BS Boyfriend: A Standalone Fake Fiancée Romance

by JD Hawkins

  There’s a little pause and I shyly turn away from the smiles around the table to scoop some pineapple coleslaw onto my plate instead.

  “Honestly,” Nate says, as if he’s picking up the slack I left, his attention on me as if I’m the only one there, “once I saw him, I wondered why you ever cared in the first place.”

  I look from my plate to Nate, and for another split second forget everyone else again, the two of us looking at each other like we might do something inappropriate for a dinner table. I laugh to dispel the trance and return to the reality of the group again.

  “Mmm!” Toby hums so loudly it sounds like he’s been hurt. We all turn to him to find him staring at his burger like he’s enraptured by it. Still chewing he says, “Where did you get this ketchup?”

  “I made it from scratch,” Mia says.

  “Of course you did, darling,” Maeve says with a smile. “Why do we even ask.”

  “Oh yeah,” Nate says, himself having bitten into his burger. “It’s good. What’s in it?”

  “A whole bunch of stuff,” Mia says proudly. “But the real secret of a good ketchup I found is just great tomatoes, and these are fresh from the garden. There’s also a little apple cider vinegar, brown sugar, garlic…”

  Soon the conversation feels as easy as the eating, and the fact that I’m with Nate, the fact that he’s an outsider, is barely a fact at all.

  Mia and Colin play the hosts well, asking him just enough about himself to feel comfortable, but diverting conversation when things get a little too close to a topic that’s provocative. Like the reason he was so intent on a job that he asked me to pretend to be his fiancée, or what the hell our status is currently, or what the future will be for either of us.

  Everything seems so natural that I barely even notice how Nate has a habit of putting his arm over the back of my chair, and I have a habit of leaning in to him. Or how well he seems to get along with everyone. Or how whenever we start talking with each other it’s as if the rest of the group ceases to exist for us.

  Once we’re fully stuffed and sprawled out across the garden and porch, picking over a Mia-made cheesecake that’s too good not to eat but which we’re too full to eat quickly, I suddenly notice how dark it is. The crickets making noise, June bugs flying around the porchlights, Mia’s citrus trees breathing out their scent in the cooling air.

  I’m sitting on the swing bench on the porch, picking at the cake, when Mia and Maeve emerge from the house. Mia sits beside me and smiles, Maeve leans up against the wooden pillar, as elegant as anything.

  “You should have let me help you put the food and plates away,” I repeat again as they settle.

  “And ruin that dress? No chance, sweetie.”

  I look down at the dress again as if noticing it anew, but it’s a little less refined now that I’m wearing a pair of fuzzy slippers Mia gave me instead of the heels. When I look back up Maeve’s got a wry grin like she’s holding something pleasant in her mouth. I let out a laugh, knowing what she’s thinking, and decide to just come out and say it.

  “So? What do you think of him?”

  “He’s great,” Mia beams. “He seems genuinely nice. And more than that—you two seem great together.”

  “Ugh…” I sigh. “You were supposed to find a problem with him, remember?”

  Maeve laughs. “Why’s that?”

  “Because we can’t actually be together. Once he goes back to Chicago tonight I’m not even sure I’ll ever see him again.”

  Maeve folds her arms and frowns. “I thought you were already a couple.”

  “We are—well, maybe temporarily. I dunno. We’ve been ‘pretending’ we’re a couple so much it sort of feels natural…even though I guess it’s pretty weird.”

  “Wait, why can’t you be together?” Mia says. “We talked about the long-distance thing. Have you given it any more thought?”

  “I told you. He lives and works two thousand miles away.”

  “So? What’s that? A three-hour flight?” Maeve asks.

  “And I work fourteen-hour shifts,” I reply. “And he works…well, I don’t know his hours, but he works a lot.”

  Maeve and Mia swap a look but I’m not sure if it’s sympathetic or dismissive.

  “Even without the distance,” I continue, “we’re from completely different worlds. What’s fun and easy when we’re hanging out at a barbecue probably wouldn’t be as much a few months into his career. I’ve seen the people he hangs around with. It’s all self-important men and beautiful, glamorous women with their own little rules and their own language.”

