Writing the Rules: A Fake Dating Standalone

by Mariah Dietz

  I’ve somehow made it from my car to the sidewalk, the whoosh of warm air and friendly smile of a stranger holding open the door bringing me back to reality. I stand in the doorway and peer inside, spotting Mike almost instantly. He’s still tall and lean, borderline lanky, and his dark hair is filled with product that has it sticking up and out. But unlike in high school, he’s wearing glasses and a sweater with the collar of a plaid dress shirt poking out instead of the old band tees he always preferred. Memories of sitting together at lunch and before school when Mike would hand me one of his headphones, and we’d listen to a song together, and he’d tell me about the music and artist play a time-warp on my thoughts. Sometimes, the songs would talk about emotions and love, and we’d stare at each other, pathetic and lovesick, and allow the lyrics to speak for us. Other times the lyrics were about independence and blazing one’s own path. And the rest of the time, I had no idea what they were talking about, though Mike claimed he did.

  My heart does something funny as I step farther inside, and his warm brown eyes meet mine. An overwhelming sense of comfort and familiarity washes over me, and it feels like I’m sixteen again. Mike stands and smiles, and I’m pretty sure I am, too, as thoughts of my conversation this morning with Raegan flicker to the forefront of my mind. She’d advised against this meeting, convinced it was a bad idea, and I can’t entirely blame her for thinking so. After all, she sat with me for weeks after my breakup, offering tubs of frosting, Oreos, and babysitting Dylan while I wallowed and grieved.

  Mike erases her concerns by wrapping his arms around my back. He smells different, like sandalwood and man. The last time we were this close, he’d smelled like laundry detergent, chocolate, and the orange Starbursts he always kept in his pockets and backpack—like a boy. And under his sweater are the hints of muscles rather than just ribs. “How are you?” He sounds the same. We both pull back, smiling as we search for differences and similarities in one another.

  I nod. “I’m really well. How are you?”

  “I’m fantastic. It’s great to see you.”

  I nod again. “You, too.”

  “Do you want something to drink?”

  I do, but half a dozen people are already in line, and I don’t want to stand in line. I want to sit down and see how he’s doing and maybe even find out why he wanted to meet, so I shake my head. “I’m fine, thanks.”

  He flashes a quick grin and nods to the chair across the table from him. “Gosh, this is so weird. It feels like I haven’t seen you in forever, and at the same time, it feels like it was yesterday.”

  I nearly nod again but stop myself. I feel so nervous. “How’s school going?”

  He grabs his drink, something pink with lots of whipped cream. “Good. Really good. I actually just transferred back here in September. I was missing the Northwest and my parents and my friends…” He makes eye contact with me, reminding me again of when we allowed songs to speak for us.

  I blink. Then blink again. My heart is hammering in my chest, and I can’t tell if it’s trying to break free so it can leap across the table and return to Mike or if it’s trying to pull me away. “Transferred back? Like back back?”

  He grins and nods. “Back to Seattle.”

  “What school did you transfer to?”

  He flashes a smile. “Brighton.”

  My heart feels like a jackhammer now. “Wow. That’s crazy.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  I nod again, lamely. I’m speechless, along with a myriad of other things that make me wish I’d ordered a drink so I could take a sip and distract myself. “That’s great. I bet your family’s happy to have you back home.”

  He scoffs. “I think my mom’s a little disappointed. She was in the process of turning my room into a home gym.”

  I think of his mom and how she made his favorite butterscotch and oatmeal cookies almost every week and how she catered to his strong dislike of onions. How she offered to drive us on all of our dates junior year before either of us was allowed to drive with another person in the car. “Yeah, right. She’s ecstatic. She was gutted when you chose Arkansas.”

  Mike flashes me another grin. “She’s pretty excited.”

  I laugh.

  “How’s your family?” he asks.

  “Good. Dylan started middle school this year.”

  “Is he still into Spiderman?”

  I shrug. “Only in private. It’s not cool to be publicly devout to Spiderman once you’re a preteen.”

  He laughs. “I wish someone had been around to give me that solid advice when I was his age.”

