“You smile enough for both of us.”
She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth tugged up—just a little. That almost-smile, the one she didn’t show the cameras, not fully.
Click.
Then another.
Click. Click.
The faint sound of a shutter sliced through the quiet. That was all they needed. Just a few quick snaps to sell the image.
Couple laughing. Holding hands. Smiling like idiots.
Fake. Controlled. Clean.
Except—her grip tightened. Just slightly. Like she didn’t want to let go yet.
And I didn’t either.
Not immediately.
We kept walking like that—slow, casual, coordinated. It didn’t even feel like acting.
When we reached the truck, she dropped her hand first. But not like she was done with it—more like she didn’t know what else to do.
I opened the passenger door. She climbed in, adjusting the seatbelt, tugging her sweatshirt down over her lap like it would hide the way her hands fidgeted.
I rounded the front and slid into the driver’s side.
We didn’t speak right away.
I didn’t start the engine.
Her voice came soft, almost curious. “Do you hate this?”
I turned to her. “Hate what?”
“This. Us. Pretending. Being told to hold my hand like I’m a walking PR stunt.”
I thought about lying. About brushing it off.
But instead, I said, “I didn’t mind it.”
She looked at me. Just looked.
The tension stretched, quiet but full.
And then she smiled again—small, crooked, real. “Me neither.”
The truck was quiet.
The kind of quiet that didn’t beg to be filled—just settled around us like a weight. The engine hummed low, but otherwise, neither of them said a word. She was looking out the window, her fingers toying with the edge of her sweatshirt. I tapped my thumb against the steering wheel. Once. Twice.
Then, before I could stop myself, I asked, “Did that guy from Kalamazoo ever apologize?”
Her head turned slowly. “What?”
“You know. The one who got in your face after the game. The one I—” I didn’t finish the sentence.
