2. CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 2
“Well, good luck, babe!”
Good Luck, Babe! – Chappell Roan
Nathalie
M y phone dings, one chime after another, disrupting my 'Yes, Chef' playlist echoing throughout the kitchen. I set down the knife, wiping my hands against my linen apron, adding to the plethora of stains marking the fabric as the aroma of garlic and onion overwhelms the small kitchen of my apartment.
Deon: Hi Nathalie. This is Deon. Deon Adams.
This is weird, but I was hoping we could talk.
I need to ask you something.
Are you free? Or are you at work?
Sorry that I’m sending so many messages. Please let me know if a time works for you to meet.
That last text sounded like an email. Sorry.
Uh…What ? I blink down at the messages. Not once in over two years of knowing Deon Adams has he spoken to me outside of group events.
I deglaze the pan with white wine as questions rapidly flood my mind. I’m in a small state of shock as the wine cooks down. Why would he need to talk to me ?
We’re not friends, not really.
We’re in the same friend group. His friends are my friends, but the string connecting Deon and me is thin. Other than thoroughly embarrassing myself in front of him multiple times, our interactions have been few and far between.
There was the time I accused him of lying about his profession.
And when I had to admit the guy I lost my virginity to called himself ‘Ben Dover.’
If those instances weren’t horrifying enough, I drunkenly asked him if he would marry me and declared I wouldn’t oppose the union.
Rather than spiral into the infinite possibilities of why Deon wants to talk, I tap the call button in the corner of the screen and put it on speaker. I’m pouring tomato sauce into the saucepan when a deep voice filters through the kitchen.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Deon.”
I stir the sauce and drop a chicken cutlet into the oil. It splashes slightly and I hiss from the heat of the grease.
“Nathalie!” His voice cracks at the end of my name. “Hello. Hi. Hey. ”
Well, this is weird.
“You wanted to talk?” I ask hesitantly.
“Yeah! Yes.” He pauses and silence grows more uncomfortable by the second.
“Deon? Are you there?”
“I’m here. Uh…Maybe this is an in-person conversation.”
My stomach plummets straight to the dingy tiled floor. An in-person conversation? I flip my chicken, steeling my sudden nerves. “Oh…well, I’m free now. I work late the rest of the week for the after-school program. Did you want to come over?”
Another drawn-out pause. “Sure,” Deon croaks out.
“I’ll send you my address,” I say, before hanging up and slumping against the countertop.
What the hell is going on?
Three sharp bangs echo through my apartment as I’m throwing things into my bedroom. I didn’t take in the disaster of my space before I invited Deon to my apartment. Clothes are thrown across the living room, multiple pairs of Converse rest in forgotten corners, and my kitchen is a nightmare.
I’ve spent the last fifteen minutes chucking everything I can onto the floor in my room, so I can exude the persona of someone tidy. I’ve never been tidy, even after years of trying to train myself. Marie Kondo couldn’t even save me with her organizational skills. I am a lost cause, but if someone comments on my mess, I simply say it’s ‘organized chaos’. I can’t fix the weird water stains on the ceiling or the crooked kitchen cupboards, but I can at least clear off the couch and fluff the pillows.
Deon’s arm is mid-air, ready to knock again, when I swing the door open.
Piercing green eyes meet mine and I scan his face, searching for the twin dimples that appear when he smiles, but instead of the calm, collected facade he often wears, his eyes are frenzied. Wide, broad shoulders fill my door frame and the muscles of his bicep pull taut against the thin long-sleeve workout shirt. His arm jerks to his side.
“Hi,” he says meekly.
“Come in!” Too cheery. I tone it down. “Are you hungry? I made dinner.”
I swing the door wide and he slowly steps across the threshold, eyes roaming the cramped apartment. It’s not much, but I wanted to live alone and I survive on a non-profit salary. The door clicks shut and the room is eerily silent as I analyze my space.
Tomato sauce is splashed against the stovetop and I spot a few shoes I missed in my panicked attempt to clean .
Oof.
“Do you like chicken parmesan?” I ask, making a lousy attempt to fill the silence as Deon stares. “The sauce is made with tomatoes from Maren and Jack’s greenhouse.” His gaze swings to the stovetop, and he nods, dropping into a chair at my kitchenette. I make two plates and hand one to Deon. “We can talk after eating.”
He nods again, digging in. His plate is empty in ten quick bites and he eyes the rest of the food on the stove. Just like Santi. He never stops eating. I call him a walking garbage disposal the way he’s willing to eat any and everything.
