Chapter Seven

Fake dating, it turns out, is a scam of a trope, because the effort of getting ready for the date part is still very real. So is the part where I confront the realization that I haven't been on a legitimate date in my entire adult life. It's been so long since I've had a reason to blow out my hair or put on makeup that it almost feels like I'm getting dressed up for Halloween in what might just be my weirdest costume yet: June Hart, fake girlfriend of Levi Shaw.

Eventually, I settle on a pale blue floral tank dress that's just classy enough for our museum outing but casual enough to exude some "gee, I had no idea someone would be here taking candid photos of me and my new beau!" energy, then head down to Tea Tide's tiny parking lot to meet Levi.

He's already waiting with his back turned to the door in a pair of jeans and another breezy button-down, the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. I catch a whiff of fresh shampoo, his hair dark and tousled from the shower. His eyes are buried in his phone, but he starts to turn when he hears my footsteps.

There's a wet curl springing up on the back of his head. I reach up and press it down with my thumb, and Levi goes still under the slight pressure, his eyes widening slightly and catching mine. Catching, and then lingering—on the swoop of my hair, the neckline of my dress, the cinched waist above the flowing skirt.

I pull my hand back. Thanks to the massive influx of customers these past few days, I haven't slept in so long that my brain-to-touching-Levi's-hair connection must be on the fritz. It's either that, or the amount of time we've been spending in each other's orbits lately. Now that the front of Tea Tide is a circus again, Levi has taken to writing in the back of the shop. And maybe sighing deeply at his laptop and watching the ovens with the thousand-yard stare of a zombie is part of the artistic process, but it sure seems like we've been saying words out loud more often than he's been typing any.

I clear my throat and let out a merry "Good morning, cupcake."

Levi blinks, then seems to remember the delightfully chaotic email Sana sent us regarding the plan for today, including a PS about thoughts on nicknames??? could be cuuuuute .

"Oh, absolutely not," he says.

"Stud muffin?" I try.

Levi's shaking his head with the beginnings of an exasperated smile. "I take back what we said about rules. I draw the line at dessert-based nicknames."

I raise a finger. "Sugarplum."

"We'll workshop it. In the meantime, please tell me what exactly you think this is," he says, his face registering faint alarm as I unlock my bright green Volkswagen bug convertible.

I pat the windshield before opening the door and sliding into the driver's seat. "This is Bugaboo."

Levi tentatively opens the passenger door, the pretzels himself in, his knees pressed against the glove box. "This is a clown car."

"What the car lacks in space, it makes up for in free food."

I pull it out then—the result of an entire night's worth of scone scheming, and a few evenings' worth of test batches to make sure I got it just right. It's not my first time coming up with the idea for an elaborately themed scone, but it is the first time I was the one responsible for actually bringing it to life. The back kitchen of Tea Tide looks like a caramel Rorschach test right about now.

Levi gives a little shudder. "Ah, sorry. I just thought I heard several hundred dentists crying in the distance," he says, eyes grazing the scone. "What did you put in that?"

My lips curl as I set it back in its bag. "Dark chocolate chunks, smoky burnt caramel, and plenty of sea salt."

"Since when do you like dark chocolate?"

I feel my cheeks warm as I back the car out of the lot. Note to self: I am apparently now so single that the idea of a man remembering my milk chocolate preferences after a decade will make me blush.

"I'm committing to the bit," I explain. "I wanted to make something that tasted vengeful and delicious. I'm calling it the Revenge Ex."

If I'm not mistaken, Levi actually looks impressed. "Look at you, exploiting our situation for capitalistic gain."

"Yes, how very New York of me. Watch your back, I'm coming for your job next."

"Are you going to post about it?" he asks. "I feel like I haven't seen any new scones on Tea Tide's Instagram in a while."

We're about to turn onto the main road, so the next beat of quiet doesn't give me away. I haven't decided exactly what I'm doing with this scone yet. It's the first "special" scone I've even dreamed up since I was dreaming them up for Annie, let alone the first one I've ever made myself.

It's another unexpected hurdle to cross. Just one more thing I never imagined myself doing without her. One more thing that started out as ours and feels strange to start back up alone—like either way, I lose. Either I miss her for every part of it, or I hate myself a little for enjoying it without her.

I've just pulled the car out when that last bit of Levi's question sinks in. "Wait. You're on Instagram?"

Levi shakes his head. "Just check up on people sometimes. In your case, mostly to make sure you hadn't gotten lost in a volcano or eaten by a monstrous fish."

And now the blush from before is right back. I play the same game everyone else does when they post on Instagram—wondering who will scroll past it, what they'll think of me when they see it—but Levi was never in my imaginary audience. The idea is both thrilling and mortifying.

"Lightly nibbled by a few, maybe," I say, trying not to sound self-conscious.

