3 Capitulo 3

I STAYED UP LATE WRITING in my notebook. It was 1:00 a.m.; my eyes were strained and I couldn’t stop yawning. My mom had fallen asleep hours ago. I could hear her snoring through the wall. The reason for my sudden lack of sleep was a full-page pro-con list for continuing on with this fake relationship. “When in doubt, list it out” was my go-to motto. At least in my head.

PROS: Brett’s cute (obvious? Yes. Superficial? Very), Mom will finally lay off about me being single, Jenny’s snarky comments cease (sounds better than saying it’s a revenge scheme), will gain secondhand popularity! (just kidding), maybe finally attend a football game?

CONS: Brett’s cute, like, too cute (what do I say to him? What do we have in common?), Mom will also be waaaaay too invested in this relationship (note: keep this a secret from Mom), Jenny is scary, popularity means being social, I know nothing about football.

Clearly, I was tied between the two.

When the clock showed it was nearly two, I decided to sleep on it. I’d see how I was feeling the next morning, talk it over with Brett, and we could decide together. I mean, he was as much a part of this as I was. I already had no idea why he kissed me today; I ran away too quickly to ask. What did he plan on getting out of this relationship anyway?

I wished I could shut my brain off.

I shut my eyes instead. This could be tomorrow’s problem.

The next morning my stomach was in knots. And those knots were tied into another set of knots. Now that my frenzied excitement from that kiss had faded, I was stuck staring straight into reality: that I had gotten myself into a fake relationship with Brett Wells. No pro-con list could save me now.

I texted my best friend, Cassie, an SOS, then got ready for school. One look

in the mirror told me staying up late had not been a good idea (hello, eye bags), and my hair was sticking up in every direction, like a flock of birds had built a nest in there while I slept. Overall, not a good start to my day.

The morning got slightly better when I walked into a kitchen covered in cupcakes. The counter, the table, and even the stovetop—all cupcakes. The frosting dripped off the edges, leaving sugary globs everywhere. There was a pink note with my name scrawled on it in the middle of the table. I plucked it up and licked the frosting off my finger. A cupcake for my cupcake. Have a great day at school. Love, Mom. I smiled at the note my mom left. It was how every morning started since my father left. There had been hundreds of these notes now.

At first, my mother’s baking was horrible. Like, inedible levels of horror. She made frosting from salt instead of sugar. Her pancakes could dent a wall if you threw one hard enough. But she didn’t stop. I think baking was her therapy. It was all she did after he left. Like she had to be strong for me, so she bottled up all the pain, and the only way she could release it was by mixing flour and eggs into a bowl and whisking all her sadness away. That first summer, she’d drive us to the bookstore and fill her bag with books about cakes, cookies, cupcakes, and everything sweet. Once she got home, she’d flip to a page at random and spend the rest of the night baking.

Eventually her skills improved. She became good enough to open her own bakery in town. Her friend and business partner, Cara, handled the business and my mom handled the baking. Her sadness was baked into cupcakes and served in pink-and-silver wrappers.

The front door slammed open and Cassie whipped into the kitchen like a hurricane, wearing her pastel-pink Hart’s Cupcakes uniform polo. Surprisingly, Cara agreed to use our last name for the business. The first person employed was Cassie, her daughter. I helped out during the summer when school was out. Being a year older and having already graduated, Cassie was working full-time. She was in it more for the free dessert than the money.

“Cupcakes this morning!” she yelled, grabbing one in each hand and taking a bite. “Can you believe it’s been two years and I’m not sick of these yet?

“So,” she said, licking frosting off her finger, “you sent an SOS. What happened?”

I explained the whole Brett situation. I told her about English class, Jenny, the kiss, and my hasty getaway. By the time I finished, Cassie was speechless.

In two years of being friends, I’d never seen her speechless.

“Wow,” she finally said. “You need to tell your mom. She’s going to freak.” “My mom doesn’t need to know her daughter’s first boyfriend is fake,” I

said. It was a bit embarrassing.

“Then leave out the whole fake part. It’ll be nice to have someone, don’t you think? Like, to be with at school? You’ve been a hermit ever since I graduated last year.”

“Not a hermit,” I added.

“A hermit,” she repeated. “The only person you hang out with is me and those books.”

“Then doesn’t that make you a hermit too?”

Cassie shrugged, unwrapping her second cupcake. “You may have a point. You’re a hermit by choice, though. It’s different. You choose to isolate yourself from other people. I, on the other hand, don’t choose to. People, for some reason, don’t like me.”