  I laugh with him, and it feels good and natural and so comfortable it once again has me thinking of the past and starting to question what would have happened if Mike hadn’t moved. The thoughts aren’t foreign. Over the past year and a half, I’ve wondered what things would be like if he’d stayed. Would we still be dating? Would we have found an apartment together? These questions have popped up more frequently over the past several months—a direct consequence of my best friend falling for and dating one of Brighton’s starting wide receivers, Lincoln Beckett, AKA, The President.

  “How are your classes going?”

  His eyes shine as though he appreciates that I’m asking for details. It has me sitting back in my chair and instinctively crossing my arms over my chest.

  He’s been here for nearly two months and is just now reaching out?

  Why now?

  What does any of this mean?

  “You were right about Brighton. It’s pretty damn great.”

  I think of the conversations we had while we were applying to colleges, and how I’d tried to convince him to go to Brighton with us. All along, I’d assumed we’d be going to the same school, but Mike wanted to move and escape the northwest. Slowly, silently, a mutual acceptance crept over us like the change in the seasons, then he kissed me and told me we’d always be friends.

  “And…” His attention lifts, and his smile widens before he stands. I turn to look at what’s caught his attention and see a girl with strawberry blonde hair and cerulean blue eyes grin as she approaches us, stopping at Mike’s side. She kisses his cheek as he wraps an arm around her shoulders. “Poppy, this is my girlfriend, Maddie. Maddie, this is Poppy.”

  The news hits me like a blast of cold air, shocking and leaving a trail of goosebumps across my flesh. “It’s nice to meet you,” I say as I meet her hand in the middle of the table and shake it. All of the puzzle pieces shared between us scatter as the introduction runs through my head again and again.

  Maddie flashes a smile. “It’s so nice to meet you. Mike has told me what great friends you guys were.” Her voice is high-pitched and laced with a southern drawl.

  Friends.

  The word feels like a bullet, piercing the skin right above my chest.

  I glance at Mike as I withdraw my hand, a silent question about his term to describe us.

  He doesn’t look at me.

  “Are you from Arkansas?” I ask her.

  She grins again, reaches for Mike’s drink, and takes a small sip. “I am. I moved here with Mikey.”

  Mikey?

  He hates being called Mikey, but he doesn’t correct her.

  “Are you also attending Brighton?” God, why do I keep asking questions? Does it matter? It feels like it does. It also seems like they should be more forthcoming rather than continue to feed me tiny details.

  Maddie looks at Mike, but his gaze turns to me, trepidation suddenly visible like he’s had the good sense to realize that he blindsided me.

  “I am, and I’m so excited.” She wraps her hands around Mike’s arm and leans against him.

  “Hey, Poppy!”

  I’m still reeling about Mike and his girlfriend and the fact they’re attending Brighton together that it takes hearing my name being called a second time to turn in my seat. A girl I vaguely recognize waves from her place at the end of the line before she looks behind her and shrugs her shoulders as though realizing
there’s no reason not to step out of line. She approaches us with a broad smile while I struggle to recall her name. “Hey! How are you?” she asks.

  Dumbfounded and shocked, but I can’t admit either, so I paste on a smile and nod. “I’m great. How are you? It’s good to see you.” I’m not lying. I am so incredibly grateful to have a distraction that I’m considering hugging this virtual stranger.

  “I picked out my costume for the party this weekend. I’m so excited,” she says.

  I consider asking for details about her costume and offering her to sit with us—anything to help garner a distraction and an ally because while there’s no threat, it feels like I need someone in my corner.

  “A costume party?” Maddie asks. “That sounds like so much fun.” She glances at Mike as she leans into him. “Doesn’t it? I haven’t been to a Halloween party since high school.”

  Discomfort and obligation nest on my shoulders as Mike glances at me.

  The girl who abandoned her place in line and made this conversation even worse grins. “You guys should come! It’s going to be so much fun. I heard there’s going to be a live band.”

  I shake my head. “There’s not.”

