Faker

by Sarah Smith

  He speaks before I do, and I’m relieved. “As much as I want to continue this, you need to rest.”

  I’m crestfallen. Even so, I nod at him. Doctor’s orders are to refrain from any intense physical activity for four weeks after surgery, sex included. Even though my lower half is on fire and the only way to extinguish it is to engage in a bevy of lewd acts with Tate, it’s not possible right now.

  I look down at my lap, trying to hide my disappointment. “I wish it weren’t the case, but you are correct.”

  “I’ll take you home, then.” The dissatisfaction on his face does not match the politeness of his words. I’m grateful to see his expression though, because it means we’re both equally disappointed.

  He drives the short distance to my place. When he parks in the driveway, he reaches for the bag of food. He insists I take all the leftovers, but I convince him to accept a container.

  I dawdle a bit before opening the door. “So. Thanks.” I have no words in my head, and the ones spilling from my mouth manage to sound woefully inadequate compared to how I feel.

  “That was fun.” He rubs the back of his neck.

  “Pretty epic first dinner.”

  He joins me in a laugh. We gaze at each other again, affection in our stares.

  I reach for the door handle. “Good night.”

  I expect to hear him say it back, to say, “Bye” or “See you in the morning.” What I don’t expect is for him to grab me by the wrist and say, “Wait.”

  eighteen

  Is everything okay?”

  He gazes at me with wide eyes, his stare emboldened. “Was this a date?”

  “Honestly? I have no idea. Do you think it was?”

  He swallows, and I watch the muscles in his neck flex. “I kind of hoped it would be.”

  “I hoped so too.” My feelings for Tate rush through my body, settling in my chest.

  “What I said last night, about wanting to take things slowly, is it too difficult for you?” When he speaks he looks pained, like he’s worried to hear my answer.

  “It’s definitely not easy, but it’s the right thing to do. I’m still pretty sore.”

  He shakes his head. “No, I mean, what I said last night about needing to take my time with this, with us. Does it bother you?”

  “Honestly?” I clear my throat. “It wouldn’t bother me if I knew why.”

  He ruffles his hair. “I’ve always been a slow mover. I take my time; I don’t rush; and I only do things I want to do. I’ve been this way ever since I was a kid. I hate it when people try to pull me out of my comfort zone. I’d rather quietly work things out on my own.”

  “I can respect that. There’s something more though. I can feel it.”

  He sighs. “It’s made dating and relationships difficult. I’m not an easy guy to be with. It took me a while to figure out why.”

  “My money’s on your introvert personality.”

  His half smile reappears. “Bingo. The women I’ve dated hate that I don’t open up about everything right away, that I’m so reserved. I’ve tried forcing myself to be open, but it’s always ended in disaster. It always felt so rushed, unnatural. It led to arguments, resentment, strain. Eventually, we’d break up because they couldn’t handle my personality long term.”

  He reaches for my hand and laces his fingers with mine.

  “With you it’s different. Comfortable. You set me at ease.” He points between us, then pauses to swallow. “I don’t want to mess up by jumping into things too fast. I’ve made that mistake too many times before. I don’t want to lose you too.”

  There’s a tiny fireworks show happening in the middle of my chest, like a rainbow with every color in the world surging through my body. Tate is the champion of making me feel things I’ve never felt before.

  “What if I said that tonight was a date?”

  I bite back a smile. “Then I would say it too.”

  “And what if I said I wanted to date you, but still take things slow? Would you be up for that?”

  I’ve done the normal jumping-in-too-fast routine with exes, and it’s always failed. This time with Tate, I want to do things differently.

  “I can do slow,” I say.

  Relief seems to be the undercurrent of the lips-only smile he flashes me.

  A single doubt lingers in my head. “The stakes are pretty high though, don’t you think? Even if we’re careful and do everything perfectly, there’s still a chance it won’t work out. If that happens, we’ll have to work together in the aftermath. Hurt feelings, failed expectations. It won’t be pretty. It might even be worse than it was before. Doesn’t that worry you?”

  No frown or grimace like I expect. Instead, he flashes the easiest, most relaxed smile. “You’re worth the risk.”

  With my eyes still on him, I feel for the door handle. I need to steady myself after praise of that caliber. He grabs me for one more kiss. It mimics the filthy kisses we shared in this car just minutes ago, but this time it’s slower, charged with more emotion.

  “I don’t plan on failing,” he says through a grunt. “Do you?”

  I run my hand against his stubbly cheek. “No way.”

  I step out of his car on wobbly legs. He waits until I’m inside before he pulls out of the driveway. Sleep will be impossible tonight, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is that Tate Rasmussen and I are dating. I couldn’t be happier.

  * * *

  • • •

  RAINBOW SPRINKLES ARE the only thing I see. They dot my kitchen counter, the bowl of cream cheese frosting, the floor. Bits are even nestled in my hair. Tonight I’m baking Funfetti cupcakes to surprise Tate after his Wednesday evening rock climbing session. A dating-appropriate activity, if I’ve ever known one.

