4. CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 4

“I want the perfect love, am I asking too much?”

Naked – Ella Mai

Nathalie

I build up the nerve to text my family Saturday morning to tell them I have a boyfriend because tomorrow, Deon will post a photo online confirming I’m his girlfriend, and the fake cat will be out of the fake bag.

I am seeing someone.

The messages pop onto the screen, one after another, faster than I can read.

Santi: What?!

Gracie: NO WAY. WHO???

Deon Adams…

Santi: The football player?

Dad: He plays fútbol? Dios, Nathalie. When can I meet him?

Santi: American football.

Dad: Oh, never mind. Nathalie is not old enough to date.

Mom: She’s 26, not 13. It’s about time she had a boyfriend. Is he cute?

Gracie: OH MY GOD. I looked him up. WOWWW.

Mom: Will he be coming to family dinner?

Santi: I hope so. Does he have any single teammates?

Gracie: I’m going to follow him on Instagram. Tell him to follow me back.

Maybe he will come to dinner. It’s new.

I riffle through the cupboard in the kitchen for the crackers I bought earlier in the week. I gingerly shut the ancient and slightly (very) broken cupboard door before flopping down on the couch.

As I sit, Gracie’s photo pops onto my screen, her brown eyes and hair a mirror of my own. I lay a blanket over my lap to ward away the ever-persistent chill in my apartment before answering.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were dating a hottie?!” Gracie screams into the phone, and I grin at the surprise on her face. “Nathalie, he is so attractive.”

“ I know .”

It’s not every day a six-foot-three football player with stunning green eyes, a blinding smile complete with dimples, and perfectly chiseled biceps asks you to be his fake girlfriend.

But besides knowing he’s attractive and plays professional football, I know little about Deon Adams. A reality Deon has gone to great lengths to achieve. I’m not sure anyone knows who hides behind the mask Deon wears.

“I agree,” my mom chimes in, her bright pink hair nearly blinding me as she leans over Gracie’s shoulder and takes over the screen. “When can I meet him?”

“New hair color?” I deflect. A month ago, it was a dark orange, and two months prior, it was a bright blue. I can’t remember a time when my mother’s hair was a traditional color.

Gracie shoves her away.

“I was talking to her first,” she whines. “You can interrogate her later; this is my time.” My mom pulls on Gracie’s hair before she sticks her tongue out and walks out the door. When it clicks shut, Gracie continues. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

My stomach churns at the hurt in her voice.

Every romantic milestone I’ve had, I’ve shared with Gracie. My first kiss in high school. When I lost my virginity in college. She's heard about my awkward hook-ups. My sister is one of my best friends, and if this was real—if this was the love story I’ve always hoped for, one full of grand gestures and loud declarations of love—I would tell her.

But what I have with Deon is none of those things.

It’s not the anticipatory butterflies before a first date or the giddy sensation right before they lean in for a kiss.

None of this is real, and I can’t tell her the truth, so I offer a half-truth instead.

“It’s new.” Her eyes narrow slightly. “I promise I was going to tell you; I only wanted to make sure it was going somewhere first.”

Gracie looks unsure, but she lets it go.

“My friends are going to flip when they find out.” She pauses, a small blush creeping onto her cheeks. “Aaron especially. He loves the Mavericks.”

I chuckle at the mention of the boy she’s had a crush on since high school. Three years at the University of Washington, and she still hasn’t made a move because she’s afraid to ruin their friendship.

My monologue about love fell on deaf ears when I tried to convince her to confess her feelings. Everyone deserves a grand love full of declarations and gestures. When I tried to gently shove them in the right direction—into each other’s arms, obviously—she iced me out for a week until I begged for forgiveness.

It’s not my fault my brain is wired to identify a problem and fix the problem. I’m the eldest daughter. Problem-solving is in my DNA. She should have known I would try something.

“How is Aaron?”

“Still clueless.”

“You should tell him, Gracie.” The look she gives me could cut glass. I laugh. “I think you may be surprised by his response.”

She grunts, dismissing my advice. It’s not the first time I’ve suggested it, and it won’t be the last.

One of us deserves a spectacular, once-in-a-lifetime love, and that’s not in my immediate future now that I’m the proud owner of a closed-off, anti-love fake boyfriend.

“No more secrets,” Gracie declares.

I swallow the guilt that rises to the surface before I nod. “No more secrets.”

“I already said I’m sorry,” Declan whines, his voice filtering through the phone.

“Why would you suggest me?!” My voice jumps an octave. “You date women all the time, why not mention one of them? ”

“Because you’re nice…” He trails off, “And Deon needs someone kind.”

I accept the compliment, knowing Declan meant well. Those are the consequences of becoming friends. He offers my fake dating services to his teammates.

At least he chose an attractive one.

“I’m sad I’m missing family dinner,” he sighs, and I roll my eyes. So dramatic.

By some miracle, Declan has wormed his way into our weekly family dinners. He can’t always make it, but my father loves it when he does. No one devours food quite as well as Declan, and as a chef, my father loves that.