“Maybe it’s because you barge into their apartment and eat all their food.” When she smiled, there was chocolate stuck between her front teeth.

“Definitely not that.” Cassie stood up, washed her hands, then followed me into the hallway.

“Maybe it was the speech you gave at graduation?” I asked, watching the smile stretch across her face.

“You mean when I told my entire class I hated them?” “That’s the one.”

“My dad always said to go out with a bang.” We both laughed. It was too ridiculous not to. Our moms always said we were an odd pairing. I tried hard to go unnoticed while Cassie went out of her way to stand out. But when we met two years ago when the bakery opened, we clicked.

“Today’s going to be weird. Read any books on fake dating?” she asked. I shook my head. “I wish.”

My phone buzzed. Cassie squealed. Goodbye, three years of living life under the high school radar. I had mastered the art in sophomore year: eat lunch alone, always have headphones or a book on hand, don’t make eye contact longer than one second, place your bag on empty chairs to avoid people sitting beside you— the list went on. I was a pro. And all that ended today.

Now there were butterflies living on the knots in my stomach. “Is it him?” Cassie yelled, staring at my phone.

It was. The message said: Here.

The butterflies multiplied.

“He’s here,” I repeated. Cassie’s hands were on my back, pushing me out the door and into the hall.

“Have fun,” she said. “Text me hourly updates and the names of any student that gives you a hard time.”

“Why? So you can fight them with your noodle arms?”

“Violence is not my weapon of choice, dear Becca. Cupcakes are.” I raised an eyebrow. “Sometimes students stop by Hart’s Cupcakes after class. I’ll admit, it’s another reason I don’t enjoy working there, but now it’ll prove useful. So send me some names and I’ll spit in their frosting.”

“You’re disgusting.”

Cassie blew me a kiss, yelled, “Have fun with your boyfriend!” then shut the door to my apartment in my own face. I made a mental note to tell my mom to change the locks—or ask her why Cassie even had a key—and stepped into the elevator. My heart lurched into my throat. Not so much from the elevator ride, but rather because of the boy waiting for me downstairs, whose hand I’d have to hold and face I’d have to kiss to sell some lie I never should have even told.

God. What had I done? And what was Brett possibly getting out of this arrangement? It wasn’t like his popularity status needed a boost. Come to think of it, it would probably take a steep hit.

By the time I was standing outside, I was sweating. Partly from the sun, which, of course, was placed strategically behind Brett’s car, making him glow. And of course he drove a freaking convertible. And of course he was leaning against it with his arms crossed, like some magazine ad come to life. Why couldn’t he drive something normal? Less cool? Like a minivan? The ones with the trunk that opens when you kick it?

Our eyes met and he grinned. “Morning, girlfriend,” he said. When he leaned in to kiss my cheek, I mentally reminded my brain to tell my heart to continue beating.

“I brought you something,” I said, reaching into my bag. His grin grew until it took up his entire face. “You did?”

I handed him the cupcake I’d snuck when Cassie wasn’t looking. “My mom baked it,” I explained.

His gaze traveled from the cupcake to my eyes, then back again. He was looking at me like I’d just handed him a million dollars instead of a half- squished cupcake.

“Thanks, Becca.” He then proceeded to shove the entire thing into his mouth in that way guys do. “This is really good,” he said, crumbs falling onto his shirt.

I got into the car, shrieked when my legs touched the burning hot leather seat, then silently reprimanded myself when Brett started laughing. We were driving through the streets, and I was racking my brain for something to say, when Brett asked, “Your mom bakes a lot?”

I’d thought we’d dive right into the so-what-the-hell-is-going-on-with-us conversation and skip the small talk, but guess not.

“Yeah. Every morning I wake up and my kitchen is covered in cupcakes, pancakes—pretty much any type of cake. She’s obsessed.”

He nodded. “That’s really cool. My mom never bakes. She’s more of the wine-and-cheese-tray type.”

I wasn’t really sure how to respond to that so I just nodded.

We reached a red light. Brett turned in his seat to face me. “As your boyfriend, do I get a cupcake every morning?” I must’ve looked surprised, because he said, “What?”

“I wasn’t sure if you wanted to . . . continue this.” The light turned green.

“Do you?” he asked.

“I’m not completely against it.”

Brett laughed. It was contagious. It felt good to laugh with him, like some of the awkwardness had lifted.

“First you run away when I kiss you. Now you want to break up with me when we haven’t even been dating for a day. Way to break a guy’s heart, Hart.” He poked my leg. “See what I did there?”

I was beginning to understand why so many people wanted to be around him. Maybe the rumors were true: Brett really was just a nice guy. Was that why he’d helped me yesterday?

