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“Helen Tsang?” the delivery person says, butchering my last name.

“Uh…yeah.” It’s hard to speak because I’m blown away by how beautiful the flowers are. “Thank you.”

I’ve never received a flower delivery before, and I’m not sure of the etiquette here. Are you supposed to tip? I don’t have much cash on hand, but I manage to find a five-dollar bill in my wallet. I hand it over before taking the vase to my small dining room table, placing it next to Lucifer, and examining the flowers from every angle. They really are amazing. A little envelope, not much bigger than a business card, peeks out from between the flowers, and I open it up.

Can’t wait for tomorrow! xo Taylor

I can’t help staring at that “xo.” The delivery—it’s tangible proof that this is really happening. I’m in a fake relationship. I feel a buzz of excitement that my plan has been set in motion, my pulse quickening.

Finally, I recover my wits and remember what I’m supposed to be doing with these flowers: posting pictures of them on social media.

Right.

I pick up my phone, but before I take any pictures, I text Taylor.

Got the flowers. They’re amazing. Thanks. I hesitate before adding, You didn’t need to get such a huge bouquet.

I feel guilty. These flowers can’t be cheap, and it’s not like Taylor’s rich; he’s a social worker who lives with a roommate. Now, unlike me, he probably doesn’t mind having a roommate, but still. It’s not as if he’s some wealthy businessman for whom this is pocket change.

You deserve it, he replies.

My instinct is to respond with, No, I really don’t, but instead, I set about snapping pictures of the flowers. I’m not quite as obsessed with taking photos and videos as some people of my generation, but I’d take a picture of these even if I wasn’t posting anything on Instagram. I upload the best pictures, mention Taylor in the caption, and add a heart emoji for good measure.

Ugh. Referring to my (fake) relationship doesn’t come naturally to me. I’m still wrapping my head around this new reality, and I’m jittery. I remind myself that this is safe; it’s not real, and it can’t end in disaster like everything did with Charlie.

Several minutes later, once I’ve finished the dregs of my coffee, there’s a new message in the group chat.

WHITNEY: I thought you weren’t interested in dating again, Helen??

JASMEET: What did I miss

WHITNEY: Check Helen’s Insta

JASMEET: OMG

JASMEET: Why didn’t you tell us on NYE? Or did it JUST happen?

ESTHER: So the reason you didn’t want to attend singles mixers is because you aren’t single?

I think for a moment. I really need to figure out the timeline of our relationship.

ME: I wasn’t ready to say anything then, but it’s fun to imagine your faces right now.

ESTHER: Taylor is your friend from high school, right?

ME: Yes

WHITNEY: I’M SO HAPPY FOR YOU!!!

ME: Stop yelling

WHITNEY: I was worried you’d sworn off love. I’m glad I was wrong.

There’s a strange feeling in my stomach as I read her words. I’m lying to my friends. I really have sworn off love. They’re happy about something that isn’t true.

But this is what I wanted, right? My fake relationship plan is working. Sure, it feels a little different from my quick lie to Vin, but I’m sure I’ll get used to it.

My phone chimes, indicating a text.