Mom sighs in a patient, long-suffering way that says she has survived MS, my dad, and my entire adolescence. “Okay. What did you do?”
I press my lips together. “You remember Miles?”
She studies me for a beat. “Yes.”
“He joined OneDate. For practice dates. Not, like, to find love. Just to—practice.”
“I’m sensing that you’re about to tell me something ridiculous.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “He had a date cancel last minute,” I rush on, “and he was going to this family thing, and he’d been trying really hard, and I felt bad and?—”
“Nora.”
“I went as the fill-in,” I admit.
Mom blinks. “You went,” she repeats slowly, “on a date with Miles?”
“It was his niece’s birthday party,” I add.
“And how was it?”
“It was… fine.” Mom stares at me, waiting for me to elaborate. I exhale. “Okay. It was more than fine. They’re… fun. And loud. And they laugh a lot. And they made me feel comfortable.”
Her voice softens. “Oh, honey.”
That softness is worse than shock. “And now,” I say, dropping my voice as if the walls might be listening, “his family thinks we’re dating.”
“Mmm.” Her eyes narrow in quiet assessment. “And are you?
“No.” The word comes out fast. “It’s fake.” Mom doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t have to. Silence is her superpower. “Because he gets nervous and he wants to impress this girl and I’m helping and?—”
“And is he trying to make this girl jealous?”
“No.” I shake my head quickly. “It’s not like that. It’s just to build his confidence. He wants to feel normal on dates.”
Mom lifts an eyebrow. “And no lines will be crossed. No feelings. Strictly fake.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My brain decides now is a great time to play a highlight reel of Miles’s hand finding mine. The warmth of his body as we hugged. How his playful half-smile is different than all his other smiles. The way he looks at me as if I’m not too much, not complicated, or not a problem to solve. “Yes?” I manage, but it sounds like a question.
Mom’s mouth twitches. “And at the park, was that fake dating too?”
My stomach flips. “No. That was just… friends.”
Mom hums again. The very same satisfied hum from earlier. “Uh-huh. Just friends.” Mom laughs softly, then sobers. “So you’re lying to his family about being his girlfriend?”
“No. Not girlfriend. Dating. But yes. Technically. It’s Miles’s idea. I’m only doing it to help him.” I don’t want to tell her it’s because I made a deal with him to go drone flying as a favor to me. She wouldn’t be happy knowing she’s a bargaining chip.
She reaches over and pats my knee. “You’re allowed to have things, Nora. You’re allowed to have fun. You’re allowed to be cared for. You deserve something more than fake.”
My throat tightens. That’s the part I don’t know how to handle. Caring for other people? I’m an expert. Letting someone care for me? That’s out of my territory.
At 6:12 p.m., I pull into Miles’s driveway and kill the engine. The house looks like it belongs on a postcard—a two-story farmhouse with wide steps and warm porch lights. I step out of my car and make it halfway up the five stairs before the door swings open.
“I heard you pull in.” Miles stands in front of me, one hand braced on the doorframe, completely casual. Gone are the khakis and polo shirts, replaced with jeans and a dark gray T-shirt.
“Hi,” I say, suddenly aware of my heartbeat.
He opens the door wider and steps aside. “Come in.”
