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I took a deep breath and let myself smile. Maybe this crazy idea would actually work. I just had to silence the tiny voice in my head that wondered what would happen if pretending to be in love sparked something very real.
No, I couldn’t think like that. This was a business proposition, nothing more. I’d pick out some fun outfits, Dylan and I would ham it up at the picnic, and that would be it. One performance, for the sake of my art.
My art...that’s what mattered. That’s what this was all for. With that thought firmly in mind, I pushed my conflicting emotions aside and started planning the most epic couple’s debut Pebble Point had ever seen. It was just one afternoon. One scene. No problem at all. Right?
Chapter 5
I stared down at my cereal bowl, the once crisp flakes now morphing into a mushy tapestry of breakfast regret. The clinking of the spoon against the ceramic echoed the tumultuous churn in my stomach, a tempest of nerves swirling beneath the surface. It was the kind of queasiness that accompanied a high-stakes decision—the kind of decision that could turn my life into a theatrical spectacle, with me playing the lead role in a drama I never auditioned for.
As I contemplated the dissolving flakes, I couldn’t help but draw a parallel between the disintegration in my bowl and the potential unraveling of my elaborate plan. Fake-marrying the guy next door seemed like an ingenious solution to escape the shackles of my parent’s expectations, but now, in the quiet solitude of my breakfast table, doubt crept in like a stealthy cat, casting shadows on my carefully laid-out charade.
The analogy of an overfilled pancake on a hot griddle came to mind—a messy, unpredictable situation ready to sizzle and splatter at any moment. Was this daring escapade a recipefor disaster? My rational mind screamed warnings, but the alternative, the prospect of being yanked back to San Francisco and thrust into a life, not of my choosing, was a bitter pill I refused to swallow.
No, I had to persevere. My resolve was strengthened by the thought of my art and the freedom it represented. Each spoonful became a reluctant acceptance, a commitment to see this through, not just for the sake of appearances but as a defiant stand for my independence. The stakes were high, the tension palpable, as the soggy remnants of my once-crunchy breakfast mirrored the uncertain path I had chosen.
With the muted clatter of cutlery and the weighty silence of my decision, I fortified myself for the impending whirlwind, determined to navigate the storm of this audacious journey—for my art, my freedom, and the sake of breakfast cereals everywhere.
I gulped down the last dregs of bitter coffee, hoping the caffeine might steady my nerves. It didn’t. If anything, it made the butterflies in my stomach flap harder. I dumped my half-eaten cereal down the drain. Food was not happening this morning.
With a sigh, I headed to my studio, seeking solace among the paints and canvases. Art always centered me, even in times of turmoil. But today, my mind refused to focus, insistently looping back to thoughts of Dylan like a broken record.
I found myself painting seagulls repeatedly, thinking of how Dylan’s eyes crinkled at the edges when he laughed. I shook my head as if the physical motion could dislodge him from my mind. Come on, Avery, get it together.
To rein in my imagination, I attempted a still life - the fruit bowl on the table seemed a safe, innocuous subject. Yet even the plump grapes and curved banana summoned inappropriateimages. This was useless. Dylan had somehow splattered himself all over my creative space.
Exasperated, I dropped my palette on the table. I’d just have to ride out this temporary artistic block until I got used to the idea of playing Dylan’s not-so-blushing bride. Hopefully, I could convince my parents without my face giving everything away. But for now, it seemed Dylan wasn’t just under my skin, but seeping into the very canvas of my world.
***
I needed to clear my head. The last few days had been a whirlwind since I asked Dylan to pretend to be my fiancé. What was I thinking? I barely knew the guy and now we were planning an elaborate ruse to fool my parents.
The whole situation weighed heavily on me, so I decided to head down to Pebble Point Beach. There was something about the sound of the waves and the salty breeze that never failed to soothe my soul.
As I walked along the shoreline, the tension in my shoulders began to ease. The constant roar of the ocean seemed to drown out the anxious chatter in my mind. I paused to dip my toes in the surf, savoring the bracing chill of the Pacific.
Up ahead, I spotted an empty bench overlooking the water. Perfect. I settled onto the weathered wood and dug my sketchbook and pencils out of my bag. Drawing always helped me process my thoughts.
I let my pencil dance across the blank page, not thinking or planning, just letting the creative energy flow. The ocean scene began taking shape on paper - the shoreline’s curve, the sand’s texture, the swirling foam as the waves crested. I added hints of seashells, strands of seaweed, and a lone gull gliding above. As I sketched the towering cliffs in the distance, a lone figureappeared atop them, staring out at sea. Without even realizing it, I had drawn Dylan’s unruly hair, his broad shoulders, and the way he stood with his hands on his hips.
“Get out of my head, Dylan Summers,” I muttered, quickly erasing his likeness. This was my private sketch time, not a Dylan daydream session.
I started a new sketch, focusing on the intricate details of the shoreline. The ridges left by the receding tide, the tiny holes where crabs had burrowed. I managed to fill two whole pages with studies of the beach itself. No people whatsoever. But as I flipped to a fresh page, my traitorous hand guided the pencil to shape the bench I was sitting on. And who should be perched next to me but in a familiar, muscular form?
I let out an exasperated sigh. Why did thoughts of my fake fiancé keep invading where I sought solace? I ripped the page out, crumpled it up, and dropped it into my bag.
“You don’t belong here,” I told the phantom Dylan firmly.
Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath and visualized a moonlit cove, free of any figures, human or otherwise. As I sketched the scene, I lost myself in the curves and shadows, the way the moonbeams danced across the water. No ghosts or apparitions appeared this time. Just me, the sea, and the soothing scratch of pencil on paper.
Satisfied, I tucked my sketchbook back in my bag. Dylan may have taken up residence in my thoughts, but I wouldn’t let him encroach on my art. This was my refuge, the one place I had complete control. And I intended to keep it that way.
***
I sighed as I made my way up the front walk to my little blue bungalow, my arms laden with art supplies and groceries. The sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon, casting PebblePoint in a warm, golden glow. It had been a long but productive day, sketching at the beach before picking up groceries. Before starting dinner, I looked forward to unwinding on the porch with a glass of wine.
As I juggled bags and fumbled for my keys, movement in my peripheral vision made me turn. In his driveway, Dylan was shirtless and washing his truck yet again. I couldn’t help but smile and shake my head - that man loved any excuse to be outside with power tools and suds.
“Evening, Miss Dawson,” he called out with an exaggerated tip of his imaginary hat. “Hard at work, as always, I see.”