  She doesn’t seem to hear me, though, and continues. “The whole football team is going to be there, and so many others. You guys should come.” She looks at me, and the smile on her face begins to melt.

  “I mean, that’s okay, right?”

  I gulp. No, it’s not okay. Nothing about this is even in the vicinity of okay, but confrontation is my number one enemy, and so I nod, hoping beyond hope that there’s no way Mike would ever want to come. “Right. Yes. Definitely.”

  The girl’s smile turns back on, and she turns her attention back to Maddie and Mike. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Anna Beth.”

  Hearing her name triggers the hint of a memory but not enough to use her as a scapegoat as I’d planned.

  Maddie tucks her hair behind her ear and smiles. “It’s nice to meet you, Anna Beth. I’m Maddie, and this is my boyfriend, Mikey. We just moved here from Arkansas. Do you go to Brighton, too?”

  Anna Beth nods. “Yes! That’s so great. Let me see your phone.”

  Maddie doesn’t hesitate, handing her phone to Anna Beth, who quickly taps across the screen. “You guys will definitely want to come to the party, then. It will be the perfect way for you to meet people. I just texted myself from your phone, so I’ll send you the address. It’s Saturday at eight. Be sure to dress up.” She turns her attention back to me. “I have to get going, but nice to see you, Poppy!” She backs away and gets back into the shorter line.

  And just like that, I find myself wishing I’d listened to Raegan’s advice and skipped out on this meeting as Maddie starts listing off couples’ costume ideas for her and Mike, cozying herself even closer to him.

  “Is the party at your place?” Mike asks.

  I swallow the truth and nod. “Well, kind of. It’s at my boyfriend’s house.”

  Mike tips his chin up like the word is a weapon I was concealing. “Boyfriend?”

  “Yeah. Hopefully, you guys can come.”

  “We’d love to,” Maddie says. “I was so worried it would be hard to find friends here, but I’m so glad you’re proving me wrong.”

  My gaze flips back to Mike, waiting for him to make an excuse and bail both of us out of this situation because there’s no way I’m going to become friends with his new girlfriend. It violates every rule in the handbook.

  “Is he anyone I know?”

  My forehead creases as his question replays in my head.

  Why is he asking questions?

  After blindsiding me, the last thing he should be doing is asking clarifying questions about my fictional relationship.

  I shake my head, lacking the confidence to say anything. The skin between his brows puckers as he looks at me with curiosity shining in his familiar brown gaze like he recognizes my lie.

  I tear my attention back to Maddie as I scoot my chair back and stand. “Well, it was great meeting you, Maddie, and to see you again, Mike. I have to get going, but I’m sure I’ll see you both around.”

  Maddie stands as well, and I try to take a discreet step back. I don’t want to shake her hand again, and I really don’t want to hug her. “It was so nice to meet you. I’ve been a nervous wreck about this move, and realizing people here seem so normal and nice is really reassuring.” She closes the gap I was trying to create and wraps her arms around me in a hug. The scent of her perfume is concealed by the initial hit of Mike’s cologne that’s still clinging to her shirt and hair from sitting so close to him.

  “I’m so glad.” I pull away and take several steps backward before giving a parting wave and turning on my heel.

  What just happened?

  “How did it go?” Raegan asks as I get home to our shared apartment. She unloads plates from the dishwasher and puts them into the cabinet as I kick off my shoes and debate how to best summarize my meeting.

  “Who’s Anna Beth?” I ask.

  Rae grabs the silverware tray and starts reaching for all of the spoons. “I don’t know. I think she was dating Marcus. He’s the cornerback. Dark hair, kind of short.”

  “Was, as in, isn’t anymore?”

  “I don’t think so, but I don’t know. Why?”

  “Because she was there, and she made things go from bad to worse.”

  Rae places the butter knives into their spot and turns her attention to me, a slight wince tugging at her lips. “What happened?”

  “Mike’s moved back.”

  Her eyes grow wide with shock, and before she can ask any of the questions I know she’s going to start shooting off, I continue. “He moved back with his girlfriend, and they’re attending classes at Brighton, and Anna Beth invited them to our Halloween party.”

