For Real

by Chelsea M. Cameron

  He holds me, pressed against his chest, our hands between us. Totally squished into my boobs. Jett has had more contact with my boobs than even my doctor. To be fair, they do kind of get in the way. They’re a little hard to avoid if you’re near me. No joke, I’ve actually smacked people in the face with them.

  Because they have a mind of their own, my nipples harden under my shirt and I take a step back so Jett can’t feel them. Nipples are a bit like the female equivalent of getting a boner. Only on a smaller scale. Still, it’s embarrassing when you’re flashing your headlights for everyone to see.

  Jett’s hands are still linked with mine and he leads me into the kitchen.

  “Nachos?” he says.

  “Nachos,” I agree.

  This time the nachos have leftover steak, more Velveeta (I really need to buy that boy some actual cheese) jalapenos, cilantro, olives, some pearl onions, and I cave and let him add the hot dog pieces.

  “We should open a restaurant where it’s just nachos. We could do breakfast nachos and desert nachos. It would be a hit,” he says, taking a huge bite after the thing has melted in the oven. I wipe some cheese from his chin and stick my finger in my mouth. It feels like a natural thing to do now. Then I grab a chip that’s loaded with the mess of ingredients and pop it in my mouth.

  Wow, what a . . . cacophony of flavor. I chew and try to figure out if I like it or not. It takes a while to get used to the texture and the taste because it’s such a shock.

  “The other ones were better,” Jett says, taking some more and shoving them in his mouth.

  “Bummer.” I go for another mouthful and I decide that I like them. I mean, they’re not my favorite thing in the world, but they’re pretty good.

  “How would do you desert nachos?”

  “If you could figure out how to maybe make pie crust into chips, then you could have chocolate and whipped cream and so forth. And you could do fruit nachos.”

  “That would be really great for the obesity epidemic in this country,” I say, raining on Jett’s nacho parade.

  “You’re no fun,” Jett says, cramming about five chips in his mouth at one time. I have to admit that’s impressive. I take one, since I don’t think it would be very sexy to cram my mouth with chips and everything else.

  “Hold still,” Jett says and I freeze. With one hand, he holds my chin steady as he brings his face forward. I would ask what he’s doing, but I’ve sort of lost the ability to speak. Or breathe. Is my heart still beating?

  Ever so slowly, millimeter by millimeter, Jett brings his face closer to mine. His tongue reaches out as well and licks something from my face.

  And I’m dead. He puts his tongue back in his mouth and smiles at me.

  “You had some cheese on your face,” he says in a quiet voice that stirs something deep inside me and makes tingles break out all over my skin.

  My mouth goes dry and I try to swallow, but it seems that my body is unable to move at the moment. If someone busted into the apartment with a gun, I doubt I would move from my present position.

  Jett finally lets go of my chin, and my skin burns with the memory of his touch. He moves back and grabs some more chips from the plate.

  I’m still trying to unstick my body from being stuck. Finally my lungs expand and I take a shaky breath.

  “I’ll be right back,” I say, and stumble for the bathroom. I just . . . need some air.

  I lock the door and take a deep breath. Jett must have cleaned recently, because it smells lemony fresh. There’s a tiny window next to the shower, so I push it open. Or at least I try to. It only opens about an inch and then gets stuck. Oh well. I lean down and rest my face on the windowsill, inhaling some of the sharp outdoor air. Even though it’s spring, the air still has a winter bite to it at night, and it’s just what I need to clear my head. After several deep breaths, I think I have myself back together.

  Jett licked my face. I never thought someone licking my face would be anything but nasty, but Jett turned everything sexy. Like he was a wizard and could transform anything and sexify it. Wizard of Sexy. With his magic . . . wand.

  Thinking about Jett’s magic wand causes me to start giggling and I have to turn the water on in the sink just so he won’t hear me.

  I think I’m losing it.

