He says, “I’m serious.”
I don’t know why I’m telling him all this, but I keep talking like I’m trying to defend a thesis or be proven wrong. “In high school, I had a crush on a boy who used me for homework help, then publicly rejected me when I finally worked up the courage to ask him to a dance.”
“His loss.”
I snort a laugh.
“Later, in college, I had a serious boyfriend. I thought Chris was different, er, hoped that he was less about himself and more about us. You know?”
“Yeah. I do.”
I pause as a memory surfaces with unexpected clarity.
“I remember one night in December, I invited him to my dorm to help decorate my miniature tree. He came over but spent the whole time griping about his awful day, how his professor was really riding him about his final essay. I was listening, being supportive. Then I mentioned that his professor reminded me of one of the characters I’d been working on for a creative writing project—a demanding mentor figure who pushed the protagonist.”
Fletch frowns as if anticipating where this is going.
“Chris gave a half roll of his eyes. Not like he was amused. More like ...” I trail off, then force myself to continue. “Like I’d said something ridiculous. A few weeks later, he broke up with me. Said I cared more about my fictional characters than I cared about him. That I was always in my head, always observing life instead of living it.”
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the cabin. He stokes the fire and adds a log before turning back to me.
I stare into the flames. “Maybe he was right. Maybe I’m just ... not built for real relationships. Maybe I’m only good at writing about love, not actually experiencing it.”
Fletch shakes his head and locks his gaze on me once more. He repeats, “His loss.” Then he adds, “My gain.”
The words fly toward me on the wings of a dove, but I let them glide by, afraid of what might happen if I invite them in. I release a frustrated huff. Frustrated with myself for ever being a fool for love. “The point is, I’ve always been the friend listening to others’ love stories, never living my own. So I started writing them instead. It became my way of controlling love narratives when I couldn’t control real relationships.”
“Your characters get the happy endings you don’t believe are possible for yourself,” Fletch says softly.
I look up, startled by his insight. “Exactly.” I tell him what my editor once told me about how I write.
“But it hurt because you have been burned,” he finishes.
I nod, unable to speak past the sudden tightness in my throat and the way he understands. Part of me laments the fact that the house where I grew up could’ve been filled with sunlight and laughter. But instead, it’s just dusty, forgotten. I wonder how my life would’ve been different.
Fletch shakes his head. “What if I told you I disagree with your whole theory about love being fiction?”
Fletch leans forward and in the firelight, I notice that his eyes aren’t solid brown. There are layers, a world of stars in shades of umber and bronze, chestnut and sienna.
When I finally reply, my voice is barely above a whisper. “I wouldn’t be surprised. We’re opposites, so it would follow that you’d see things differently than I do.”
“Like the North and South Poles?”
“Like you just like to get on my nerves,” I say with a faint laugh, bumping my elbow into him.
His is genuine and warm. “Maybe a little. But being opposites isn’t always bad, Bree. Sometimes it’s two different pieces that come together to make a whole.”
A smile scrolls across his lips, but does nothing to diminish the earnestness in his expression.
For the first time, I fully drop my guard and let myself truly look at him—not as the cocky hockey player who once teased that he’d marry me, not as my fake husband for research purposes, but as the man who sits beside me now. Thoughtful. Kind. Complex.
I wonder, just for a moment, if maybe this could work. Not the arrangement, not the charade, but something real between us.
The thought sends a terrifying little thrill through me.
His gaze finds mine, replacing the thrill with a shower of tingles.
I peek into the future and see dozy mornings and cozy nights watching movies. In between is all the stuff of life, the two of us, together.
