Page 24

There was a heavy, salt-fogged hush as I cut along the path to Mikayla’s cabin, the air already cooling with that evening snap that makes the Oregon coast smell like pine needles, wet asphalt, and tension.

My mind was stuck on its own jagged loop. Not my usual pre-date checklist, but a more existential tape. Fresh fade, check. Backup mints, check. A delusional belief that I could spend four days pretending to love Mikayla Parsons without it becoming the truest thing I’d ever done…check?

I couldn’t stop thinking about what it meant to be someone’s boyfriend—her boyfriend, to be precise—even if it was just for a weekend, and even if it was some quasi-fake, strictly-as-needed, here-for-your-convincing-ex arrangement.

This was not my wheelhouse. I’d never cosplayed commitment before.

I could see her cabin’s porch light through the trees, and my stomach started to do something uncomfortable, almost like a muscle cramp, but lower. I paused at the foot of the porch steps, swallowing the last few sips of air before the plunge, and only then realized my palms were slick with sweat.

A truly strange discovery—for me in particular—because I had never, and I mean never, been nervous about women.

My brothers and I had all been nicknamed “Heartbreakers.” But I’d been the only one who had lived up to the reputation. For as long as I could remember, I’d always loved the opposite sex. I was the guy who made the cold approach at a house party simply because it gave me the kind of adrenaline rush you can only experience from surfing a twelve-foot winter wave, and even then the wave was more intimidating.

I’d always assumed there was a type of guy who got tongue-tied around women, but that was a genetic defect I believed myself immune to. I could talk to anyone. Especially women. Especially beautiful women.

To me, flirting was as automatic as breathing.

My first girlfriend was in preschool. Elizabeth Nelson. She was also my first kiss. I’d been in love with her. Then…I wasn’t. Before I graduated from preschool, I’d had five more girlfriends.

The thing was, I never did it on purpose. I just had no filter when it came to my emotions. And I’d never cared about appearing cool, or aloof. When I felt something for a girl, I told them. I was honest in the moment, but those feelings would change and the girls would end up blindsided.

I realized in middle school that my behavior hurt the girls I “loved.” Now there was a term for it: love bombing.

In sixth grade, after finding Stephanie V. in the bathroom crying after I’d moved on to Jessica H. at lunch after “breaking up” with Stephanie at first break, I promised myself I’d never lead any woman on again, regardless of what I felt. I’d keep it to myself.

I’d given myself a guideline, a rule. Any relationship had to last past the six-month mark before I began to make any declarations of love and any plans for the future.

Since that day, I’d made it clear from the jump, I loved women, enjoyed being in their company, but I had no desire for a real relationship.

I’d never been tempted to break my rule, not until Mikayla. The woman wasn’t just beautiful, she was smart, funny, classy, and so sexy. I’d wanted so badly to tell Mikayla how I felt and we’d never even come close to being in a relationship, much less one that lasted past the six-month mark.

Unless I counted me being infatuated with her. That emotion was going on two years.

But as I stood on that porch, running my thumb along the woodgrain of the handrail, I felt like a freshman on the first day of football camp, trying out for the varsity team, knowing I was going to be up against guys twice my size. My body was tensed for impact, and on some even deeper level, I realized I actually cared about making a good impression.

It was a genuinely new sensation. Normally, I could step outside myself and watch the whole thing unfold—a little bit performative, a little bit detached, always in control. But tonight, my mind was stuck in anxious replay mode, running through every possible scenario of what might happen.

I took a deep breath and knocked. When the door opened, all of the oxygen was sucked from my lungs. My mouth had gone completely dry, the back of my throat tight in a way that had nothing to do with thirst and everything to do with the stunning woman in front of me.

Mikayla stood in the doorway in a deep burgundy dress that poured over her pin-up curves like wine, fitted through the waist, ending at her knee. It was the kind of dress that made you forget what you’d been about to say. I felt my face turn into a malfunctioning cartoon—eyes spring-loaded like the awooga-wolf, jaw slack, tongue unrolling, every dignified thought fleeing in a little cloud of dust.

She had the phone to her ear she held up her finger, indicating she’d be just a minute. I stepped inside and shut the door.

As I waited, I glanced around. The cabin looked like an executive war room. The bed was covered with papers. She had two separate laptops. All she was missing was an evidence wall with photos, notes, and receipts all connected by red string.

When she hung up, she didn’t say a word to me, she just handed me papers. They looked like official documents.

“What is this?”

“A contract.”

“A contract?”

“Yes, if we’re doing this, I want to be very clear as to what the expectations are.”

“You mean other than me being your boyfriend?”

“Fake boyfriend.”