"Never a dull moment," says Levi. And then, after a beat: "I still have nightmares about whatever that cave diving thing is that you did."

Honestly, so do I. But it wouldn't have been the first time I did something that terrified me out of my gourd on our travels, and it was far from the last. Griffin had a way of wheedling me into just about anything, and I apparently had a chronic case of "being the cool girlfriend" that let him get away with it.

"Griffin had it on his bucket list," I say.

Levi's voice is noticeably tighter when he asks, "Have you heard from him?"

"Nah." I'm actually surprised. I was getting two to three Are you doing okay? texts a week right up until Levi and I broke the internet. I can't say I miss them. "Have you heard from Kelly?"

"We talked on the phone for a little while," he says, glancing out the window.

"Good," I say, and when the word comes out too bright, I add, "I'm glad."

Levi just nods and doesn't offer anything else, so I don't press. I figure their conversation must have been heading in the direction he wants it to, though, or we wouldn't be going on this fake date.

The Benson Beach Museum of Arts is one of the newer buildings in our small town, white with modern, clean-cut lines and an interior with tall ceilings and gleaming floors. There are four parts to it: a section chronicling Benson Beach's history, another full of pieces from a mix of local artists and artists from around the country, a flashy interactive section where you can play with the art, and a small venue in the back with gorgeous open light streaming in through the windows.

We're actually here on two missions today—both to re-break the internet for our personal gain and to scout this out as a potential "in case of rain" venue, since the wedding will be on the beach. Annie had it on her short list, and between the historical aspect and the giant ball pit in the interactive section, it has Mateo and Dylan written all over it. When it's clear we've beaten Sana here, we decide to walk around the venue space first.

Levi's the one who calls it right off: "It's great, but it's way too small."

I nod in agreement. Given all our friends in Benson Beach, their coworkers at the university, and the extended Díaz family coming in from Texas, we should probably start with a stadium and work our way down from there.

"Let's go get cultured while we wait for Sana," I suggest, walking back toward the gallery.

We stop first at a painting of what appears to be a cartoon waffle, orange juice, fried egg, and bacon that have all sprouted legs and are holding hands while running in a circle. Levi stifles a laugh.

"What, may I ask, is so funny about this charming breakfast cult?"

Levi rubs the back of his neck, looking at the painting sheepishly. "There's this guy at work. Whenever our boss drags us out to art galleries, he plays this game where you imagine you're coming back to someone's place after a date, and if you would—" Levi's lip twitches into the beginning of a smirk. "If you'd sleep with them if they had this over their bed. He called it the Gallery Game."

I don't hesitate. "Oh, hard yes on this one. This is someone who makes pancakes in the morning. Probably puts funny whipped cream faces and M&M's on them, too."

"Are the pancakes worth it, though, if the demon they're summoning in this painting joins you?" Levi muses.

I let out a sharp laugh. "Fair point. Okay, who's next."

We move on to another painting in the same series, this one of a bunch of carrots beaming right at us, their carotene eyes wide and their teeth bared.

"Absolutely not," says Levi at once.

I nod in my best imitation of a discerning art critic. "Explain your reasoning."

"Why are they smiling like that? What do carrots have to smile about? They're plotting something."

"Get behind me," I say. "I won't let them hurt you."

Levi lets out an amused breath as I step in front of him, lifting my hands at my sides like I'm poised to brawl.

"All right, Rocky, save it for the angry potatoes in the next painting," says Levi, leaning in and pressing warm hands to my bare shoulders, pulling me back toward him. My back grazes his chest, the fabric of his shirt soft against my arms.

I glance at him and catch the mirth in his eyes. The mischief. It makes me forget that I'm wearing this too-stiff dress, that we're out on a strangely high-stakes mission, or that Sana is taking her sweet, sweet time getting here. We move down the line of paintings, pivoting from the anthropomorphic perishables that will no doubt haunt our dreams to a line of moodier, darker paintings, all abstract navy blues and maroons punctured by the occasional sickly yellow. Like if someone took a city skyline on a dreary night and shook the colors out.

"Hmm," says Levi, stepping back and considering.

"Hmm," I say right back, watching him watch the painting.

"What?" he asks, and I don't miss that his hand unconsciously goes right back toward the curl I pressed down earlier.

I try unsuccessfully to bite down a smirk. "I'm waiting for your opinion."

Levi's brow puckers. "Is this a test?"

I step closer to him and say in a mock whisper, "A big one."

"Are you secretly…" Levi leans forward to squint at the nameplate. "Reginald Jameson, born 1947?"

"No. But I am entirely convinced that his doom-and-gloom painting would go right above your sad-boy narrator's bed."