  I try to pull myself together. Before I leave the bathroom, I double check my face to make sure there isn’t any more cheese on it. I’m good, but I look like I’m on crack. My eyes are all wide and crazy and my face is flushed. My hair is also looking really special. I comb my fingers through it and grab the hair elastic that I always have around my wrist and pull my hair back into a low ponytail. There’s not much I can do about the crazy eyes and the flushed face. Hopefully Jett thinks they’re cute.

  When I get back out into the kitchen, the nachos are almost all gone. Jett must have inhaled them. Where does it all go? He must have the metabolism of a supermodel. Damn him.

  “I saved you some,” he says, holding out the pan where there are three small, sad chips lying there with barely any toppings. But his face is so sweet, and it’s a real struggle to make my face angry and glare at him.

  “New Rule: No eating of all the nachos while your Fake Girlfriend is in the bathroom.”

  “You’re putting addendums on the Rules now?” I almost giggled at the word ‘addendum’. For some reason it always made my mind go to the gutter.

  “The unwritten Rule of the Rules is that the Fake Girlfriend can add things on when she wants.” I shove the last of the chips in my mouth.

  Jett sputters, but I grin with my mouth full, chew and then swallow.

  “The other unwritten Rule of the Rules is that the Fake Girlfriend is always right,” I add. It’s Jett’s turn to glare, but he can’t keep it up for long and ends up shaking his head instead.

  “Okay, Fake Girlfriend. I’m going to take a shower and get ready for bed, if you don’t mind. I’ve got my bed all set up for you, so if you want to go in and get comfortable, you can.” What? I made him sleep on the floor, and I am fully fine with doing the same. Anything but his couch.

  I start trying to protest, but Jett puts one finger on my lips and that shuts me up real quick.

  “Unwritten Rule Three is that the Fake Boyfriend will never make the Fake Girlfriend sleep on the floor when she’s at his house, and there will be no arguing from the Fake Girlfriend about it. She will nod and agree and let him go take a shower.” The whole time he’s talking, he keeps his hand on my mouth, and my lips are all burny and tingly. His skin is so nice. Not too soft, but not all calloused and nasty like so many other guys. I swear, if a guy touched me and his hands were dirty, and his nails all chewed and broken down to stubs, and they had dead skin bits hanging off them, I’d probably run away screaming. Jett has nice hands. In addition to all his other bits.

  “Okay,” I say against his finger and he uses his finger to make my head nod up and down.

  “Good enough.” He leaves me in the kitchen and a few seconds later the shower turns on. That boy. I swear.

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m sitting on Jett’s bed in my pajamas and freaking out. I know he’s taking one for Team Fake Relationship by sleeping on the grungy couch, but I still feel shitty about it. Maybe this is to make up for taking all the nachos. Guess there’s a give and take even in Fake Dating.

  I’m twiddling my thumbs, waiting for Jett to come back from the shower and then the door opens. I freeze, not sure if I should dive under the couch, or scream, or run away.

  I do none of the above.

  “You again,” Javier says. He looks tired, but actually sober. Not that I know him enough to know the difference, but it’s pretty easy to see that he’s not falling down drunk like last time.

  “Me again,” I say as Jett walks out of the bathroom, a tank top covering his chest, and a towel around his waist.

  “If you want—” he starts, but doesn’t finish when he sees Javier.

  “What are you doing here?” Jett looks li
ke he’s just walked into the room and found a dead body on the floor. I’m not quite as horrified as he is, but it’s definitely not the ideal situation. Hopefully he’s just going to be in and out.

  “Apparently, I live here. Or at least that’s what I’ve been led to believe. Wait, is this some sort of conspiracy? Are you a robot? Am I a robot? IS THIS EVEN REAL?” Javier’s eyes go wide and he looks from me to Jett and back, as if we’re going to attack him.

  Jett is first to recover. He picks up a pillow from the couch and flings it at Javier who ducks to get away from it.

  “Asshole,” Jett says.

  “What? You can never be too careful. I, for one, will welcome our robot overlords and serve them with all of my heart and soul.”

  Is this Javier sober? Because he kind of seems drunk.

