“We’re sorry,” I blurt out.
“This study will be submitted into theJournal of Sleep Research, with our students’ names on the article,” she says, stern.
Ben’s name will be on a sleep study with fake results that will stay with him forever, if we’re ever found out. Shit. Fuck. Shit. I didn’t think any of this through. Of course I didn’t. Because I am an awful, terrible person.
I look over at Xander, wondering if he’s thinking the same thing. And he looks so tired. The reason why he’s here in the first place. He qualifies. He deserves to be here. He needs to stay in this sleep study.
“I’m not going to lie, it’s been hard. With the insomnia,” Xander says, coming to bat for us.
She stares at us a little longer. And then her face softens.
“I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her head. “I know what it’s like.” It’s the perfect segue to Dr. Waitley’s origin story which, not going to lie, I would be interested in hearing. But wrong time.
Her eyes move between the two of us. Less interrogation. More sympathy.
Shit, this is actually working.
“Have you felt Xander pull away?” Dr. Waitley says, looking to me now.
No. He’s never pulled away from me in my life. Not during the friendship we had together. Not during our one night together. Not when he noticed me in the waiting room in the sleep study. Not when he got into my car to thank me for doing this for him.
If anything, he aways leans in. The only truth I have access to are my own actions.
“It feels like we’re not on the same page anymore,” I say, opting for vague.
“It was like, we were so good. And then she, I mean, I, just shut down,” Xander says, and I can’t help but feel he’s referring to my actions eleven years ago when I snuck out, effectively ending things.
“We just disconnected,” I say, nodding. “And we stayed disconnected.”
“Mmmmm,” Dr. Waitley says, an obligatory pause that has me wondering if she double majored in psychology. “When was the last time you did something fun together?”
We look at each other. But we don’t answer, worried we’ll say the wrong thing at the same time. She reads this silence as the answer: a long time ago.
“I want you to go on a date this weekend,” she says, and a nervous laugh escapes me before I can control myself. I glance at Xander, and he’s looking at me like he knows exactly what I’m thinking right now.
Objection: I don’t date.
“I need you to reconnect,” she says, breaking our silent conversation. We both snap our heads back to her “And you’re not going to reconnect at a sleep study filled with wires. Or in your day-to-day routine.”
Fuck. This isn’t a suggestion. This is a prerequisite of the sleep study.
I need to date Xander. I need to make an exception to my rule for the sake of the sleep study. For the sake of Xander’s insomnia and my paycheck.
I puff my cheeks and blow out a steady stream of air.
“Okay,” I say, agreeing with the minimal amount of enthusiasm possible that I will go on a date with Xander. “Let’s go on a date.”
“We’re not going on a date,” I say, Xander finally letting go of me.
He led me all the way down the hallway, past reception, through the doors, and dropped me off at the passenger side of his car. Because of course my car isn’t here. I got rip-roaring drunk yesterday, and I’ve got the shitty Uber star rating to prove it.
“Oh, we’re definitely not dating,” Xander says, practically laughing. His hand has returned to the back of his neck, again like he’s trying to rub me out of his life.
“Rude.” I cross my arms over my chest.
“You said it first,” Xander says, now actually laughing at me. “You can’t seriously be offended?”
I can. And I will. Of course, I don’t say that out loud.
