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It hurts the way pulling a bandaid off slowly hurts as I force myself to unclench my fists from Logan’s shirt. So many parts of my body form a mob, an organized union of protest as I take a giant step back, leaving his warmth, pulling away from his touch.
His hands drop to his sides. His lips part with a question he doesn’t ask. But it’s his eyes that make my heart trip. The expression in Logan’s eyes looks anguished. Regret for what just happened? Or disappointment I’m ending it now?
Don’t worry about Logan, I tell myself. He’s a big boy. He’s fine. He can find any other woman in the world to kiss andmore thankiss with.
The thought of Logan with someone else is all the sobering up I need.
I force a grin, knowing full well it’s unhinged, and I look like some kind of serial killer.
“Thank you again for tonight,” I say with a forced politeness and cheer. “That was very … educational.”
And then I hold out my hand. Logan stares, blinking rapidly, like he’s trying to figure out what changed in the last minute. It’s some small consolation that he seems every bit as affected as I feel.
Seems. Heseemsaffected. I’m sure that’s not the case, as we didn’t even kiss on the lips. Why would this have any effect on a man like Logan? Right—it wouldn’t.
Logan frowns. I shake my hand at him dramatically.
“We agreed to end the night with an amicable breakup and a handshake. Remember? I made a sticky note.”
I say this as though writing something down on a pink sticky note carries all the seriousness of the Geneva Convention.
Itneedsto be that serious. We have to take a big step back before we take too many steps forward and cross some line we can’t come back from. A line I can’t come back from. I’m sure Logan would recover just fine.
I wiggle my fingers at him. “Come on, Logan. It’s time for our amicable breakup by way of handshake.”
Logan’s frown deepens. Part of me wants him to just smile, wiping away whatever just happened. To shake my hand and walk away.
Part of me is screaming for him to grab me and do all the things he just described. To fight for me. To see through the act I’m putting on, to slay the fear driving me to run right now. To actually kiss me.
To want me for real.
When he still doesn’t move, I take his hand, then shake it. Almost violently.
“Best fake date ever,” I say, almost choking on the words.
And then, while he’s still standing with a frown darkening his features and confusion in his eyes, I turn away, quickly unlock my door and disappear inside, leaving Logan standing alone in the cramped vestibule.
CHAPTER18
Parker
I stand justinside my apartment, trying to teach myself how to breathe again, for far too long. Long enough to hear that Logan doesn’t move for a long time either. Long enough to hear him finally—finally— unlock his door. Long enough to hear that door close with a quiet noise that sounds a whole lot like disappointment.
I’m sure I’m imagining it.
Logan isn’t on the other side of the wall choking on regret and cowardice like I am. If anything, he probably regrets that he ever got roped into my fake boyfriend shenanigans in the first place.
I squeeze my eyes closed and clench my fists. I am now expertly equipped to write a dissertation on how to screw up a fake date. Tonight could be used as a template on how NOT to do it.
My thesis statement would read something like: When fake dating someone, the more real feelings you have, the worse the fallout will be.
In the opening paragraphs, I would put forth the idea that fake dating a person you’ve actually had—or currentlyhave—feelings for is a bad idea. Choose a person you’ll never be attracted to. Ever.
For supportive evidence, I’d discuss the impact of things like dancing together, having conversations about real things, and laughing. All of which can impact one’s feelings.
I would conclude with a warning not to ever,everask your fake date to describe how he would kiss you.
And that the worst thing you can do is try to revert back to the established rules, pretending like nothing at all happened.