Levi lets out a surprised choke of a laugh. He steps back to look at the painting with fresh eyes, then looks over at me in bewilderment and says, "Wait. So you're trying to figure out if I'd sleep with my main character?"

I hiss between my teeth. "On second thought, the one psychology course I napped through in college does not qualify me for whatever's on the other end of that question."

"Neither does the fact you've never actually read my ‘sad boy' novel."

Cue the record scratch. I stiffen at his side and see his mouth part in surprise before his eyes even meet mine.

"Annie emailed it to me years ago," I admit. "But I only dug it up and read the first few pages the other night."

Part of me was curious what the fuss was about. Most of me was just wondering what on earth was slamming the brakes in Levi's brain in all the hours he's been "writing" in the back of Tea Tide. I can't say I've figured it out.

Levi's expression is so open that I'm not sure how it's going to settle—if he'll fall back into the Levi I've known for these past few years with the almost-smiles and muted versions of his old self. If I've just blown this past week of tentative friendship up in our faces because I couldn't sleep the other night and poked around in an email attachment I had no business poking in.

Instead, his ears go pink, and his face lands on an uncertain, almost sheepish look. "Well. Don't bother reading any more of it. It's the old version." He lowers his voice. "But—what did you think?"

This isn't a question I was expecting to answer today, but I suppose I walked right into it.

"I think you're a ridiculously talented writer," I say, because that's the truth. Sure, the narration is so sepia-toned and lovesick that I wanted to rattle the main character by the shoulders more than once, but Levi has this very distinct style of writing that could shine through anything. The kind that makes me appreciate the little things he must quietly notice about people, about the world. The kind that makes you linger on a page too long because he's just put a hazy feeling into such concrete words that it pulls old memories from your own life into the text.

Before I can say anything else, Levi's face splits into an incredulous smile. I'm so unused to seeing his smile in full these days that it feels like it just knocked some of the air out of my lungs. "You hate it."

I'm trying not to grin back, but a full Levi smile is apparently as contagious now as it was when we were kids. "It's just—that kind of story isn't really my thing," I hedge.

But Levi's laughing outright now, almost like he's relieved. I wonder if I've broken his brain. "How can a main genre of literature not be your thing ?"

I point an accusing finger at him. "Says the guy who hates dessert. The main genre of food."

Levi runs a hand through his hair, the laughter tapering off. "Maybe you'll like the new version better."

I sincerely doubt that, but I nod to humor him, moving on to the next painting in the series. This is somewhat brighter than the others, the shapes a little sharper. Less like a cityscape and more like the woods. It reminds me of our woods. The paths we ran around and the stories Levi wove into them.

He's gone quiet, and I wonder if he's thinking it, too. I wonder if he's been thinking it this entire time as we made up little stories about all these paintings, a small echo of the stories we used to spin back then.

"Okay, all my pestering aside—why did you quit on The Sky Seekers ?" I ask. "I thought you and Annie had this whole plan when you went to school, all dead set on becoming literary giants. Then you ditch your fantasy novel for this super serious one, and then ditch writing altogether for a finance major?"

Levi shifts his weight between his feet, and that uncertain expression is back on his face, but there's something else just under it. A faint hurt he can't blink out of his eyes.

"I didn't mean to ditch The Sky Seekers . I mean—at least not right off." He glances out to the museum, which is mostly empty now that a field trip has cleared out. "I brought it into my first semester writing course. Nobody really knew what to do with it. Everyone came in with all these very—you know. Contemporary, adult pieces. And I basically got laughed out the door the first week."

I feel my heart cinch at the thought. Levi isn't necessarily shy, but he's always been deeply private with sharing his writing, apart from with Annie and me. The idea of him finally working up the courage to share all the words he kept so close to his chest and getting laughed at for it makes me want to find all those kids ten years after the fact and knock their pretentious heads together.

"I mean, even Annie said…"

Levi stops himself, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. I know the feeling well. The strange weight of the things Annie said or did now that they only exist in our own memories, and she's not around to explain or defend them.

"What did Annie say?" I ask.

He twists his lips to the side before settling his face again. "Well, she thought the whole thing was juvenile. That if we were going to be great authors together, we should take ourselves seriously."

We're quiet for a moment.

"That's a shame," I say. "About the class and—well. About what Annie said."

Levi doesn't nod or shake his head, but his shoulders loosen, and he blinks some of the cloudiness out of his blue eyes.

"Well, it's all ancient history now." He gives a half shrug. "Besides, they say to write what you know."

And that just squeezes my heart all over again. Because I know he's talking about New York, about the character coming of age, about the ties he still feels to his family and the uncertainty he feels making roots anywhere else. But all I can think in that moment is Your character seems awfully lonely.

