Page 3 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

Chloe

"I feel like a fraud," Sloane muttered, her voice muffled by the fabric of the dark, ribbed knit top I’d practically forced her into. We were getting dressed for a mixer in the college bar, a place where I was going to hard launch Sloane as my girlfriend. It had taken a lot of convincing to get her to go along with my madcap scheme, but she was in. If I was going to make Taylor jealous, I needed a hot girlfriend. Or at least a well-dressed one.

"You aren't a fraud. You're just... upgraded," I said, though my own voice sounded a little breathy to my ears. Sloane was naturally pretty with a petite form, dark hair, big brown eyes, and full lips, though she didn’t ever care to dress up. She’d always had her eyes on her goals, on moving forward. She wanted to be an architect, and you could always find her studying or going out, clicking photos of buildings, looking for inspiration.

I watched her in the mirror of our senior-year apartment. Without her oversized black hoodies and charcoal-stained fingers, she looked different. Pretty. It was a startling realization, one that made my heart speed up.

"Turn around," I commanded softly.

Sloane turned. The top was off-the-shoulder, a deep, moody plum color that made her dark hair look like silk. I’d paired it with high-waisted black jeans that hugged her petite curves in a way her usual 'study-marathon' clothes never did.

"Sloane," I breathed, stepping toward her. "You look... incredible."

I reached out to fix the stray dark locks that had fallen over her face. My fingers brushed her temple, and I felt a jolt—not the polite, expected spark I felt with Tyler, but something deeper. Something that felt like a tectonic shift I hadn’t been expecting. My heartbeat sped up as my fingers moved to fix her hair, watching the light highlight her exposed collarbones.

"Your hair," I whispered, my hand lingering. I didn't pull away. Instead, I let my thumb trace the line of her jaw, down to the corner of those plum-painted lips.

Sloane’s breath hitched. In the small space between us, the air grew heavy, thick with the scent of her sandalwood soap and the heat radiating off her skin. I looked down at her, really looked at her, and for the first time in fifteen years, I wasn't looking at my 'best friend.' I was looking at a woman. A beautiful, intense woman whose dark eyes were currently wide with a vulnerability that mirrored my own.

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic, desperate rhythm. I wanted to touch her. I wanted to see if her skin felt as soft as it looked. I moved my hand down, my palm skimming the bare skin of her shoulder, my fingers grazing the delicate bone. God, she felt so good, so soft, warm and grounding. She was the most grounded person I knew, while I was the one constantly floating, hopping from one boy to the next like I was trying to find a landing strip that didn't exist.

I knew why I did it. I’d always known. Dating boys was loud. It was distracting. It was a role I could play with my eyes closed—the 'perfect blonde girlfriend.' If I stayed moving, stayed social, stayed seen, I didn't have to be still. Because when I was still, the only thing I could hear was the quiet, terrifying realization that no man had ever made me feel as safe as the girl I was currently touching. My eyes met hers, startled by how deep our bond went, by how much she meant to me. We’d grown up together, shared all our secrets, discovered life as a pair. Every day after school, she’d be at my house or I’d be at hers, talking for hours, watching TV shows, and coming up with food experiments that failed more than they succeeded. But everything was more fun with her.

"Chloe?" she whispered, her voice a fragile thread.

"I'm just... checking the fit," I lied. The lie tasted like ash. I wasn't checking the fit; I was memorizing the way her skin felt under my touch. I was wondering why I had spent four years of college chasing boys who couldn't hold a candle to the quiet beauty right in front of me.

I’d always told myself I needed the guys to fill the void, to stop the loneliness. I was a social butterfly by nature, an extrovert who needed company or I’d get bored. But as I stood there, my hand resting on Sloane's shoulder, I realized the void wasn't empty. It was full. It had always been full of her.

"We should go," Sloane said, though she didn't move. She didn't pull away. She looked at me with an intensity that made me feel seen in a way that was almost painful.

"Right. The party," I said, forced into the reality of our 'plan.' I dropped my hand, the loss of contact feeling like a physical bruise.

I grabbed my gold bag, my svelte frame feeling suddenly awkward and too tall next to her petite, grounded presence. I’d spent my life as the 'image' and her as the 'architect,' but as we headed toward the door, I realized I was tired of being a picture. I wanted to be the building. I wanted something that would last.

"Remember," I said, back to being the popular girl, as we stepped into the hallway, though my insides were still trembling. "We’re together tonight. Every touch, every look... it’s for Tyler."

"Right," Sloane said, her dark eyes unreadable as she adjusted her sleeve. "For Tyler."

I hooked my arm firmly through hers, pulling her small frame tight against my side. I told myself I was doing it for the ruse. I told myself it was for the act. But as we walked toward the frat house, the only thing I could think about was the way her shoulder felt tucked under mine, and how I never, ever wanted to let go.

The frat house was a sensory assault. Bass from a speaker system that had seen better days thrummed through the floorboards, vibrating in the soles of my feet. The air was a thick, humid cocktail of cheap beer, expensive cologne, and the faint, underlying scent of old wood. Red plastic cups were everywhere, held by people I’d spent the last four years laughing with, but tonight, everything felt slightly off kilter.

Usually, this was my stage. I’d walk in, scan the room for the most interesting group, and dissolve into the crowd. But tonight, the weight of Sloane’s arm hooked in mine felt like an anchor—a solid, undeniable truth in a room full of flickering lights. She made everyone and everything else look superficial and insignificant.

“It’s loud.” She said, closing her ears, and I smiled. Sloane hated parties. She hated noise and crowds, but I was really liking the fact that she was here with me. My golden dress glittered, catching attention as people turned to stare at us. I slipped my hand in hers, making a show of holding hands and being close.

“Act natural.” I whispered, leaning closer until my breath fanned her ear. “People are watching.”

Suddenly, Sloane stiffened, but she did her part. I smiled and chatted, and as she began to talk, making me laugh, I realized I didn’t need to fake a thing with her. Sloane did make me smile, and sometimes her observations cracked me up. She had a unique way of seeing the world. We were total opposites, the recluse and the social butterfly, and that’s what made us click. Usually, I’d be aware of all the stares headed my way, wondering if the boyfriend on my arm was doing my image any good or not. But I didn’t even bother to look at other people when I was with Sloane.

“I hope this launch works out,” she said, eyeing me with concern as I remained silent. “People are going to gossip about us together.”

“Let them,” I said. “That’s the plan.”

I saw a flicker of something like longing cross her eyes, before she looked down, coughing.

"Stay here," I shouted over the music, leaning into her ear. "I’ll grab us some drinks. Don't let anyone steal my spot."