“So you want to go through with this?” I asked. “Pretend to be dating? Fool everyone at school?”

“If I get more cupcakes out of it, sure.” He winked at me. His eyes were clear in the sunlight. I wanted to ask what else he was getting out of this relationship. I mean, my mom’s cupcakes were good. But they weren’t that good to warrant this entire mess. But then we pulled into the school parking lot, and the butterflies in my stomach I momentarily forgot about were back. Trillions now.

I gulped. Opened the window. Closed the window. Breathe, lungs. Breathe.

“Um,” I said, completely stalling. “We should, like, figure out the rules to all of this.”

“Can we do that later? I don’t think you want to be late to first period.”

I glanced at the time. Class started in five minutes and I still had to stop at my locker. Just picturing Miss Copper’s glare had me hopping out of the car at full speed. Brett ran around to my side, grabbed my shoulder. I think he could see how panicked I felt.

“It’ll be okay,” he said.

“Miss Copper scares me,” I said. “I don’t want to be late.” “Right. That’s why you’re freaking out.”

I sighed. From the way Brett was standing and how close he was, the parking lot was entirely blocked from my view. If people were staring, I couldn’t see them. But I knew they could see me. See us. What would they say? What would they think? Would they even believe that Brett Wells would date me? I was completely overwhelmed. It took every ounce of determination to throw my backpack over my shoulders and take a step toward the door.

“I know you might be used to all this attention, Brett. But I’m not. This is new for me, and it’s terrifying. I just . . . need a minute.”

“That’s cool. We can wait. Miss C doesn’t scare me,” he added.

I breathed through my nose, then through my mouth. I counted to ten, closed my eyes, and focused on my feet planted on the ground. When I opened them, Brett was watching me. He didn’t look annoyed, though. He was just standing there, waiting, that hopeful look on his face.

“Ready?” he asked, holding out his hand. “No,” I said, taking it anyway.

Then he was tugging me to the front door.

“I don’t really like the attention either,” he said while we walked, probably trying to distract me from the students. I stared directly in front of me, not letting my eyes wander. “That was the one reason I wasn’t sure I wanted to go through with this. I don’t like people talking about my dating life. It’s none of their business.”

“Yeah,” I said, half paying attention. “That makes sense.” He was chuckling, literally dragging me through the hall.

The first person I saw was Jenny, standing beside the office with her cheerleading squad. I quickly looked away, following the first rule in how-to- live-life-under-the-radar. Brett was oblivious, towing me behind him as he moved through the halls. A personal human shield. It took me a minute to stop staring at my feet and realize we were standing in front of my locker. I grabbed my books in record speed and made a dash for English class. At this point, Brett probably thought I was insane, which, for the record, may be partially true.

Class wasn’t as bad as I expected. We made it in time, so no glaring today. Brett tried to sit at the empty desk beside mine, but it turns out not even his charms were exempt from the horror of assigned seating. Brett lasted a whole two minutes before Miss Copper yelled for him to return to his seat. The class laughed, and it felt a little easier to breathe after that. Aside from Jenny turning to stare at me every once in a while, there were no disturbances. No one commented on yesterday’s conversation. No one grilled me about Brett. It was just another day in English class.

Talk about anticlimactic.

The first half of the day was smooth sailing, until lunch came around. I used to sit in the cafeteria with Jenny, just the two of us. We’d each buy something different to eat and share it. For sophomore and junior year, I ate with Cassie. After she graduated, I started eating outside alone. There were a few dozen picnic tables scattered across the yard. You had to get there pretty early to grab a good spot, which was why I opted to bring a lunch instead of waiting in the cafeteria line. There was one table hidden under a tree that was my favorite. I was planning on eating there today until Brett texted, saying he saved me a spot inside.

I mean, my expectations weren’t even that high. I figured he saved the two of us a table, probably in the corner so we could talk this all over without someone hearing. Instead, I walked into the cafeteria to find him sitting smack in the center. It was the jock table, lined with every member of the football team. The cheerleading squad sat at the next table over. Jenny et al.

I lasted all of one second before dashing toward the exit doors. I mean, come on! Did Brett really expect me to sit with his teammates, listen to them debate football game plays and talk about how we supposedly started dating in the summer? Maintaining the facade of our relationship was not worth that level of torture.

I took a seat at my usual table, pulled out my sandwich and book, and started to read. I wasn’t even through the first page when Brett texted.

Where are you? it read.

Outside, I typed back.

. . . Why?

I shut my phone off and returned to my book. A minute later, a shadow loomed over me.