  “Pah!” Maeve splutters glibly. “Honey, take it from someone who knows the type: it’s nothing to be afraid of. And besides, darling, you’re the most beautiful, glamorous woman I know.” Maeve turns quickly to Mia. “No offense, sweetie, but she is in that dress.”

  “So what?” Mia says, ignoring Maeve’s quip. “Maeve and Toby are like chalk and cheese too. Your lives might be different, but from what I’ve seen you two have a genuine connection.”

  “I could tell you a problem with him,” Maeve says.

  We both look at her intently.

  “What?” I ask.

  “He’s deeply unhappy,” Maeve says nonchalantly.

  “What are you talking about?” Mia says. “He was laughing along with the rest of us all evening.”

  “But you can see how unused to it he is. Something in the eyes. He’s carrying a lot of pain. Probably tortures himself. Trust me.”

  There’s a beat of silence, and then I say in a lowered voice, “He did have a hard life. I shouldn’t say it, but he did. Rough childhood, bad breakup with his fiancée…his whole focus is basically on getting himself financially secure and sort of…proving himself. I think that’s why he’s so hell-bent on this job now.”

  Mia frowns. “It doesn’t bother you?”

  “No! If anything it only makes me want to…”

  Maeve smiles then says, “Help him?”

  I laugh gently and then shrug. “I think he’s a nice guy,” is all I can think to say in response.

  “Well, this is tragic,” Mia says, shaking her head like she’s ridding it of something. “I think I’m going to cry.”

  “Sorry, I shouldn’t have told you his sob story.”

  “No, not that. I’m going to cry at seeing you throw away what is clearly something special. Just because it’s inconvenient. What if he’s truly the guy you’ve been waiting for?”

  “Cut her some slack, darling. It is a little more than just inconvenient.”

  “You don’t think it’s tragic?” Mia directs desperately at Maeve. “That something that seems meant to be is just going to…slip away?”

  Maeve takes her time answering, even though it doesn’t seem like she needs to think about it. “I think when something is meant to be, it tends to end up ‘being.’”

  Mia sighs, unable to come up with an answer, and I let out a sympathetic laugh. I look out over the garden and then immediately frown.

  “Where are they?” I ask, and the others turn to look out at the dark garden themselves.

  “I don’t know,” Maeve says, sounding equally bemused. “A few minutes ago they were just out there drinking on the deck chairs.”

  In the silence that follows there’s a faint sound of something banging, then Mia rolls her eyes and gets up to march off the porch around the house. Maeve and I follow her.

  “Colin!” Mia calls out as she stalks across the back yard toward a huge shed.

  As we draw near, I make out the shapes by the few string lights hanging there at the end. Colin and Nate are both leaning under the hood of a beautiful but dilapidated old car, while Toby looks on from his position drinking beer on a couple of crates.

  Sounding utterly awestruck, Mia says, “Did you really rope Nate in to trying to fix that old thing?”

  “I didn’t know Colin is into cars,” I say.

  “He isn’t,” Maeve responds. “Mia is. He bought her tha
t Aston Martin as a gift.”

  “It doesn’t work though,” Mia says, turning back to us. “And the mechanic told us they don’t make the part it needs anymore. He thought he was getting a bargain, but all we got was a headache. A beautiful, classic headache.”

  “Helpful as always, I see, Toby,” says Maeve, grinning at her husband.

  “My hands are for delicate work,” he replies. “You know that, honey. You think either of these thugs could inlay heavy metals without wrecking the gold?”

  Colin emerges from the hood and looks sheepishly at Mia, while Nate continues to work his brawny arms in the engine bay.

  “He insisted he could get it going,” Colin explains, shrugging his guilt away. “I bet him he couldn’t.”

  “I’m nearly done,” Nate says, wincing a little as he makes some final, difficult adjustments. He stands up and looks around at us, grabbing a rag to wipe his hands. “Give it another try,” he tells Colin.