  Rae shakes her head in slow jerks. “I don’t even know where to start.”

  “They won’t come, though, right? I mean, Mike hates parties.”

  “Not to mention you’re his ex. I wouldn’t want to go to a party Lincoln’s ex-girlfriend was hosting.”

  “She doesn’t know I’m his ex. He introduced me as an old friend.”

  Raegan’s jaw falls open. “He did not.”

  I nod. “I can’t go to the party.”

  “You have to go. We’re hosting it. Let’s uninvite them. Text him. Tell him his lying ass isn’t allowed to come. And, how did Anna Beth get invited? This is supposed to be a small event.”

  “I can’t text him and uninvite him.”

  “Why not?” she asks.

  “Because that would show him that I care, and I don’t.”

  Her features soften with sympathy and compassion. She knows I’m lying, likely better than I do. “I care. I don’t want him there.”

  “You like Mike,” I remind her.

  “Not anymore.”

  “Speaking of which, are we sure this is still a good idea?” I ask, hoping she’ll say no. Several weeks ago, Rae suggested we throw our first college party, and at the time, I was onboard, but being the introvert that I am, the idea has been quickly losing its appeal. And since we live in a small apartment off-campus, Lincoln suggested we host it at the house he rents with Paxton, Arlo and Caleb, who I’ve known for most of my life—just like Paxton—yet still manage to barely know him. He’s a gamer studying forensic psychology, which often has him looking at situations like my mom, and continuously diagnosing everyone’s bad mood as childhood trauma.

  Rae shrugs. “Definitely. Don’t worry about Mike. I’m sure he’ll have enough common sense not to come.” She glances at the clock. “Shoot. I’m late. I have a shift at the aquarium.” She wipes her hands on a dishtowel. “Everything’s going to be okay. I promise.”

  I need a thousand more assurances and a solid backup plan, but settle for putting my thoughts onto paper, my own form of therapy.

  I grab my journal and plop down on the couch and relive my meeting with Mike, scribbling details that se
em more significant now, like how tight and long he’d hugged me, how his eyes flashed with unspoken words and inside jokes like they always did while we were dating. The part that bothers me the most is that he introduced me as his friend. Why wouldn’t he have told his girlfriend that we dated? What stories did he tell her about me? And more importantly, how do I keep Mike from learning I don’t actually have a boyfriend and haven’t dated anyone since we broke up?

  I need to eat. Sugar and simple carbs always help me think more clearly. I rifle through our tiny kitchen, searching for snacks or anything that resembles junk food and come up empty. I need to go grocery shopping. Then, inspiration strikes in the form of a boxed mix: cupcakes. I need a cupcake more than I need oxygen. I never bake because the oven is my nemesis, but I can read instructions. I finagle my way around the kitchen, mixing the sparse ingredients and finding the cupcake pan Rae’s mom had given to us with a bunch of other kitchenware when we moved into the apartment this past spring.

  We don’t have cupcake liners, or if we do, I have no idea where they are, so I dump the batter directly into the little pots, hoping for one less obstruction between me and bliss.

  I set the tray into the oven and start the timer.

  Maddie.

  Mikey.

  When did he become Mikey? What else about him has changed?

  Have I?

  3

  Paxton

  “Let’s go!” Our head coach, Coach Harris, claps his hands. It’s Wednesday, and the team is dragging, which has him ready to light a fire under our asses.

  Damien Cooke runs forward and does a pump fake that has Coach Baker, our quarterback coach, dropping his head back and emitting another growl.

  “Cooke, you’re killing me,” he says. “You’re right-handed, which means you’re always going to lead with your right foot. You know this. You learned this in high school. What’s going on?”

  Cooke shakes his head. “Sorry, Coach.” He gets back to the line and starts the drill again. We experienced our first near loss this past weekend against Houston, and the team is split between feeling rattled and overly confident because we managed to pull it off though our game was weak. However, Cooke has been off for several weeks now, and I’m fairly certain it has little to do with our last game and more with the fact it was recently made public that he’s been dating a guy for the past six months—something few knew.