I swear Declan squealed when he found out my dad is from Spain and makes an outstanding paella.

“You’ll survive.” I roll my eyes. “Have you read the book for Book Club yet?” I ask, “It was so good.”

He’s going to freak out at the end. It’s a very 2000’s rom-com, love confession in the rain, ending that he loves. He eats it up. Honestly, we both do.

“Don’t spoil it!” he yells, his head briefly darting onto the screen before disappearing.

“I didn’t even say anything. I wasn’t—”

“Remember that one time…”

“I accidentally spoiled the plot one time. Are you ever going to let that go?”

Declan returns to the screen, and he smiles.

“No,” he says. I frown. There’s rustling on his end. “Want to see my new shirt?”

“Sure.” Declan unfolds a button-up shirt with a colorful pattern on the fabric. He spins around to show me the front, and I force a smile. We do not have the same sense of style. “It’s…colorful.”

“Thanks! I got it on sale. I’m gonna wear it to walk into the stadium before the game later.”

Sometimes, there’s a reason things go on sale. A knock at the door stops Declan before he can model the outfit.

“Someone is here.”

The banging on the door is so loud I’m sure the neighbors can hear it. The walls are thin, I’ve heard things I don’t ever want to hear again.

“Is it Creepy Terry?” Declan asks.

God, I hope not.

I throw out a prayer and hope it isn’t Creepy Terry, who stops by a few times a week to ‘borrow’ something. He’s asked for sugar, milk, eggs, and every condiment under the sun. Once, he asked for dryer sheets, which was…odd.

The point is he’s constantly asking for something, and the nausea-inducing perusals he gives me when I open the door is the exact reason he received his moniker.

“I’ll call you back later.”

“Don’t hang up! He could attack.” I roll my eyes, rising from the couch towards the door. “Hey! I saw that. I’m being serious. Get the pepper spray I bought you.”

“I don’t need any pepper spray.”

We’ve had this conversation a dozen times. Declan listened to one too many true crime podcasts during the offseason, and now he’s convinced I’m going to get attacked.

I hold my breath as I swing the door open.

A massive bouquet and a small bag sit on my welcome mat. I scan the hallway before quickly snatching the items before Creepy Terry exits his dungeon to interrogate me.

Flowers in varying shades of coral and orange burst from the vase, and curiosity eats at me as I dig for a card. Finding none, I gingerly open the small bag.

Inside sits an envelope and a box of macarons. I tear the envelope apart to find a thank you card with surprisingly messy handwriting.

Nathalie,

The orange and pink remind me of you. Thank you for everything.

Deon.

Declan’s voice cuts through the air.

“Nathalie, are you alive?!”

“Yes,” I croak, gaze fixed on the beautiful bouquet and macarons. “It was just a package.”

“Oh, good. Well, I have to warm up, but I’ll talk to you later?”

“Good luck tonight,” I distantly yell before the call ends.

I might be in shock.

Tears prick my eyes as I snap a few photos to hold the memory close. No one has ever sent me flowers before. Fake or not, it was a kind gesture, and I want Deon to know.

Thank you for the flowers. They’re beautiful.

I’m searching for the perfect location to place the bouquet when he responds.

I want you to know that I appreciate what you’re doing. I don’t think I’ve said it enough, but thank you.

You’ve said it plenty. How did you know I liked macarons?

The question eats at the back of my mind. I didn’t put it in the questionnaire.

Lucky guess.

Well, thank you. I love them.

Good luck tonight. I’ll be watching.

Not in a creepy way.

Not in a creepy way, huh?

What kind of way did you mean it then?

In whatever way a fake girlfriend watches her fake boyfriend’ s game.

I’m going to Maren’s for the game.

So you’ll be watching her scream at the referees for four quarters?

Yes. But you’ll be in the background tossing the ball around, so in a sense, I am watching her watch you.

That didn’t make it any less creepy, did it?

Nope.

Made me laugh, though.

I’m glad someone finds me funny. Have a good game.

Thanks, Nat.

Maren is yelling as I let myself in her front door. I wish I could say I’m surprised, but Maren is well…Maren.

“He used all the hot sauce. I’m going to kill him!” As I round the corner, Maren is digging through the pantry, her entire upper body cut off from view. Sawyer leans against the kitchen counter with a grin on her face. “Oh, wait, it’s right here.”

The shift in her demeanor pulls a laugh from my lips.

“Hot sauce was worth contemplating murdering your husband?” I ask, pulling the pasta salad I made out of my bag.

Maren’s made enough food to feed us with leftovers, but my father taught me you never show up empty-handed. So here I am, adding to the plethora of food. At least I know it will be eaten, either by Maren or her husband.

Maren shoots me a glare. I throw my hands up in defense. “You’re right. Hot sauce is important.” I draw out the words to let the sarcasm sink in.

Sawyer covers a laugh with a cough and busies herself with the veggie tray. Maren stomps off to take photos of the pre-game program playing on the TV.

“What are you doing?” I ask as she fiddles away with her phone.

