“You don’t seem to approve,” he says, smiling tiredly.
I shrug. “No. It’s not that. It’s just so…bachelor-y.”
“How so?”
“I mean…the furniture? The color scheme? The fact that your windows don’t have curtains?”
“Well, if I ever want to de-bachelorize the place,” Luke says, “I’ll know who to call.”
I snort. “Yeah. I guess.” If this apartment is ever going to be de-bachelorized, though, I’m sure it’s going to be done by one of Luke’s future girlfriends, not me.
Luke walks over to his gray couch and sinks down into it with a soft groan. Right. I’m here to be a good friend, not poke fun at his decor.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
“Headachy. Can you get me some aspirin? It’s in the bathroom.”
I mentally rewind to the instructions the doctor rattled off. “Actually, the doctor said no aspirin. Something about a higher risk of bleeding, I think. I could get you something to drink, though. Do you have tea?”
“Never mind. I’ll just take a nap.”
“You sure?”
Luke nods and then lets his head fall back against the couch.
“Just pretend I’m not here,” I say.
“Will do.”
While Luke naps, I sit down in the armchair across from him and stare at my phone for a while. Eventually, though, the combination of the quiet room and the sunlight streaming in through his living room windows lulls me into a sleepy state, too. I put my phone down and lean my head back. I let my eyes close. The deliciousness of a mid-afternoon nap is too tempting to resist. Anyway, what else have I got to do?
Later, when I wake, the first thing I feel is drool at the corner of my mouth. I quickly wipe it away. I look over at Luke and blink a few times. Luckily, he’s not awake yet. But as soon as I stir, he begins to wake up, too. He yawns, rubs his eyes, then opens them and meets my gaze.
“Hey,” I say. “How are you feeling now?”
“Better,” he says.
“Good.”
He starts to get up, but I beat him to it.
“What do you need?” I ask. “I’ll get it for you.”
“Water would be great. Thanks.”
“Sure thing.”
I go into his kitchen, find his drinking glasses in the third cabinet I check, and bring him back a full glass. He drinks half of it in one go, then sets it on a side table.
“So,” says Luke, shifting on the couch, “did you like watching the match?”
I sit back down in the armchair. “Yeah. It was fun. Up until the point when you got hurt, of course.”
“I promise that’s not how it usually goes.”
“God. I hope not.”
Luke smiles. “Concussion aside, at least I finally got you to come to a match. Kinda wish it didn’t take a fake relationship to make it happen, but whatever.”
“I would have come to one before if you’d asked me to,” I say.
“I’ve invited you before.”
“No, you haven’t.”
“I’m pretty sure I have.”
“Pretty sure you haven’t.”
“Okay,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Well, if you feel like coming to any in the future, you’re now officially invited.”
“Noted,” I say. “Hey, you know what you should do, after this whole fake relationship of ours is over? Invite Erin to a match. And then have yourself another little concussion. She’ll totally fall for you then.”
Luke laughs lightly. “Yeah. Maybe.”
I don’t know why I just suggested what I did.
A few moments of silence pass between us.
“How long have you liked her for?” I ask.
“I dunno. A while.”
“A while?”
“Yeah. A while.”
Okay. Whatever. If he doesn’t want to tell me, fine. It’s not like it matters. I’m just making conversation.
“Well, you’ve done a good job at hiding it,” I say. “I had no idea.”
Luke just shrugs.
A gnawing feeling tells me that I should change the subject. But now, with Luke being so evasive, my curiosity has been piqued. “How long has it been since you’ve had a girlfriend? And don’t say ‘a while.’”
Luke’s eyes travel to the ceiling, like the answer is up there. “It’s been several years.”
“Years? Your last ex must have messed you up bad.”
“No. It wasn’t like that. We split up on pretty good terms.”
“Then why haven’t you had a girlfriend since?”
Luke runs a hand through his hair. “It’s not like I haven’t dated. I just haven’t met anyone that I want to keep seeing.”
“Right…”
“You can stop giving me that judgy look.”
“I’m not giving you a judgy look.”
“Yes, you are,” Luke says. “Anyway, you’re not exactly in a position to judge, are you, Armstrong? You’ve been single for as long as I’ve known you.”
“Yeah, but—”
“What’s up with that, huh? Do you have an ex who scarred you or something?”
“No.”
“Okay. So what’s your excuse, then?”
“I haven’t met the right person, either,” I say.
“No. You can’t say the same thing as me. I can tell you’re lying, anyway.”
We have a mini stare-off. I lose.
“Fine,” I say. “If you really want to know the truth, I do like someone.”
“And you haven’t asked him out because…?”
“I just can’t.”
I’ve thought about it plenty, though, of course. I’ve imagined countless scenarios where I finally walk up to Alex and admit to him that I like him. But every time I think about actually asking him out, that stupid little voice in my head pipes up. He’ll say no. Of course he’ll say no. Stick with oogling—damn it, ogling—him from afar. Besides, imagine how awkward it will be at the office if you go out for a while and then break up.
“I’m not a relationship person,” I say.
“What’s that mean?”
