It feels?—
Real.
I try again. The ball wobbles down the lane, clips three pins.
“Progress!” Chloe cheers like I just won the Stanley Cup.
“I knocked down three pins. That’s not?—”
“It’s three more than last time!”
And she’s so genuinely excited for my terrible bowling that something in my chest tightens.
This girl. This girl who gets overlooked by her family, who makes herself small, who accommodates everyone else—she’s cheering for my pathetic three-pin knockdown like it matters.
Like I matter.
We lose the tournament. Spectacularly. But we’re laughing the whole time, and when the photographer—some professional Maya hired—captures us mid-laugh, covered in the glow of the overhead lights, it doesn’t feel staged.
It feels like the most real thing I’ve done all night. Until my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Rick
Don’t forget social media posts.
Right. I almost forgot.
I pull out my phone and swipe to the camera. Debate warning Chloe what I’m about to do, but Derek is watching me. I can feel his eyes tracking every move I make, every word I say. He’s looking for cracks.
So I just get it over with.
I slide my arm around her waist, tilt my head close to hers, and aim the camera. She tenses against me, but I whisper “For the story” against her hair. Then, because I need this to look real, I press my lips to her temple just as I snap the picture.
We look…convincing. Happy. Like a couple who’s been together longer than two weeks.
But looking at the photo, something feels off.
Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Like she’s performing too.
Maybe we both are.
I post it anyway.
@CandyKane: Good company, great night.
Generic. Safe. Believable.
It pulls in three hundred likes in five minutes.
“See?” I say, showing her the screen. “People love us.”
“Because we’re so convincing,” she says quietly.
There’s something in her tone. Sadness? Resignation?
I can’t tell.
By eight o’clock, the party is winding down. Guests are filtering out, saying their goodbyes, thanking Maya and Derek for a lovely evening.
