not pretending to care about her.
I’m just pretending she knows how much.
And now I’m going to spend six nights sleeping next to her. Six nights of lying there in the dark trying not to move too close, trying not to let her see how gone I actually am. Six nights of knowing this is fake when every instinct I have is screaming that it’s the most real thing I’ve felt in years.
I’m so screwed.
The shower turns off and I hear her moving around in the bathroom. I should probably start getting ready too. Make a good impression at this dinner. Show her family that I’m worth her time.
Show her that I’m worth her time.
Show her ex that he’s an idiot for letting her go.
Trying not to hope that maybe, by the end of the week, she’ll look at me like I’m not just her fake boyfriend.
Like I might be something real.
11
JULIETTE
