He, who was really nice to me when he didn’t need to be. He, who I’d embarrassed myself with before he left. He, who got me coffee and breakfast anyway.
With him gone, the reality of how absurd my life had become settled in. It was too much. I really needed to start plotting my exit.
I honestly will never know what all happened Friday night after the game. I remember talking to Kitty. I remember dancing. I have some flashes of Mikey helping me in the bathroom, telling me to eat. After that, nothing. I woke up in his t-shirt that carried his delicious scent.
Kissing Mikey. Like, really kissing him. Not for show. He told me I was his and I couldn’t tell if he was faking or being real. I wanted it to be real, so I pretended it was.
But the thing is, he kissed me back just as hard. If we’d been at home and sober, there’s no way that wouldn’t have ended with us in bed together. Or on the kitchen counter. Or on the living room floor. Or one of the twenty-nine places I had little flash fantasies of us getting it on.
I had to get a grip.
I was still reeling from Cole cheating on me for God knows how long. And yeah, that was over, but I was in a fragile place. I couldn’t just be flitting around pretending to be a professional hockey player’s girlfriend.
Even if that professional hockey player was kinda dreamy. And sweet. And protective. And yeah, loud.
He texted me Monday to make sure I recovered from myhangover (I had, thank you). He sent me a picture of a stray cat and asked if maybe that could be our ocelot pet. I found a prop cat on set and sent him that as a counteroffer.
But as much fun as we had together, he was also someone who didn’t take relationships seriously. He didn’tdorelationships. Relationships were stale, and Mikey had to keep it fresh.
I got a nasty reminder of his need to keep it fresh Monday night. There was a knock at the door, which I found weird. Only people from our building could get in, and Cole was the only other person I knew in the building.
I opened to a stunning blonde woman in an open trench coat and some very fancy lingerie.
“Um, can I help you?” I asked, trying not to laugh in my surprise.
“Who are you?” she asked.
What the hell? “I’m sorry, what are you doing here?”
“I’m looking for Mikey.” My stomach dropped as she narrowed her eyes at me, taking in my sweats and messy hair. “Are you his cleaning lady or something?”
“No. Is there something I can do for you?”
She tried to walk past me into the apartment. I put my arm across the doorway to stop her. “I don’t think so, missy. This is my apartment. How did you get in the building?”
“Where is he? And who are you?”
“He’s on the road. And I’m his girlfriend.” I crossed my arms over my chest. I was his fake girlfriend, but she didn’t need to know that. This woman couldn’t just barge into my living space.
“HA! Mikey doesn’t do girlfriends.”
Not the first time I’d heard that. “If you were truly diligent, you’d have known he was on the road.”
She tossed her hair over her shoulder and pulled her trench closed. “Whatever. Tell him Hannah came by.”
I gave a weak smile. “Hannah, I’d suggest you leave before I callthe building’s security.”
She scoffed and turned toward the elevator, muttering a “bitch” as she went.
I sat with the TV on, too rattled to pay attention. Was I wrong to tell her that I was his girlfriend? Did I just ruin something for Mikey? Probably not, right? It’s true, if she had been talking to him she’d have known he was gone. Maybe just some stalker?
A stalker with a real hot body. A hot body that looked nothing like mine. She was toned and firm in all the places that I was soft.
She was the second of Ben’s “type” I’d met. Busty blondes with tight little bodies. I had the busty thing going, but not the blonde, and certainly not the gym physique. Any muscle I had was from crouching and standing at my job, plus sewing and knitting.
Ben was on Eastern time, so I didn’t want to bother him late. I’d tell him the next day. It made me sad to think of Ben talking to other women while we were in our fake arrangement. Was he kissing other women? He had a right to take care of his physical needs, I supposed. But somehow the thought of Ben cheating on our fake relationship hurt worse than Cole cheating on me after four years. He’d built up so much trust with me, saying he’d never treat me bad. This felt pretty damn bad, though.
But he had chosen me publicly, right? I was the “ideal girlfriend,” his words, not mine. That had to mean something. I’d been wearing his shirt to sleep, but suddenly that didn’t seem so appealing. His scent had been comforting to me while he was gone, but now it just seemed sour.