  It’s been a handful of days since our first date. Almost three weeks since our very first kiss. A few flirty words, cheesy grins, and prolonged stares are exchanged at work, but that’s it. I’m still recovering from surgery and the car contortion session, and we shouldn’t tempt ourselves. Sugar temptation, though? Totally acceptable if, due to health reasons, you’re trying to avoid sex with your broody coworker-turned-dating-interest.

  While I frost the last cupcake, I wonder how Tate’s cake looked on the day of his favorite birthday, and if these cupcakes are anywhere close to satisfactory. Would this beautiful, health-conscious man even allow himself the indulgence?

  With my index finger, I swipe a lump of the frosting from the bowl. Under the sunlight filtering through the nearby window, it glistens. Just like Tate. I pop it in my mouth, taking my time licking it off. My cheeks heat. It’s perverse what I’m doing, allowing his childhood memory to fuel this naughty moment.

  I load them into a plastic container, zip to my car, and drive to the rock climbing gym. When I spot his trademark gray sedan, I park a few spots away, walk over, and try the doors. They’re all locked. I sigh. Of course. I set the container on the roof of his car and turn back to mine. Pulling out my phone, I type out a text to him:

  Left a surprise for you on top of your car. Happy climbing!

  After returning home, I clean up the mess on the kitchen counter and fold the basket of laundry I’ve been putting off for a week. I am contemplating a hot soak in the tub when there’s a knock at my door. When I open it, Tate’s focused face greets me, along with a bottle of wine in his hand. The plastic container of cupcakes rests in his other. Three cupcakes are already gone.

  “Up for turning your surprise into date number two?”

  I’ve never seen his face this bright before. His eyes sparkle, his cheeks flush, and it is divine.

  “Yes, please.”

  He follows me to the kitchen, gushing about the cupcakes. “They’re my favorite. Best surprise ever.”

  I pour us glasses of water and fetch two wineglasses. “It’s just a box recipe.” I blus
h. My eyes fall to my glass. “I’m awful at making anything from scratch. You should have seen the macarons I made for Kaitlin’s baby shower.”

  He’s standing on the other side of the counter, which is the perfect distance for him to stretch out his arm and rest his hand under my chin. He tilts my head up.

  “None of that disparaging talk. They’re delicious.”

  When he licks his lips, I shiver. “A little more than two weeks,” I mumble.

  I don’t have to explain what I mean. He understands that I’m counting down the number of weeks I have to wait until I can engage in certain physical activities.

  His fingers glide down the side of my neck. A soft moan is the least obnoxious noise I can manage.

  “I should probably stay on this side of the counter.” He demolishes half of a cupcake in one bite.

  I watch him chew and swallow. “Good idea.” For a few seconds, my eyes scan his sculpted upper body, which is displayed nicely in a sleeveless workout shirt.

  He pours both of us wine, then clinks his glass to mine. “So what’s your typical second-date activity?”

  “Usually dinner. First date I do drinks or coffee. That way we don’t have to spend an agonizing meal together if we don’t hit it off. You?”

  “I take her to the rock climbing gym to see if she can hang.”

  I bite into a cupcake. Tate’s eyebrow raises and his hand twitches in my direction, but then he rests it on the counter.

  “Frosting. On your lip.”

  With the back of my hand, I wipe it away. I bet if my body weren’t in such cock-blocking condition, he would have taken care of the frosting with his mouth, which could have led to a rather sexy make-out.

  I stare at the hemline of my cotton tank dress. “You’re hard core, putting dates through physical labor.”

  “If rock climbing goes well, third date is Chinese food.”

  I pause midchew. Lucky me got to experience third-date Tate on our first.

  “What else do you want to know?”

  “Anything and everything.”

  He doesn’t answer right away.

  “I broke my wrist playing soccer when I was in third grade,” he finally says. “I studied abroad in England when I was in college. I wasn’t used to driving stick then, and I crashed into a roundabout.”

  My jaw falls. “Seriously?”

  “Dead serious. My parents were livid. Their car insurance went through the roof because of me.”

  “What other un-fun stuff don’t I know about you?”

  He nods without breaking eye contact. The intensity is as unnerving as it is mesmerizing.

  “You mean like, relationships, exes?”

  “You already know about my un-fun stuff.” I think back to how I admitted my “O” problem to him and resist the urge to shrink into myself.

  “Fair enough.” Silence fills the air between us. It’s loaded on his end, and I think I know why.

  “Someone broke your trust, didn’t they?” I ask.

  He nods. “I’ve had a few serious relationships in my life. The longest one, we dated senior year of high school into senior year of college.”

  “Wow, four years? That’s a long time when you’re that young.”

  “It was. We went to different colleges, so we were long distance, too, which was awful. The whole thing was a terrible mistake looking back on it now. We moved pretty quickly into committing to each other. We argued all the time. We’d break up, get back together, over and over. She liked going out with big groups. I preferred one-on-one dates. We’d get jealous of each other. She hated any female friends of mine. I hated most of her guy friends. It was pathetic.” He lets out an amused scoff.

  He opens his mouth as if to continue, but there are no more words. Just a tired chuckle. I want to prod, to ask for more detail, but I don’t want to push him. It’s a monumental step for him to reveal this much to me, when he’s so hell-bent on taking it slow.