“Posting on Jack’s Instagram,” she says casually, and I peek over her shoulders to find her drawing hearts around Jack’s name on the photo. “Gotta give the people what they want.”

Sawyer bursts out laughing. Between breaths, she asks, “ You run his fan account?”

“Of course. I am his biggest fan.”

“Does he know?” I ask.

I follow the account—by her request—and last week, she posted a photo of half-eaten chicken wings with the caption, hot hands eating even hotter wings. I spent an hour trying to figure out if Jack had a stalker.

Lo and behold, it was his wife.

“No.” Maren smirks. “That’s half the fun. He has no idea, and I’ve tried to tell him, but it's so fun to hear him talk about the account and the mystery owner. I don’t think I can stop.”

As we settle in before kick-off, my thoughts flicker to the bouquet sitting on my dinette and the fancy French macarons I’m afraid to eat because I’ll love them, and then they’ll be gone.

“What kind of call is that?!” Maren screams, stomping over to stand in front of the TV. “Do you need glasses, ref?” She spins to me, jerking her hand toward the screen. “Nathalie, offer the poor man your glasses. He needs them if he’s making such an outrageous call.”

I lift my glasses, momentarily blind, and once she’s satisfied her insult was heard by the universe, Maren sits down. Right in time for Deon to jump onto the screen, his green eyes full of focus and determination behind his helmet. His jaw ticks, the only outward sign of frustration, and I track it.

I’m not delusional. I know this whole ordeal isn’t going anywhere.

He’s Deon Adams, and I’m, well, me.

We live in two different realms.

I’ve held the morsel of physical attraction painfully tight to my chest because nothing good comes from hopping into bed with a man like Deon Adams. That’s all it is, too: physical attraction. It’s impossible to have a crush on a man you barely know outside of a questionnaire you forced him to fill out, and he ignored a third of the questions.

The fourth quarter begins, and Deon trots onto the field, joining the huddle of players and clapping his hands. They line up, and Maren describes the offensive play for my benefit.

She groans, and based on tone alone, I know they fucked up. Do I know how they fucked up? Not at all, but I know how to decipher Maren’s sighs.

I wish I could boast about my knowledge of the inner workings of football, but I’m not that girl. My father loves fútbol, and until I met Sawyer and Maren, I had never attended a football game. There are three reasons I go to the games: to hang out with Maren and Sawyer, watch men run around in tight pants, and eat my weight in nachos.

“This is nerve-wracking.” Sawyer grimaces as the clock begins to run down, and Seattle is tied with Tampa. The defense takes the field, and even I understand what’s on the line. They need to score.

“They need a three and out,” I say hesitantly, hoping my memory is right.

Maren spins, a massive smile overtaking her face.

“You remembered!” She claps and turns back to the screen. The ball flies through the air, and a player catches the ball, running in the opposite direction.

“Uh… I think they’re running the wrong—”

“Interception!” Sawyer and Maren yell. They leap from the couch, and Maren whistles as Jack pops onto the screen. She scrambles for her phone as the camera zooms in for a close-up. Jack is squinting slightly, and he looks imposing. “His fans are going to love this.”

Maren and Sawyer celebrate, but I track Deon, mesmerized by the small smile that creeps onto his face as Henry drags him into a gripping hug.

“Deon asked me to be his fake girlfriend,” I admit as Sawyer and Maren celebrate.

Maren whirls. Sawyer screams. Faster than lightning, Sawyer barrels back onto the couch.

“Deon Adams asked you that?” Maren asks. Her brows nearly touch her hairline.

“Yes. That Deon.” Sawyer’s jaw falls. Maren begins to pace. “He came over to my apartment, sat on my couch, and asked me to be his girlfriend.”

“Did you clean up first?” Maren asks, and if she wasn’t on the other side of the living room, I would smack her. My apartment is not that messy.

“What did you say?” Sawyer presses.

“I laughed in his face. Then I realized he was serious.”

“You said yes, right?” Maren asks, an odd smile on her face. It’s unnerving.

“What do you think?” They both nod. “That was why he was in my office on Friday,” I say to Sawyer.

“You big, fat liar!” Sawyer points an accusatory finger. “Was he even donating any money?”

“No.” I grimace. She had big plans for that fake money. Spent all afternoon on Friday talking about her ideas and how the money could fund different programs.

I’m not able to admit the phoniness of my new relationship with my family, but my best friends can know, and it dissipates a fraction of the guilt sitting heavy on my shoulders.

“How are you two going to pull this off?” Maren asks.

She’s smiling, but it’s all teeth, and it’s terrifying.

“It won’t be difficult. We’ll go on a few dates, take some photos to assuage the media, and then attend the auction. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.”

Sawyer and Maren stare at me like I’ve said the sky is green.

“If you say so…” Maren trails off.

“I do say so.”

Sawyer looks like she wants to say something but refrains, and my confidence in our plan plummets.

It’s a good plan. Fool-proof.

But the longer we sit on the couch, the less confident I become. Why don’t they think we can pull this off?