“You stood me up,” Brett said, stealing one of my grapes.

“I don’t like eating inside.” I placed the bookmark on the page and looked up. “And I really don’t want to eat at the jock table, Brett.”

“Oh.” His eyebrows drew together. “I didn’t even think of that. Give me a second.”

Before I could ask why, he was running away, back through the cafeteria doors. A moment later he burst through them, holding a tray of food in one hand and his backpack in the other, this huge smile on his face.

“I’m not letting you eat out here alone,” he said, taking a seat. “We have an image to uphold, sweetie.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Sweetie?”

“No? You don’t like it? What about babe? Baby?”

I laughed, swatting his hand away when he reached for another grape. “First

rule is nicknames are not allowed.”

Brett nodded. “Becca it is. What are the other rules?” “No PDA,” I said.

He pouted. “Was the kiss really that bad?” “I don’t like the staring.”

“We’ll come back to that,” he said. “You need to come to my football games every Friday.”

“Every Friday? What about every other Friday?”

“Every Friday,” he repeated. “Nonnegotiable. And I want you in the stands screaming my name. Remind me to give you my spare jersey.”

“Then I’m not eating lunch inside the cafeteria.”

“Oh, I already knew that much,” he said, taking a bite of his hamburger. “I agree to relocate to this table. What about some kissing? Hand holding? No one’s gonna believe we’re dating if there’s three feet of space between us at all times.”

I tried to play it cool. My face was saying, “Yeah, I kiss boys for fun all the time. Done it loads. Experienced kisser? That’s me, nice to meet you,” while my insides were that black-and-white static sound televisions make when the channel doesn’t work.

“Fine. Lessen the space and minimal touching. Got it.” Brett grinned. “The best part.”

I rolled my eyes.

“We need to have the same story about how this started,” I said. “We probably should have discussed this yesterday.”

“I was too busy running away from you,” I half joked. Brett laughed. “Back to this story; what are you thinking?”

It took a second for my brain to sift through every romance book I’ve read and piece together a situation that could work. “We met at the beginning of summer break,” I said. “I was in the park reading and you were playing football.”

“And I was obviously shirtless,” he added. “Obviously.”

“Then you fell madly in love with me—” he said, ducking when I threw a grape at his head. Then I froze because I had just thrown a grape at Brett’s head. But he was grinning, so I don’t think he felt weird about it. “Nice throw. So, one glance at you with your nose buried in a book and my heart was a goner? And we kept our relationship a secret because you didn’t want all the attention once school started?”

I nodded, absent-mindedly toying with the pages of my book. “Then I guess

that’s how our love story began,” I said. “Now we just need to see how it ends.”

I only then noticed how long Brett’s eyelashes were. They grazed his cheeks every time he blinked, long enough to cause a windstorm of their own. Blink. Blink. Blink. They kept batting as we stared at each other. He had this goofy cartoon smile on his face.

The sun disappeared after that, hiding behind a cloud. He looked different out of the sunlight. It felt like the perfect time to ask the question that had been weighing on me all day. “Why are you doing this?” I finally asked. “You know most girls and plenty of guys in this school would date you. Like, real dating. So why me? Why fake it?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” he said, resting his elbows on the table and planting his chin on top, “but I think your answer has something to do with what you said in English class yesterday, about how dangerous love is.”

I shrugged. “My parents had a weird divorce. What’s your excuse?” “The opposite. My parents have this perfect marriage—”

“So it seems.”

“See? Everyone knows about it. It’s like some citywide Cinderella story or something. My dad always gives me these talks on how I should date in high school, play the field like he never could.”

“Why couldn’t he?”

“My mom got pregnant with me when she was a senior. My dad gave up football, his scholarship—everything for her. For me. It’s like he wants me to continue living from where he left off. You know?”

I nodded, thinking about my mom’s persistence that I date and find the love she lost. “Yeah,” I said. “I really do.”

“But I’m not interested in dating in high school,” Brett continued. “I’ve got good grades and a good thing going with football. I have my parents and that’s enough for me. I always wanted to leave settling down for after college. But my dad doesn’t see it like that.”

“So a fake girlfriend is just what you need. Keeps your dad happy and takes the pressure off you.”

“Kind of makes me sound like a dick,” he said.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “In a way, it’s like we’re mutually using each other. And we can just be friends along the way.”

Brett pointed at my sandwich. “You gonna finish that?” I pushed the tray across the table to him. “Thanks. So what’s up with you and Jenny? That argument was intense.”

I explained the odd, unspoken tension we’d had since freshman year. Then

Brett said, “That kiss must’ve really pissed her off.” “I think so.”