“There’s plenty if you want seconds,” I offer, halfway through my plate.
“I shouldn’t…” He longingly gazes at the stove and it dissipates a fraction of the tension in my shoulders.
“You should…” I respond with a sly smile.
His lip ticks upward and a soft warmth settles in my cheeks.
Dinners are often a silent affair in front of the television with whatever dating show is on. There’s something special about sharing a meal with someone and knowing they enjoy the food you prepare.
Deon rises, crossing the small kitchen. The cramped space shrinks as he piles more food onto his plate. My eyes snag on the way his muscles flex as he scoops pasta out of the pot. The crisp, clean scent of his cologne sways past as he returns to the table, immediately shoveling food into his mouth. My phone dings and I scramble for it.
Declan: Have you spoken to Deon ?
My chest flutters. I glance at the quarterback, whose gaze burns into my skin as I respond.
He’s in my living room…What do you know?
Declan: Text me after.
The phone drops from my hand, landing with a thud against the two-person dinette. Whatever Deon wants to talk about, Declan knows the subject.
Deon rises rapidly, startling me.
“Talk. We need to talk.”
His eyes flicker around the room, looking everywhere except in my direction before he stalks into the living room.
A rock lodges in my throat as I follow him. I’m fearful of whatever conversation we’re about to have. Declan’s cryptic message only adds to the nerves.
“Are you okay?” I ask, allowing for as much space as possible between us on the couch.
Deon blinks, mouth opening and closing, gasping like a fish. “I told the media I have a girlfriend,” he blurts out in one long syllable.
“Oh?”
Well, that's…nice, I guess. From what I’ve heard from Maren and Sawyer, Deon firmly resides in the ‘I refuse to date’ category of life, but I guess he re-evaluated his rule. Good job to whatever woman managed the feat.
“Congrats?” I give him an awkward thumbs up and he frowns. “But what did you need to talk about?”
I’m starting to wonder if this is one elaborate prank.
Deon grabs a throw pillow, fiddling with the tasseled edges as he whispers, “I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Huh?”
My brain begins to throb. His eyes tilt down, and I examine him. He’s always been attractive, but it’s not the right word. He’s…He’s stunning. Soft cheeks paired with a sharp jawline. Piercing sea foam green eyes and deep, rueful dimples. A gold chain that sparkles against his dark skin.
I was shocked by his beauty when we first met and he volunteered at GameChangers. Over time, it’s become easier to interact with him. I'm nearly immune to his attractiveness now.
It helps that he's a love-denier.
I am a lover of love. I love love. The opposite of Deon.
My floor is piled with romance novels and I’ve seen every romantic comedy movie ever produced. I watch dating shows with blind optimism and spend far too much time on the internet reading about other people’s meet-cutes.
I’m in the middle of making a mental note to record this week's episode of my dating show when Deon stuns me into silence.
“Will you be my girlfriend?” My lungs constrict as I hack, desperate for oxygen. Did he just… “ Fake girlfriend!” he screams, eyes full of panic.
“Start from the beginning,” I choke out, positive I am missing some crucial reasons why he’s asking me to be his girlfriend. Deon eyes me warily and I lift a brow. “Deon,” I push.
He smiles sheepishly and squeezes the pillow tightly against his chest.
“I-I may have told the press I have a girlfriend…” He grimaces. “And then I may have told the events coordinator I would ask this girlfriend if she wanted to attend a charity auction for cancer research. Then my head coach said he was excited to meet my girlfriend…”
My jaw drops lower with each word until all I can do is stare.
Who the hell is this man?
This is not calm and collected Deon Adams. This is not Mr. Straight-To-The-Point. His eyes are frazzled and panicked as he continues to explain how he was backed into a corner and it was the best response he could come up with.
“You could have said ‘no comment’,” I deadpan. He smiles apologetically. If I wasn’t incredibly confused, I might consider the smile adorable. “But, if I’m getting this right, you told the media you have an imaginary girlfriend and now you want me,” I point at myself, “to be your fake girlfriend and go to this…auction thing?”
“That kinda sums it up.”
A maniacal laugh tumbles from my lips, growing uncontrolled. He’s insane. Well and truly insane.
“You’re funny,” I wheeze, the sides of my abdomen cramping. I slump against the couch cushion, unable to sit up. This is an outrageous joke. I glance around, searching for the cameras to prove I’ve been pranked. “Was this Declan’s idea? Are you pranking me?”