  “Once again, I’m sorry. There is no excuse for him,” Jett says, raking his wet hair back out of his face. It keeps flopping attractively in his eyes. If Javier weren’t here, I would have gotten up and run my hands through it. Or maybe not. I might not be daring enough to do that. But in my mind, I’m that daring.

  “Just came to change my clothes. Relax. It doesn’t look like I was interrupting anything anyway. Dude, why are you wearing a shirt? It’s weird.”

  It is a little weird. Jet’s shirt is wet from his skin and almost see-through. Totally pointless. Plus, I really wanna see him shirtless. RIGHT NOW.

  “Why don’t you mind your own fucking business and get the hell out?” Ooohh, Jett is mad. I can’t tell if it’s fake, but it looks pretty real. Javier just shakes his head and goes to his room, bangs around for a minute and then comes back out, in a pair of new pants and a new shirt.

  “Madam, Sir. I hope you have a splendid and sex-filled evening. I’m off to have one myself. May all your condoms be resilient and hole-free. Farewell!” He salutes us and then leaves.

  “Is that Javier sober?”

  “Surprisingly, yes.”

  “Wow.”

  Jett sighs.

  “I know.”

  Jett and I have another little fight when it comes time to go to bed. I just feel so bad about making him sleep on his couch.

  “It’s more comfortable than the floor. I don’t have an extra mattress. Please stop making a big deal out of this. I’m not trying to be chivalrous.”

  We both sit on the bed, him with his tank top and shorts, me in my dorky pajamas.

  “We could share,” I say without looking at him. My mouth is a little dry as I suggest it, but it’s the only solution I can think of that will make me feel okay.

  “There might be incidental contact if we do that,” he says, his voice just as soft.

  “That’s . . . fine. I’m okay with it. Plus, if Javier comes back, there won’t be any more explaining to do.”

  “I might knock you out again,” he says, pretending to punch me again in slow motion, but stopping just short of hitting my face. I make myself laugh.

  “I’ll be careful.” I finally look up into his eyes. They almost swirl like a kaleidoscope. I could sit and watch the turning colors for hours. But he would have to blink eventually.

  I stand up and Jett turns down the covers.

  “Do you want the inside or the outside?”

  “Outside.” So if I have to pee in the middle of the night I can do so without waking him. Or if I decide to run away, it’ll be easier and stealthier.

  He gets in and I quickly realize that he takes up a lot of room in the small bed. We’re going to get pretty intimate. Well, we might as well if we’re going to play off this Fake Dating.

  I get in with my back to his front and pull the covers over. Jett is as far away from me as he can get; practically plastered up against the wall. I scoot forward, until I’m almost falling off the edge.

  “You can touch me. I’m not going to break,” I say and he moves a bit closer. I can feel the heat coming off his skin as it warms the air under the blankets.

  I shift myself until I’m comfortable and close my eyes, inhaling the clean scent of his pillow. He sighs behind me and moves a tiny bit closer, and I can feel his breath stirring my hair. And then his arm encircles me, coming over the blanket. My eyes fly open, not that he can see, and my stomach muscles clench. The arm moves just a little more until it’s completely around me.

  Jett is holding me. In his bed.

  “Goodnight, princess,” he says in my ear.

  “Goodnight,” I somehow say, and close my eyes. It’s going to be a while until I fall asleep.

  At least, I thought it was going to be hard to fall asleep. But Jett’s breathing behind me, and his warm arm around me make me feel safe and not alone. It’s nice and cozy, and my body likes it. All of me likes it.

  In fact, I like it so much that the next time my eyes open, I’m not looking at Jett’s wall of art. I’m looking at Jett. His chest, specifically.

  His arm is still around me, and somehow during the night I’d pulled my hands under my chin, one grabbing onto his shirt. My legs are so warm that I’m almost hot. My pajama pants have ridden up, so we’re skin to skin from my knees down. His legs are hairy, but guys’ legs are supposed to be. If they were hairless, I’d be worried. I turn my head ever so slowly and I can see part of the red dragon across his chest. His heart beats against my hand and his chest expands as he breathes. It’s fascinating. I feel like a disgusting love song should be playing in the background.