“It means what it sounds like. Relationships aren’t for me.”
Luke gives me a half-confused, half-frustrated look. Then, finally, he says, “Okay. We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to talk about it.”
“Good,” I say.
I pop out that evening to grab a few things from my apartment—like my sleeping clothes and my toothbrush—and also to pick up some groceries while I’m out. Luke is in the shower when I get back to his place; the sound of the running water blooms through the apartment. I search around his kitchen for the necessary pots and utensils and things, and then get to making dinner. I’ve decided to make one of my favorite comfort foods: a baked penne casserole topped with heaps of cheese.
“Smells amazing,” says Luke, when he comes into the kitchen after his shower. “Thanks for doing all this.”
“I hope you like it,” I say, crouching down to peek through the oven window. The cheese has just started to brown. “A couple more minutes and it’ll be done.”
Since Luke doesn’t have a dining table, we eat at his kitchen bar. The penne, to my delight, has turned out pretty damn good. Luke compliments me numerous times about how delicious it tastes.
“You trying to butter me up or something?” I say.
“Just telling it like it is,” he says.
When we’re done eating, he reaches for my empty plate and stacks it on top of his. But when he tries to start cleaning up the kitchen, I tell him to cut it out.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” I say. “Doctor’s orders.”
“I think you just like saying ‘doctor’s orders.’”
“Maybe. But that doesn’t mean it’s not true.”
“Okay, okay.” He finally steps away from the sink.
I rip off a length of foil from a roll I find in one of his drawers, press it over the lefto
vers, and find a place for them in his fridge. When I close the door, I find Luke standing there, looking at me.
“You know,” he says, “I’ve been meaning to say, I’m sorry you got roped into doing this. I realize you probably wouldn’t be here right now if not for the fake relationship thing.”
I shrug. “It’s not a big deal. Although, for the record, you so owe me one now.”
“How am I doing, by the way?”
“What do you mean? Like, post-concussion-wise?”
“No, I mean, as your fake boyfriend.”
“You’re doing fine,” I say. “These couple weeks are for your benefit, though, remember? You’re the one with a girl to impress. I should be asking you how I’m doing.”
“I guess that’s true,” says Luke.
“So? How am I doing?”
“I have no complaints.”
“I’m acting girlfriend-y enough?”
Luke smiles and nods. “You are.”
“Okay. Good.”
I approach the sink, squeeze dish soap onto a sponge, and start to wash our dishes. Luke has a dishwasher, but right now, I want to have something to do with my hands. There’s sort of an awkward vibe in the room, and it’s being made worse by the two of us just standing there.
“You can tell me, you know,” he says.
I glance over at him. I don’t understand. “About…?”
“About your feelings. It’s okay.”
I’m still confused. Then, suddenly, our conversation from earlier comes flooding back, and I understand. Luke thinks that I like him. He thinks that’s the reason for my vagueness and reluctance to talk about my crush earlier.
“Oh my God, no,” I say. “That’s not—Luke, I don’t—” Inexplicably, I start to laugh. It’s not that the situation is funny. It’s as if my body doesn’t know what else to do.
I try to repress the laughter. I rinse off a plate and set it in the drainboard. “I don’t have feelings for you.”
“You don’t have to be embarrassed about it,” says Luke.
“I’m not embarrassed. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.” I frown at him. “Honestly. I don’t like you like that.”
“Okay,” he says.
That sort-of-awkward vibe from before? Yeah, now it’s way more awkward.
After a few minutes, Luke says, “I’m going to call it a night. You’re okay on the couch?”
“Sure,” I say. “Is it cool if I stay up a while longer, though?”
“Stay up as long as you want,” he says.
“Okay. Goodnight.”
“Night,” he says, without looking at me, and then retreats to his bedroom.
After I finish cleaning up the kitchen, I make myself a cup of tea—black tea, since that’s all that Luke has—and then go into the living room and settle into the couch. I watch television until I start to feel drowsy. Before I get too drowsy, though, I go into the bathroom to get ready for bed. I wash my face, brush my teeth. I accidentally knock a container of Luke’s pomade off the counter, barely missing the toilet. Then I head back to the living room.
I don’t sleep super well that night. Luke’s couch might be stylish, but it doesn’t exactly excel in the comfort department. I make do, though. And when I wake up in the morning, I feel refreshed enough to cook breakfast for the two of us.
Before long, Luke comes out of his bedroom. He sits down at the kitchen bar and thanks me when I set a plate of eggs and french toast in front of him.
“Looks good,” he says. But there’s something off in his voice.
“You sleep okay?” I ask.
“Not really,” he says.
“Does your head still hurt?”
“Not anymore,” he says. “It did last night, though.”
“Sorry,” I say.
I make a plate for myself and sit down next to him.
“You were being kind of loud out here, you know,” he says.
I glance at him. “This morning?”
“And last night.”
“Really? Sorry. I thought I turned the television down low enough.”
Luke shrugs. He doesn’t look at me. He just stares down at his plate and pokes his eggs around with his fork. And suddenly I’m so annoyed with him. Why didn’t he come out and tell me last night if the television was too loud? Why does he have to pick at his breakfast? What is he, a little kid?
