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Yael
My fingers were achy and tired from overuse. I had been sewing for several hours without a break. If I didn’t stop now, my hands would be of no use to me tomorrow.
I’d started sewing after I learned how at summer camp when I was seven. I’d had a knack for it, and for a kid who constantly lived in her talented brother’s shadow, finding my own thing had been a big discovery.
One I kept almost entirely to myself.
My parents supported the arts, as one did in their world, but their children weren’t tobeartists. Mo and I had been destined for suits and sky-high offices, not studios and art school.
So I called my sewing a hobby. The intricate portraits I stitched were just side projects. The art classes I used to beg for were only for fun.
That was, until an art professor at NYU took notice of my work and convinced me to have a gallery show. I didn’t tell Mo or Harris or Allie. I went alone opening night and sold my first three pieces for a song.
Since then, I’d steadily sold my art. Quietly. Steadily.
My parents still wouldn’t approve, and while that didn’t matter at this point in my life, it was easier to keep it to myself.
If I didn’t tell anyone, no one would know when a piece didn’t sell or when a gallery turned down my work for something less folksy than my needlepoint landscapes and woven metal flowers. Some days, when the rejection became too disheartening, I felt like quitting. Just tossing my needles and thread and boxes of material straight down the garbage chute.
Then I’d remember Alex’s text to Mo and get this surge of determination to prove him wrong. I could be Mo’s assistantandan artist. He could go take a long walk off a short pier because he didn’t know me.
Arat-tat-tatsounded on my door. Alex and I had a date scheduled for today and he refused to tell me what he had planned. Needless to say, I was already annoyed with him.
Swinging the door open, I found a smirking man leaning his arm against the frame, copper hair pulled away from his face and beard trimmed neat. He looked good, like he was picking me up for a real date, which was the sole reason for the quickening of my heart and catching of my breath. I was a sucker for a man who put in effort for a woman and my body didn’t understand this was all fake.
“Alex.”
His eyelids lowered to half-mast as he took in my little red top and faded black skinny jeans. “Boo, you’re looking mighty fine.”
I’d put in just a little bit of effort too, but only for thesosh meeds—not Alex.
“I can’t have you showing me up in pictures.” I gripped the front of his shirt, pulling him inside my place and clicking the door shut behind him. “Tell me what we’re doing so I can choose appropriate shoes.”
I held up a pair of heels in one hand, Chucks in the other. “Which ones will it be?”
He rubbed his chin in contemplation. “I really want to say the heels, but it’s going to have to be the sneaks. Next time, I’m taking you somewhere you can wear those high heels.”
I tossed my skyscraper heels on the floor and slipped my feet into my sneakers. Then I grabbed a leather jacket and tucked my phone in my back pocket. I attempted to head for the door, but Alex caught my elbow and spun me back around.
“Before this date can begin, we’re going to have to hug,” he said.
“What? No. Why?” I frowned, pulling my elbow away from his grasp.
“All part of the faking-it plan. Don’t you think we’d hug if we were a real couple?”
As much as I wanted to fight him, points were being made. Huffing, I opened my arms. “Come on. Get on with it.”
He stepped closer, grinning. “I showered for you and everything. This shouldn’t be as terrible as you’re making it seem.”
At first, we were like awkward teens, bumping into each other, attempting to arrange our arms and heads. It was like neither of us had hugged another person before, much less each other.
Eventually, I balled his shirt in my fist, tugged his body flush with mine, and banded my arms about his waist while his curled around my upper back. His wide palm settled between my shoulder blades, his head pressed against mine, and we both stayed quiet and still for a long, drawn-out moment.
He did smell nice. He always did, but up close, his light citrus and sage melted into my synapses. Whenever I caught a whiff of him in the future, I’d be pulled back to this hug and how warm and comfortable his arms felt around me.
Smooth lips pressed against my temple, and for once, I didn’t fight him off. In my head, we were being watched by my old friends and I was being the adoring girlfriend. It wasn’t hard with my eyes closed and my senses full of Alex.
“Not so bad, huh?” he murmured.