Declan is about to jump out of my closet, I know it.
“Nathalie…” Deon gulps, throat bobbing. “I’m serious.”
“No.”
I will not pretend to be anyone’s fake girlfriend before I am someone’s real girlfriend. I have not trudged through and survived endless flings and the horrors of dating apps for my first relationship to be a sham. I crave the butterflies and excitement and wonder of meeting someone and slowly falling in love, not a fake relationship with someone who has barely spoken to me outside of group events.
I’ve been trying to put myself out there and explore the dating world outside of the apps. Meaning, I’ve been going out with the intention of meeting someone on the street or in a coffee shop, or in the dairy aisle of a grocery store and then falling madly in love.
Have I initiated a conversation with any of the men I’ve seen? No, but I did glance at them multiple times and if that’s not a glaring sign saying ‘I’m single and ready to fall in love’ then I don’t know what is.
I’m delusional, but last week, someone bought my coffee in the drive-through line so maybe there’s hope for me yet.
Regardless, I can’t have a meet-cute with the love of my life if I’m fake-dating Deon Adams. He’s too attractive and it will drive away all my potential suitors if they assume I can pull in someone of his caliber.
Deon recoils, stumbling over his words.
“But I—Declan said— please ,” he begs, eyes wide as saucers. “I fucked up and I need help un-fucking it up. I need you to help me .” He fishes his phone out of his pocket and unlocks it. “There are already dozens of articles speculating about who my girlfriend is. There’s a hashtag on Twitter!” His voice raises two octaves.
My resolve wavers as he sits on my couch looking like a kicked puppy. His lower lip pouts and I know I’m fucked. How does anyone deny a tall, incredibly attractive NFL quarterback when he asks you to be his fake girlfriend?
I snatch his phone, scrolling through the articles.
Who is Deon Adams’ secret girlfriend?
Deon Adams moves on after a failed engagement.
New girl for star quarterback Deon Adams?
Deon was engaged once?
I refrain from asking about it. He’s kept that a secret for a reason. His hope grows the longer I sit and contemplate his proposal. The idea is ridiculous and it undoubtedly ends in me embarrassing myself someway, somehow, but the sheer desperation in his eyes outweighs my reservations.
I suck in a deep breath. At least it will be a story to tell later in life.
“Fine…I’ll do it.”
The smile that blooms on Deon’s face is blinding and my stomach flutters. He has an incredibly dangerous smile. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you!”
His arms engulf my shoulders in an awkward hug and I hang limp, shocked that Deon is hugging me. His cologne lingers in my nostrils as he pulls away.
“When are you free this week?”
If we’re going to do this, we need to establish rules and create a social media footprint to prove we’re ‘dating’ because this plan is a logistical nightmare.
“Uh…I’m free Friday before we leave for Tampa.”
“Good. Come to my office. We have shit to plan.”
“Plan?” Deon asks fearfully. “What do we need to plan?”
I refrain from slapping my palm against my forehead.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say airily, “maybe how to pull off this insane ruse considering we know nothing about each other. We need a backstory. How did we meet? Did you fall in love first or did I?”
Deon frowns.
“Fine, maybe we need a plan,” he grumbles, eyebrows pinched in annoyance .
Rising on shaky limbs, I corral Deon toward the door, needing space to comprehend what asinine thing I agreed to because he’s desperate and the eldest daughter syndrome kicked in, ready to fix whatever issue needed mending.
“See you Friday,” I say as I shoo him out the door and immediately snatch my phone to text my traitor of a friend.
A little warning would have been nice.
Declan: Congrats!! You finally have your first boyfriend.
You said yes right?
I said no. But then I caved and said yes.
She’s off the market, people.
I hate you.
No you don’ t. You love me.
Best friends warn each other when their teammate plans on asking them to be their fake girlfriend.
I don’t remember that in the handbook.
The whole ordeal will likely crash and burn but maybe I can use this as a trial run of sorts. A trial relationship with no strings attached. It would help with my confidence. A few fizzled situationships who don’t acknowledge me in public have left me hopeless.
I’ve never been on a real date and the fear of the uncomfortable small talk is holding me back. Hooking up with men is different than going on a date. I begin to pace around my room, digging into the logistics. A few dates. A couple of photos. An event to raise money for cancer research. We can do it.
I can do it.
What I don’t know how to do is tell my family I’m fake dating someone.