“I’m feeling a lot better today,” says Luke. “You don’t need to stay any longer.”
To be honest, I don’t want to stick around any longer, either. Not with his weird moodiness. It does make me a little nervous to leave him alone, though.
“I don’t know, Luke. Are you sure? And what about your car? We still need to go get it from the parking lot.”
“I’ll ask Alex to bring me over there.” He’s still not looking at me. “Really. You should go.”
Ten minutes later, I pack up my things. I tell him I’m going to text him throughout the day to check in on him; I make him promise that he’ll get in contact with me right away if he starts feeling worse. I don’t like leaving with things still weird between us, but in the moment, it doesn’t feel as if there are any other options.
And so I go.
8
Luke is like some kind of hero when he shows up to work on Monday. If you ask me, though, everyone is way too enthralled with his stitches. When I pass by his desk on the way to the copier, there’s a small crowd gathered, hearing him tell his story again.
“God, how scary, Luke,” says Lucinda. “Thank goodness Emma was there to look after you.”
“Do you think that cut’s going to leave a scar?” Derek asks, touching his own forehead.
As for me, I don’t talk to Luke very much that day. Just the bare minimum to make it seem like nothing’s up with the two of us. But in truth, I’m still put off by the way he acted yesterday.
And as the week goes on, I find new things to be annoyed with him about—the way his gaze slightly lingers on Erin from Accounting, the way he talks too much in a meeting, even the way he mixes sugar into his coffee. It’s like all of a sudden he’s gone from being my closest friend in the office to being that annoying office guy.
I know it’s just me still feeling irritated about last weekend.
But it gives me second thoughts about this whole thing.
It’s later in the week when Catherine texts me again about Hawaii. I was thinking it would be nice to do something extra special for Mom and Dad?
Sure, I text back. Any ideas?
It’s a dumb question. Of course Catherine has ideas. That’s like asking a millipede if it has legs. And, indeed, about a thousand options come pouring in once I ask, each one with a corresponding link. Parasailing, private chefs…the links go on and on. I mean, really. Does Catherine not realize that I’m at work? Is she not at work?
Actually, knowing her, she’s probably just honed the ability to simultaneously text with one hand and do all her stupid lawyer things with the other.
I wait fifteen minutes, during which I get some actual work done, then pick my phone up again and pick out a link at random.
The luau sounds nice, I text Catherine.
Already reserved spots, Catherine replies. For all of us.
Okay, so then why did she send the link to me? Is she trying to emphasize how much work she’s already put into the trip?
Cool, I text back.
Catherine doesn’t type anything in response, but I can feel her waiting. It’s like some kind of screwed-up test where there’s a right answer and I have to keep guessing until I get it right.
I’m sure they’ll love any of those options, I text her.
A few minutes later, Catherine replies, K thanks.
It seems our conversation is over, so I go back to work. I keep thinking about my parents’ anniversary, though. Thirty years. It’s sort of—no, it is—amazing how long they’ve been together. Thirty whole years. Thirty real years.
The true ridiculousness
of my fake relationship hits me like a tidal wave.
At the end of the workday, I wait until the office mostly clears out, then I go over to Luke’s desk.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” he says, keeping his eyes on his monitor.
“Can I talk to you for a second?”
He quickly finishes up whatever he’s in the middle of and swivels in his chair to face me. “What’s up?”
I draw in a breath and let it out. “I just wanted to say, you don’t have to come along on the trip if you don’t want to.”
Luke frowns. “What are you talking about?”
I brush a nonexistent crumb from the top of his cubicle wall. “I’m saying we can call it quits anytime. I’m giving you an out.”
“I’m not looking for an out,” he says.
“It’s okay if you are.”
“What’s going on, Armstrong?”
I shrug. I consider telling him about my parents’ anniversary, but for whatever reason, I don’t. “Ever since last weekend, things have been…weird between us.”
Luke looks away from me. “I’ve just been busy this week. I had a deadline move up.”
Okay. I guess we’re never going to talk about last weekend, then.
“I still want to go,” says Luke.
“Are you sure?”
He nods. He smiles, instantly deflating the tension. “Besides, you really think I’m going to pass up a free trip to Hawaii?”
I smirk. “Right.”
“Or pass up the chance to see you in a bikini?”
I know it’s only a joke. But my cheeks involuntarily flush. “Very funny.”
“Don’t worry,” says Luke. “I’ll be right there next to you in my Speedo.”
“All right,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I’m heading out. See you tomorrow.”
“Do you think I should pack my blue one or my purple one?” he asks.
“For the love of God, neither,” I say.
“Your loss,” says Luke.
I look at him one last time to give him an exasperated look. But when our eyes meet, something inexplicable happens—it’s like there’s this little flicker between us. A flicker that runs up my body. A flicker that reminds me of that moment in the bowling alley.
“See you,” I say, quickly pulling my eyes away.
“Later,” says Luke.
I hurry to my desk to grab my bag. Along the way, I run into a chair and nearly fall over it.
Emma and Luke Are Totally Together Page 6