Levi's eyes sweep to mine so quickly that I realize we've closed the gap of distance between each other, close enough that it feels only natural to press my shoulder into his, to soften the words by leaning into him. I smell his shampoo again, and that same distinct Levi smell that makes me ache. That makes me want to do more than just lean in and wrap my arms around him like I can ease this old hurt.

Levi leans some of his own weight back into mine. "Honestly, I can't remember that much of what I wrote for The Sky Seekers back in the day." He looks at the painting in front of us. "Or more like—I remember all the pieces, but not how they fit together."

I almost don't say it, because it feels like admitting to something else—not just that I remember the story, but that I held on to it all these years we were barely speaking. That there were parts of him I couldn't let go of even when I wanted to.

"I bet I can," I say anyway. I tell myself it's for the story's sake, but when I sense a new warmth between us, I'm not so sure.

"Okay, I'm loving the proximity, but could you throw me a bone and hold hands, maybe? Give me some options to work with?"

Levi and I both flinch away from each other to find Sana behind us with what she dubbed her Fancy Journalist Camera raised in our direction. She's clad in a pair of tight denim jeans and a loud tie-dye top, her ponytail slung low, her face the picture of concentration.

"When did you get here?" I blurt.

"Ten minutes before you did," she says, walking over to us.

"And you didn't say anything?" I manage. "You've just been lurking in the corner?"

Sana pats me on the cheek and gives me her patented "oh, sweet summer child" look. "This is your very first fake viral internet relationship. You thought I'd actually trust you two to pose for plandids?"

"Planned candids," I murmur to Levi, whose head just tilted.

"Here. Stand like you were in front of this one," she says, physically grabbing us each by the shoulder to pivot us around again. "Except hold hands."

We're both too jarred by Sana's presence to question her. Levi's hand finds my hand, and I'm expecting a simple grasp, but he weaves his warm fingers through mine. I feel a quiet zing that starts where our skin touches that travels up my arm and through my body, and the suddenness of it combined with Sana's lens on us makes me feel more self-conscious than I have all day.

I don't realize I've gone entirely stiff until Levi leans in and says, "So I'm guessing that's a hard no on you spending the night with my main character."

I cackle, leaning into him again. He squeezes my fingers.

"Aaand that's a wrap," says Sana from behind us. "I'll get in touch with some contacts tonight. Would you be okay if a write-up summarizing the whole thing ended up running with them? Only with someone one of us knows. Totally fine if not, but it could get things moving faster if someone bites."

I look over at Levi, who's already looking at me. "I trust anyone Sana does, if you're okay with it," I say.

"Then sure," says Levi. "Everyone's already tweeted most of what there is to know anyway."

Sana beams. "Excellent. Then I'm off to shop these around and watch the internet burn."

Levi eyes her camera as we pull apart. "Do you have time to take one more photo?"

Sana raises her eyebrows. "Depends on how shirtless you're going to be."

Levi takes that as a yes, but instead of initiating any kind of pose, he motions for me to open my tote bag. The Revenge Ex is still at the top like it's my emotional support scone. He pulls it out and then walks the short path back to the empty venue, settling it right on the altar where the sun is streaming in dramatically from the paned windows, all soft, angelic light on the dark chocolate and caramel chaos of the scone.

I have to admit, it looks pretty badass. Like a lover scorned.

"Ooh. This is edgy," says Sana, snapping a few pics. "I haven't dabbled in scone journalism yet, but there's a first time for everything."

Then she's off as abruptly as she appeared, telling us she'll be in touch about Date Two before disappearing with her camera like a digital media ghost.

"That was a surprising stroke of genius," I say as we make our way out of the museum.

Levi's lips press into a smile. "Might as well milk this for Tea Tide while we can. I've got a feeling this is going to die down before Sana can do much with those photos, anyway."

I'm not so sure of that, given Sana's internet prowess, but I don't want to get my hopes up, either. "Yeah, you're probably right."

I push down the burble of panic that's been simmering under my skin the past few days. If it doesn't work out in the long run, it'll be nice for a break from the chaos, but there's still the issue of the three months' rent I'll need to front to Nancy. Plus the changes I'll have to make to Tea Tide on the other side of it, so we can sustain it.

But maybe this scone is a step in the right direction, even if we took a very strange path to get to it. Some progress in revitalizing Tea Tide. Shaking things up, just like Nancy said.

I pull it out of my bag and break it in half. Levi takes his portion with a dubious look, but does a little cheers gesture against my half just the same.

"Here's to the flash in the pan that was the Revenge Exes," I say.

Levi nods. "And here's to never laying eyes on those terrifying carrots again."

We both take a bite as it hits me—this little pact of ours will probably be over as soon as it begins. This morning was a blip, like stealing time back from our past selves. The scone hits my tongue, just as delicious and well balanced as I remember it being in the final test batch—made to taste a little bitter. Only right now it's harder to taste the sweet.