The Fine Art of Pretending (17 page)

“After my shift here, nothing,” she says, wiping her hands on a napkin. “Definitely no hot dates lined up or anything,” she adds with a teasing jab to my ribs.

I smile back, but it’s forced. The burger in my mouth tastes like cardboard. I tell myself it’s a gut reaction. That I’d feel the same way thinking about a guy asking out
any
girl I’m hooking up with—but that’s a lie. I wouldn’t give a shit with any other girl. But Aly’s not just any girl.

Ignoring that train of thought, I say, “Good, you do now. You get off of work at seven, right?”

She tilts her head and squints. “We’re going out? Like, on a real official date?”

“A
pretend
official date,” I clarify.

Just the thought of a real date with Aly gives me hives. A real date could lead to real dating. Aly is a
Commitment
, whether she wants to believe it or not, which means she’ll want a real relationship. One beyond our easy, dependable friendship. Those kinds of relationships end. I see it every day in the halls at school, and I saw it in my dad’s hospital room. I don’t want that for us.

“But Saturday night
is
date night, and since it’s not like either of us can ask out anyone else, I figured we might as well have some fun during this experiment.” I give her the smile that normally gets me what I want and hope she can’t see my uncertainty. “Don’t you think?”

“A pretend official date,” she muses.

She bites into her cheeseburger and quietly chews. The silence only amps my nerves. Maybe I shouldn’t have suggested it, but after the tension of the past week and my inability to get anywhere in my own plan, I decided we both need a night of fun.

“A date with Heartthrob Taylor, huh?” Aly laughs and twists to give me a full body appraisal. “I finally get to see what all the hoopla’s about. Does this mean I’ll learn your moves, too?”

“I can’t give out all my trade secrets,” I tell her with a grin. “But you’ll have a good time.”

“Count me in.”

We inhale the rest of our food before Aly’s break is over, falling into our usual conversations about nothing and everything. Things have been better since yesterday’s Etch A Sketch exorcism, and sitting outside now, it’s almost as if nothing has changed between us. I certainly don’t stare at her mouth as she chews on her French fries or when she sips Coke out of her lipstick-stained straw.

Or sniff her hair again when we hug goodbye.

Walking back to my truck, I hear her call my name.

“What should I wear tomorrow night?”

A conundrum. What I’d like to see Aly in and what type of outfit is best for our friendship are two completely different things. “Whatever you’d wear on a usual date would be fine,” I reply, walking backward.

She nods, looking deep in thought, and I turn back around, unsure of which outfit I hope she’ll choose.

SATURDAY, AUGUST 21ST

6 weeks until Homecoming

BRANDON
ALY’S HOUSE, 7:30 p.m
.

I
ring the doorbell and step back to gaze up at Aly’s window. She’s tied back her yellow curtains, and I can see her running around inside, probably trying to find a purse or matching shoes in her disaster of a room. I kick the red brick and ponder the night ahead.

As I see it, the night can end in one of two ways: our comfortable friendship will return after a night of fun and goofing around or being with Aly on a date—even a pretend one—will make kissing her again all too tempting.

I close my eyes and beg the universe for the first outcome.

From the other side of the door, I hear the rhythmic thump of shoes hitting the ceramic tile. I straighten in preparation to greet Aly, but when the door opens, I feel my smile freeze on my face. I take in her white lace halter top and the short denim skirt showing off her tan legs and swallow.

I hadn’t been sure which outfit I wanted her to choose, and now… Well, I’m still not sure which would’ve been better for our friendship, but I’m damn sure enjoying the view.

“You look amazing.”

A blush creeps up her neck. She bites her lip and fidgets with the neckline of her top. “Um, thanks.”

I clear my throat and remember why I’m here.
Playful and fun
. I hold out my elbow and say, “Your chariot awaits, m’lady.”

She grins and hesitantly slips her hand into the crook of my arm. The feel of her soft skin instantly has me imagining other soft things: her hair, her cheeks, her
lips
. I screw my eyes shut, replace the thought with baseball stats, and glance down. “I see you’ve banished the heels for the night.”

Aly nods vehemently. “They are the devil. From now on, it’s either ballet flats or sneakers on these bad boys.” She stops to wiggle a black, flat-footed shoe.

I breathe a sigh of relief at her playful tone. This is good. We stop at the passenger door, and as I help her into the cab, my fingers graze her bare lower back. Her blue eyes meet mine and then dart away. I cough and close her door, muttering a string of curses as I round the bumper and slam the door on my side.

Aly smiles nervously. “So where you taking me?”

By the grace of God, I choke down the response I’d like to give—
back to my room
—and force a nice, lighthearted, friendly smile as I back out of her long driveway. “All will be revealed in time.”

“The thrill of suspense, huh?” She leans back, obviously getting more comfortable with the situation. “I am intrigued, Mr. Taylor.”

“Good,” I say, waving at the security guard in front of her neighborhood. “You should be.”