  “I was an imbecile,” he says. “We both were.”

  I can’t ever remember hearing a person in our age group use such an old-timey word. It makes me smile, despite the serious topic.

  Tate glances up at me. “People in their late teens and early twenties are clueless when it comes to relationships. Don’t hold it against me.”

  His hand rests flat on the top of the counter. I move my hand over his and he sighs. It sounds like satisfaction. Every time I’ve rested my hand on his whenever he goes deep into a conversation, he seems to loosen, to relax. Such a tiny gesture, but it feels enormously intimate.

  “Why’d you stay together so long, then?”

  “She was my first love, my first long-term relationship. There were lingering feelings on both sides, and we were too young to know how to handle them properly. I didn’t know when to call it quits. Neither did she.”

  “How did it end?”

  “She lined up another guy to date, then broke up with me. One of her guy friends. I never liked him. There was definitely some overlap from me to him. That sucked.”

  “I’m so sorry.” I squeeze his hand softly.

  “It’s fine. I’m over it now.” He rubs my fingers with his thumb before taking a long swig from his water bottle. “It sort of stunted me, though. I guess I’ve been conditioned to expect the worst after that mess.”

  “Not all women are the same,” I say. “You’re a smart guy. You should know that.”

  “Logically, I do, but old habits die hard. It’s hard to explain. Almost like a reflex.”

  “I get it.”

  He reaches for my hand. “I like you. I like this.”

  The shaky breath I let out nearly blows my napkin off the counter. His stormy blue-gray stare has me by the throat.

  Hearing Tate say he likes me is a formality at this point. I’ve known it for a while, but it doesn’t make the admission any less special. His words are a song I want to listen to over and over.

  “I like you too.” I bite my lip to keep my gigantic grin at bay. I hope hearing me say it, too, makes him feel just as giddy.

  We indulge in one last cupcake together. He offers me the first bite, then he takes one, then I go again. We’re doing our best Lady and the Tramp impression sans the spaghetti nose-bump.

  He insists I have the last bite. I suck a dollop of frosting from my thumb when I finish. “I knew it. You’re all talk. You’re a sweet guy to the core.”

  He laughs, then coughs. “Can I ask you something?”

  “You just did.”

  “Smart-ass.” He tops off both of our wineglasses, and I take a long swig.

  “How is your last name Echavarre? That’s not your dad’s last name, is it?”

  “It’s not, but how do you know that? I’m pretty sure I never told you.” I wonder for a moment if maybe it slipped out when I was drowsy on painkillers in the hospital.

  “You didn’t. I overheard you mention a while ago how your dad is so pale he fries almost every time he’s out in the sun, but Echavarre doesn’t sound like the name of a pale white guy who sunburns easily.”

  “It’s my mom’s maiden name. It’s Filipino-Spanish. When I was in college, I got this idea in my head that since she raised my sister and me, we should change our last names to hers. My mom was always the one to take care of us. It felt like she got shafted in a way. She gave birth to two daughters, raised us, and we ended up with our dad’s last name. It didn’t seem fair.”

  “Excellent point.” He tips his glass to me. “What’s your dad’s last name?”

  “Walden.” I gulp the rest of my glass. “We’re on good terms, but we’re not close. Not like my mom and I are. He lives five hours away, but my mom is just a twenty-minute drive from me. You get the idea.”

  He nods.

  “She had been wanting to go back to her maiden name ever since she and my
dad got divorced, but never got around to it. I convinced her to do it with me. After I graduated college, we went through the entire name-changing process together, filled out all the paperwork.”

  “I bet that meant a lot to her.”

  “It did. She cried when I showed her all my new legal documents with Emmaline Echavarre printed on them.”

  “You win daughter of the century for that. What about your sister?”

  “My mom didn’t want her to change her name as a minor. She wanted Addy to make her own decision about it when she was old enough.”

  “Did she?”

  “Yeah. As soon as she graduated college, she changed her name. She’s Addison Echavarre now.”

  “My God, you and your sister have epic names.”

  “Thanks, I guess?”

  He wags an eyebrow at me. “I like your name. I always have. And I admire your conviction. A lot of people wouldn’t legally change their names, not even for their mom. It shows what integrity you have.”

  I beam from the inside out. It’s divine, winning the admiration of someone who is historically impossible to please.

  “I was very into sticking to my guns and living out my convictions at that age.”

  “Are you different now?”

  “Yes. Not everything needs to be a powerful statement about character or society or whatever. Sometimes, things are the way they are and nothing more.”

  My words are strangely relevant in this moment. We have a hell of a hostile past, but right now, we’re content. Just two people on a date, enjoying the company of each other in the presence of wine and cupcakes.

  “Echavarre is much better. Emmaline Walden sounds like the name of a little girl who attends boarding school in Wales.”

  “I look the exact opposite of a Welsh school girl.”

  He gives me a side glance that radiates warmth. “I love the way you look, especially in that dress.”

  His empty glass clinks against the counter when he sets it down, probably because his gaze is fixed on me. “Come here.”