  When the engine comes alive with a roaring, powerful sound, Nate and I seem to be the only ones who aren’t surprised.

  “How did you do that?” Mia splutters as she draws a little closer, her eyes looking at the car like it really did come alive.

  “That part you needed wasn’t all that hard to make. I filed it out of an old gasket, used epoxy for the fixings. It’s not the tightest, and it could do with a bit more work, but it’ll run just fine for now.”

  “The mechanic said it was impossible,” Mia says, turning her astonishment to him.

  Nate laughs and says, “You need a new mechanic then. Any car can be fixed if you put enough time and effort into it.”

  Dryly, Maeve says, “Cars really are like men, aren’t they?”

  “Billionaire investor,” Toby says with a smile, “car mechanic extraordinaire…now turn iced tea into beer.”

  Nate laughs but stops abruptly when he finishes with the rag and accidentally catches the time on his watch.

  “Another time maybe,” he says quickly. “I’m already about two speeding tickets too late for my flight.” He looks up and flashes a smile and salute at everyone as he starts walking away. “It was great meeting you all. Really.”

  “Yeah, you too.”

  “Take care of yourself.”

  “I owe you one, buddy.”

  The others remain there while I walk with Nate back around the house, up the winding path, to the gate. His car is parked just outside. He stops there and turns back to look at me, his prior sense of urgency gone—less important than yet another goodbye, perhaps the last one. Or maybe it feels too much like time’s standing still anyway. The crickets sounding like they’re repeating themselves rather than counting seconds.

  He takes my hands in his roughened palms and we look at each other, both of us failing to find words.

  “So…” he says eventually, and I feel my body tighten, bracing for the words like they’re blows to my soul. “I guess this is it.”

  “Is this it?” I reply without thinking.

  “What do you mean?”

  I shrug and try to smile but it’s harder than I’ve ever found it. “I mean…why don’t you stay in L.A.?”

  Just like that, I blurt it out. My emotions so raw I can’t dress them up, my sadness too large to leave space for a sensible, polite farewell. The words come out as instinctive as a hand reaching out after falling and Nate winces when he realizes I’ve said it. I wince when I realize I’ve said it. But I can’t find any other words in myself. So that even though I know I’m just punishing him, punishing myself, picking at this wound—I can’t help throwing it out there.

  Nate looks away. “Hazel…”

  “You don’t care about that job anyway,” I say, a little desperately, just wanting to talk and hope that my words find some logic of their own. “You’re just going for it to prove a point—except you don’t need to prove anything to me. You could start again. Leave everything else in the past. A new place. With me.”

  Nate still isn’t looking at me, and the words seem to linger for a while, getting weaker. Then finally he does, and though his expression is sincere, his eyes are hard.

  “I wouldn’t be able to respect myself if I just gave everything up. You wouldn’t respect me if I did it. I couldn’t do that any more than you could quit your job and come to Chicago with me. You could still be a nurse there,” he says, his dismissal of my suggestion becoming a suggestion of his own. “Heck, or you could paint—do anything you wanted to. I’ll make more than enough money for the both of us.”

  Now I’m the one who has to look away, unable to show him just how impossible what he wants is.

  “Hazel…” he says.

  His hands leave mine, but only so he can reach around to the small of my back and squeeze me into him.

  “I’m a cynical guy. Negative. Pessimistic. And this is exactly the kind of thing I’d beat myself up about. Scream at the sky about. The kind of thing that made me angry with the world. Angry at how unfair it is that we can’t…just…date a little. See if this would work for longer than a weekend…

  “But for some reason I can’t feel angry about any of this. Finding you on the other side of that bar…being with you the past couple of days…I just feel grateful. Maybe I’m so pessimistic that I could never raise my expectations. Maybe I always expect to be disappointed in some way. If that’s so, then saying goodbye is the best disappointment I’ve ever had, because at least I got to meet you.”

  “Nate…” I murmur as I press my head into his chest, wondering if he can feel the slight wetness in my eyes through his shirt.