  He makes a noise and shifts a bit, pulling me closer.

  “Your hair smells good,” he says, his voice rumbling against my fingers.

  “Good morning,” I say because that’s what you say in the morning, even though you’re in a situation you don’t know how you got yourself into.

  “How did this happen?” I assume he means how we’re currently positioned.

  “I have no idea.” I let go of his shirt and his arm loosens from around me so I can roll back a bit and look at his face. His eyes are a little puffy, and his hair is all over the place. He’s adorable and disheveled and I hope I look the same, even though I’m sure I don’t.

  “This is an interesting turn of events,” he says.

  “Uh huh.”

  Please don’t let my breath stink. Please don’t let my breath stink.

  I want to cover my mouth so he can’t smell my funk, but there isn’t really a way to do that, so I just turn my head so I’m looking up at the ceiling. I also close my mouth. Jett props his head on his hand and I can feel him looking at me.

  “Stop it,” I say, grabbing the covers and trying to pull them over my head.

  He won’t let me.

  “Why?”

  Do I really have to explain?

  “Because.”

  “Because why?” Oh, we’re doing that routine? I feel like I’m three again.

  “Because it’s weird and creepy and it makes me uncomfortable.” It also makes me very aware of my flaws and how much I wish I was someone else at the moment.

  “Silly girl,” Jett says, stretching his arms above his head, his shoulders popping. “We should probably get up. How about we go out for breakfast? I really don’t have much here.”

  “Sounds good,” I say. Ugh, I have to get up first and I don’t want to, but I roll sideways and get my feet under me. Jett is right behind me, with his hands on my shoulders. He leaves them there for a second and then lets go and I dash to the bathroom to make myself somewhat presentable.

  Integrating Jett into my life has been almost seamless. I thought I would have to move things around and take things out, and compromise, but it’s like my life changed to fit him in it. Like he needed to be a part of my life, so he is. That sounds strange, after knowing him for such a short time, but it’s like he’s always been there. I’ve also saved all of the cranes he’s made me, which are all living in my sock drawer. At least I’ll have them when this is over.

  Not to say that everything is smooth and bump-free. Oh, there are plenty of bumps. He almost walks in on me changing once, and I’m ter
rified to fart or burp or anything else like that in front of him. We’re just not ready for that stage yet. I think it takes a while to get there, even with friends. Jett has also had some mornings when he’s woken up, um, with a little issue in his pants, but he turns over and I pretend not to notice. I just can’t deal with that. I just can’t.

  Our Fake Dating charade seems to be working, and everyone appears to be buying it, at least so far. Jett and I hold hands and give each other adoring looks and use stupid nicknames and part of it makes me want to hurl and the other part of me adores it and wishes it were real. I keep the wishing on the down-low, though. I don’t let myself do too much of it, because this isn’t real. I’m playing a part and he’s playing a part and that’s it. One month. We’re a week down and everything is going good. I can’t ruin it by wanting something that I can’t have.

  “You’re going to be fine. I think you over study and psych yourself out. Have you ever gotten less than an A on anything?” he says when we’re in the library and I’m stressing out about my next test.

  I stick my tongue out at him. “Yes, I have.” Twice. Once in high school and once in college. It will never happen again. I won’t let it. Even if I get a 90.01, it’s better than an 89. Always.

  Jett should be one to talk. I happen to know that his grades are impeccable. He’s one of those assholes that learning comes naturally to. People think my good grades come easy, but they don’t. It’s a lot of blood and sweat and tears and massive amounts of caffeine and lost sleep to get where I am. I simply want this more than I want anything else. More than drinking, or having sex, or watching another episode of The Real Housewives of Bitchtown.

  “Don’t diss my study methods. Not all of us can be as academically gifted as you are, babe.” I’m trying out nicknames for Jett. I’m not sure if I like this one.