I tune the radio to the country station she loves but I rarely allow, and she rolls down the window, letting the warm breeze fill the cab of the truck. Hair blowing in the wind, she laughs and sings loudly over the sound of cars zooming by. Happy to see her singing in front of me, I join in, doing my best to murder the tune, which only makes her laugh harder and sing louder.

When we pull into The Station, our final destination, I’m nervous. If this were a real date, I would’ve taken her to the stereotypical “dinner and a movie” or even to a party. But all that seemed too boring. This place seems tailor-made for Aly—video games, pool tables, shuffleboard, and, of course, food.

“Interesting choice,” she says, eyeing the building normally frequented by older couples or game heads. Her face is in profile, but as I search her expression, I note her trademark grin is glaringly absent.

“You don’t like it.”

I knew I should’ve stuck with the same old routine
.

This is why Aly deserves someone better than Justin. Guys like him and me aren’t cut out for this shit. “Aly, look, we can go somewhere else. I just thought—”

“No! Are you kidding me?” She twists around to face me with an incredulous look on her face. “This is awesome. I was actually a little nervous about being on a ‘pretend official date’ with Brandon Taylor, but this’ll be fun!”

She pushes open her door, and I jump out my side, relieved I didn’t screw the night up before it even started. When I arrive at her door to help her down, Aly beams at me with such a playful smile that I make it my mission to keep it there.

Offering my elbow again, I ask in a fake British accent, “Well then, shall I escort you in, miss?”

That beautiful smile grows as she lifts her nose in the air and replies, “Yes. Please do so.”

Laughing, we walk across the crowded parking lot and into the brightly lit building. The techno symphony of bells and beeps from video games, the crack and clash of pool balls colliding, and a cacophony of voices and laughter assault us.

“Pick your preference: eat first or play?” I ask, leaning in so she can hear me over the noise.

“Hmm. Tough choice.” She taps her lips with a pointed finger, but my gaze does
not
linger on her soft, glossy mouth. “While food is always a good option, I think I wanna play. Ready to have your butt handed to you in shuffleboard?”

I laugh at the smug look on her face, and any hint of sexual tension dissipates.
Thank God
. “Honey, Wii doesn’t count.” We’re both athletes so we’re naturally competitive—and sore losers. But Aly’s delight in decimating me in virtual shuffleboard a few weeks ago is annoyingly adorable. “Besides, that night was pure luck, sister.”

She rolls her eyes, holds her fingers up in the shape of a W, and mouths, “Whatever.”

“You just watch,” I say, leading her to the billiards section. “I got my A game tonight.”

A guy about our age sits behind a cracked wood counter looking bored. He has eyebrow and lip piercings and a purple tint to his heavily gelled hair. Aly’s mood is infectious, so I decide to have a little fun.

“Good evening, chap,” I say, continuing the British ruse. The dude fingers his lip ring and eyes me curiously. “We’d be delighted to play a rousing game of shuffleboard, wouldn’t we, darling?” I turn to Aly with a playful smile.

She snorts and then, straightening her shoulders, collects herself. “Yes, that sounds like a spiffing idea. Let us do that.”

The guy widens his eyes like he thinks we’re crazy before turning to grab the colored weights. I chuckle and reach for my wallet to start a tab. I don’t care if the whole place thinks I’m nuts as long as Aly is laughing again.

We make our way to the empty shuffleboard table in the back, and Aly calls over her shoulder, “Cheers!” Turning back with a grin, she smacks my
bum
and plucks one of the blue weights out of the case. “Ladies first.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” I tease. “All right, do your worst.”

With the feel of her hand lingering on my
arse
, sending ripples of awareness to other areas as well, I step to the side and motion her forward. She sets the weight on the table and leans over to line up her shot, her face a mask of determination. She gives the weight several practice pushes, and I take a step back to give her room.

Her movements cause her skirt to rise, exposing the smooth skin of her upper thigh. I swallow and avert my eyes as her weight skids across the table.

“Pure luck, my butt,” she crows. I look back and see it stopped right on the edge. A perfect slide—if I don’t bump it off.

“Beginner’s luck perhaps,” I reply, picking up a red weight. I push it across and not only do I miss her weight by a mile, mine crashes off the edge into a pile of sand. Aly snickers.

“Oh, sod off,” I say with a grin.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t get better from there. We play three games, and despite my best efforts, Aly wins them all.

“Obviously, the problem is I am unaware of my own strength,” I say in response to Aly’s third victory.

She giggles and her eyes twinkle. “Whatever you say,
love
.”

I fold my arms across my chest, but can’t help but smile. “Are you ready to eat now, or shall we continue the royal arse-kicking?”

The minx laughs again. “Food, please,” she says melodramatically, allowing her body to go limp against the side of the table. “I’m positively famished.”

I shake my head and walk to the other side to gather the weights. While I stack them in the box, Aly strolls ahead, past the rows of coin-operated pool tables and older guys leering around their cues. She doesn’t seem to notice the attention, but I do. She stops in front of a flashing video game and peers down with a smile. I dig in my pocket and drop a stack of quarters in front of her.