He tilts his head. “Then maybe we take another run at that almost-kiss from before, but this time I actually ask you out first.”
I should say yes. Beck is hot. No faking needed. Instead, I turn toward him and ask, “Do you know what sea cucumbers do to ward off predators?”
He blinks. “Is… is that a trick question?”
“No. Never mind. It’s not important.” I sigh. “I just don’t think I’m in the right headspace to date right now.”
He winces, then manages a crooked smile. “Can’t lie, getting turned down twice stings. Doesn’t happen much.”
“I can imagine.” I shrug. “But most of those women probably aren’t hauling around a shopping cart full of emotional baggage. You’ll be fine.”
“Same goes to you.” He nods and turns away, then pauses. “Out of curiosity… what do sea cucumbers do?”
“They expel their organs.”
His face twists in horror. “I have so many questions. Mostly why you know that.”
I laugh. I know exactly who taught me that fun fact.
The next day, I text Miles and ask him to meet me somewhere neutral. Not Porter’s. Not at his place, or mine. But at a quiet park by the lake instead. The bench is cold beneath my jeans, but I don’t shift. The water stretches out in front of us—gray-blue and endless, much like the sky above. It’s the kind of view that usually makes you feel small in a comforting way, but today, I want it to swallow me whole.
Miles sits beside me, close but not touching. He’s been quiet since we got here, toeing rocks and pretending not to notice that I’ve been rehearsing this conversation in my head for the last ten minutes. I lace my fingers together, forcing myself to stop fidgeting. If I hesitate any longer, I’ll say to hell with it and leave.
I clear my throat. “Miles… I’ve been thinking.” I keep my eyes on the water, because if I look at him, I might lose my nerve.
He turns slightly. “About what?”
“About us,” I say. “About… the fake dating.” The words hang between us. “I think it’s time we call it off. The whole fake relationship thing.” He doesn’t respond right away. Silence stretches, and my instinct is to fill it, so I do. “You don’t need practice anymore. You graduated. Top of your class in dating.” I risk a glance at him and manage a small smile. “If you still want more practice, there are about a thousand women on OneDate who would be thrilled to have you as their date.”
He lets out a quiet huff of a laugh, but his eyes stay serious.
“And if not,” I add, softer now, “I think you’re ready to ask Maggie out again. She’s going to be… pleasantly surprised by how far you’ve come.” I tilt my head, trying for lightness. “Not a single sea cucumber in sight.” That earns a real smile, but it fades too fast. “So,” I finish, my voice steadier now, “I think our fake relationship did what it was supposed to do. And now… we let it go.”
The lake quietly laps against the shore as if it has all the time in the world.
His gaze is steady on the water, then he peers down at his hands, rubbing his thumbs together. “Is this what you want?” he asks quietly.
The question hits me straight in the chest. I swallow. “It’s what makes sense. My life is a mess. I’m… unfinished. Half broken.”
“That’s not true. You’re the most whole person I’ve ever met.”
I shake my head, blinking fast against the tears threatening to spill. “I wish that were true,” I whisper. “But it’s not. And I think it’s better if we go our separate ways.”
He nods once.
I don’t know what I expected—anger, confusion, something. But this is new territory for both of us. You don’t get a handbook for ending a fake relationship that stopped feeling fake somewhere along the way. We sit there a little longer, shoulder to shoulder, watching the lake carry on like nothing in the world is shifting while everything inside me is.
After a few minutes, I stand and leave. If I stay beside him any longer, I know I’ll change my mind.
Twenty-Seven
This Could Be Real
Miles
After Nora leaves, I stay at the bench a little longer. I don’t have much experience with dating or relationships, but part of me knows what she said wasn’t the whole truth. She’s guarded—that much I understand. Maybe this was her way of protecting herself. Or maybe I’m just clinging to what I want to believe, and the reality is simpler: she doesn’t like me, and it really was all pretend.
By the time I reach my car, my chest is still tight. I sink into the driver’s seat and sit there, hands slack on the steering wheel, my forehead resting against the cool leather. The chill seeps into my skin. Nearby, a car door slams, tires crunch over gravel, life keeps moving while I stay frozen, trying to breathe through the hollow ache settling in my ribs.
