not a date
It’s a fake-date-planning session
She sends back an eye roll emoji. I’ll take it as agreement.
I grab my wallet and check myself in the mirror. My hair’s doing that thing where it can’t decide if it wants to be artfully messy or just messy-messy. Good enough for fake-boyfriend shopping.
“Where you headed?” Freddie appears in my doorway, post-gym glow and protein shake in hand.
“Costume shopping with Piper.”
His eyebrows shoot up.
“What?”
He grins. “Is this a date?”
“It’s a business transaction. She needs costume help, I need...” I trail off. What do I need?
“To get laid?”
“Jesus, Fred.”
“What? It’s been months since Paige. Time to get back on the horse. Or off the horse? I don’t know how that metaphor works.”
“It’s not like that. She’s my student. I am being professional.”
Freddie processes this for roughly two seconds before his grin turns knowing. “Oh, shit. You like her.”
“I don’t—” I stop. Do I like Piper? She’s sharp and funny and looks at me like I’m a puzzle she’s annoyed about having to solve. When she smiles—really smiles, not the customer service one—it’s like watching a firewall drop.
Fuck.
“It’s complicated,” I finish lamely.
“Why? She’s single, you’re single, Greg approves?—”
“Greg doesn’t get a vote.”
“Greg absolutely gets a vote.” He takes a swig of his shake. “Look, just see where it goes. Maybe shopping for weird costumes will be like foreplay.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“I’m right.” He claps my shoulder as he passes. “Also, if you see any traffic cones while you’re out...”
“Still doing the knight thing?”
“Traffic cone armor is inspired, bro. Alex is gonna lose her mind.”
Before I head downstairs, I pause at the window where Greg catches the afternoon light. For a second, I consider bringing him. Moral support. But that would be weird, right? Bringing your plant on a not-date?
Christ, maybe I am losing it.
Time to go shopping with a girl who thinks I’m ridiculous, for a party where I’ll pretend to be her boyfriend, to make her actual crush jealous, and get a girl off my back.
My life is a badly written sitcom.
I grab my keys and head out, trying not to analyze why I’m suddenly nervous. It’s just Piper. Piper who matches with me at ninety percent but pretends the algorithm’s broken.
