He’s already writing. Face carefully neutral. Giving absolutely nothing away.
Right. Stick to the script.
I write quickly:The coffee shop where we ran into each other again.
Safe. Consistent. A complete lie.
“Reveal!”
Mine: The coffee shop where we ran into each other again.
His: The coffee shop.
Match.
Another lie we’re telling in perfect sync.
The room goes wild. Tyler’s yelling “SWEEP!” Someone’s demanding we get a trophy. Lauren and Brad are dramatically bowing out, retreating to the safety of the crowd.
“WINNERS!” Maya grabs our hands, lifting them like we’re championship boxers. “Five for five! Undefeated!”
Everyone’s clapping. Cheering. Derek’s nodding slowly—thoughtfully—like maybe we just passed his test.
And all I can think about is the way Brody remembered the polka dots.
We return to our spots as the party continues around us.
Catering brings out another round of hors d’oeuvres. Little bruschetta with tomatoes and basil. Bacon-wrapped dates. Those grilled cheese triangles that are basically comfort food in formal wear.
The energy shifts. Relaxes. People are mingling, refilling wine glasses, laughing about the game.
Maya and Derek settle onto the couch. Someone brings over a pile of wrapped gifts.
“Gift time!” Maya’s back in hostess mode.
And honestly? It’s sweet. Watching them.
Derek’s hand on Maya’s knee. Casual. Affectionate. She leans into him when she laughs. When she opens matching robes withMr.andMrs.embroidered on them, he actually blushes.
They’re good together.
Real.
You can see it in the way he looks at her—like she hung the moon and personally arranged all the stars. The way she touches his arm when she’s excited.
This is what actual love looks like.
Unlike whatever performance Brody and I just gave.
He’s standing next to me now, playing his role perfectly. Arm around my waist. Smiling at the right moments. Laughing at Derek’s jokes about honeymoon plans.
Every inch the devoted boyfriend.
But I can feel the tension. The coiled energy. His hand on my waist is just a fraction too careful. His laugh doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
He’s performing.
And I’m starting to hate that I can tell the difference.