  As he strokes the back of my head I want to tell him we’ll keep in touch, that we could call each other, that maybe I could come out to Chicago for a couple days, that maybe he could come out here again. But even in my head it sounds weak and desperate.

  Buried in his chest, clinging to his shirt, I try to wonder if I’m being melodramatic—if he is too. A few days at a hotel, a few nights in Los Angeles; that’s all we had. Yet the two of us are thinking and talking and acting like this is the end of something so much bigger.

  Or maybe I’m just doing what I always do: clinging to what I have, trying to force it to work when it’s already gone. Perhaps it was all just circumstances, both of our recent breakups, both of us going through listless periods where we’re waiting for something to happen. Perhaps we pretended so well we fooled ourselves, and the hardest part of playing such a fun game is stopping.

  Gripping onto his shirt as if I could stop him from going, I almost convince myself. But then his hand strokes my cheek on its way down to my chin, and he lifts it up to meet his lips. His kiss feels like a shocking, vivid truth. Any feeling that we were pretending is laughable when he kisses me like this, holds me like this, connects with me like this. Any notion that we could half-ass this with phone calls and the odd weekend get blown away in this touch of passion.

  Something like this could exist only as all or nothing.

  He pulls away from me and I force a smile but my eyes are wet. I try to ignore the tears even as I wipe them, half hoping he won’t notice either.

  “I guess nothing lasts forever,” I say, forcing a weak smile.

  He puts his hand on my cheek, his own face aloof and stoic and hard now—his way of coping—and brushes my tears with his thumb.

  “This’ll last forever,” he says. “I’m not the same guy I was before I met you. And I won’t ever forget you. We might never see each other again…but this’ll last forever.”

  I stare into his chest, trying to hold back more tears, trying to suppress all my emotions while at the same time do and say the right thing, but I end up doing and saying nothing. He reaches forward once more to kiss me softly on the forehead, and I close my eyes for a second. When I open them he’s backing away, glancing back at me in between pulling open his car door and getting inside.

  It feels like I’m falling from a great height, and looking back at the cliff edge I fell from. I raise my hand and wave, he star
ts the engine, puts down the window, and waves back.

  And then I have to look away, only listening to the sound of his car pulling out and revving away, for the last time.

  18

  Nate

  It’s three days after I got back from Los Angeles, in the middle of the work week, and my brain’s still scrambled.

  All my usual self-discipline and work ethic damaged by a constant, edgy restlessness that I can’t seem to shake. Any time my phone pings or rings I grab it a little quicker than usual. Even working out—which I’m doing more than is healthy—can’t give me any respite. My tired, aching body still incapable of resting or thinking properly.

  Work feels like it did when I first started. Like I’m going through the motions and hoping eventually the act will become real. Hoping that everything I appear to be—focused, determined, and capable—will eventually become true of my inner self.

  It worked before, but I’m slipping now.

  It’s funny how that works. Maybe that’s all life is, an act you hope will become real. Convincing others just so you can convince yourself. The outer becoming the inner. If I’ve learned anything the past few weeks, however, it’s that some pretenses stick easier than others. Maybe that’s how you learn who you really are.

  I’ve had the same spreadsheet open on my computer screen for three hours, since I arrived at my office, but I’ve spent more time looking out at a drab, early-autumn sky through the massive windows. Maybe a good hour pacing, maybe a good half hour taking calls and pretending to care. The numbers on the screen look like a different language. Hard and rational. Logical and finite. A reminder that I’m the one who’s changed, that something inside me has shifted. As if I’ve been attuned to something else now. The other world where things are abstract and messy, irrational and human.

  The knock at the door is as familiar as a voice, as is the fact that it opens right after, Sam and Eddy mid-conversation as they enter carrying a couple of paper takeout bags.

  “…don’t know what the heck happened to that place,” Sam is telling Eddy, “but the food’s nowhere near as good as it used to be. Only thing that was good there were those weird noodles, but they’re not even on the menu anymore. It’s like they’re trying to go out of business.”