Brett finished the sandwich, brushed his hands on his T-shirt, then reached across the table. “So we’ll pretend to be dating for a few months, then have a mutual breakup, and part as friends. Deal?” he asked.

For once, I tried not to overthink this. I shook his hand. “Deal.”

Brett grinned. “Great,” he said, then pointed back to the book between us. “So, if this were one of your books, who would we be?”

“That depends,” I said. “What kind of book is it? A romance? Mystery?

Fairy tale?”

“Fairy tale,” Brett said very seriously. “I’m guessing you want to be the prince?” “Only if you’re the princess.”

I left school that day with a smile on my face. I wasn’t the best actress—I nearly failed sophomore drama class—but, together, we could pull this off. Brett seemed to be nailing the fake-boyfriend role already. I was starting to think he’s one of those people who’s naturally good at everything.

After last period, Brett met me at my locker and offered to drive me home. I refused, saying I wanted to walk. My mind was nearly reaching overdrive, and I needed a few minutes to be alone and think the day over. This was only day one and I was overwhelmed. Why couldn’t I just stick to reading romance books? Why did my life have to become one? Luckily, like my romance novels, this was all fake. And there was no danger in that.

It was kind of like getting the best of both worlds: a relationship without the risk of heartbreak.

Lost in thought, I didn’t even think about where my feet were taking me until I was passing the park that connected to the street my father lived on. Part of me was ashamed to know the directions to his house by heart. I saw the address once on a letter that came in the mail addressed to my mom. I think it was a check he sent for child support. I scribbled the address down, then pretended I never saw it.

I was thirteen the first time I walked here. The house was empty. There were no cars in the driveway. I felt so guilty that I didn’t return for another year. It was like a betrayal to my mom to be here, chasing after him when he left us. The next time, he was sitting on his porch. I had to hide behind a tree so my dad wouldn’t see me.

I started visiting once a month after that. Eventually there was another woman. She’d open the door when his car pulled into the driveway and kiss him hello. She had long, curly black hair. Nothing like my mom’s short blonde bob. I

never told her he was dating someone. I wasn’t sure if she wanted to know. Or if she even cared anymore.

Now I was standing at the end of the street, six houses down, behind a bush that came halfway up my knees. His house was on the corner, with a wraparound porch and a two-car garage that was painted the color of the sky.

I never got close enough that my father could look out a window and spot me. I didn’t want to risk him seeing me. Ever. I wasn’t entirely sure my dad would even recognize me now. I had changed a lot in five years. At least on the outside.

It still hurt to think about how he left. How he never looked back. My mom got full custody of me too. They never even went to court. He just agreed. They signed the papers and then it was done. I didn’t really understand it when I was twelve. I thought I’d spend weekends with my dad and weekdays with my mom like I’d seen in movies. But then months passed by and he never picked me up. Whenever I asked my mom, she said he was busy. I later learned my dad wanted what was considered a “fresh start.” And you couldn’t have that with a twelve- year-old, a walking reminder of your past.

The hardest part was that it was so unexpected. My parents never fought. There weren’t any signs. Then again, I was a kid and probably would have missed them anyway. But there was nothing that stood out in my mind. I remembered my mom leaving for work in the morning—back when she was a nurse—and my dad kissing her goodbye. He was home during the day and worked night shifts at a warehouse in town. He picked me up from school. He bought me ice cream in the summer and hot chocolate in the winter. There were no bad memories. No moment that I can pinpoint and say yeah, that’s where everything went wrong. I never bothered to ask my mom either. We never talked about it. I was too scared to hurt her. So we dodged the subject by baking and reading and I was left always wondering why he left. Maybe that’s why I still came here, for answers.

I waited twenty minutes (it was always twenty minutes) for his car to pull into the driveway. He stepped out wearing a gray suit, glasses low on his nose, and was barely up the driveway before the front door was pulled open and the woman walked out. I still didn’t know her name. I wondered if he knew her before the divorce, or if they met after. Maybe she was the reason he left in the first place.

My dad smiled as he kissed her, then both their hands went to her pregnant belly that had grown a little since I was last here. I watched as he got onto his knees and kissed her stomach. I wondered if a day would come when he’d abandon that child too. I really hoped it didn’t. I hoped he’d choose to stick

around so that little baby would never have to go through what I did. I hoped they’d never have to hide behind a bush and watch their father love his new family the way he couldn’t love his old one.

It was only when the door shut and they went inside that I began to walk home. That night, when my mother asked me where I’d gone after school, I lied.