Writing the Rules: A Fake Dating Standalone by Mariah Dietz (classic english novels .TXT) 📕

beside the Seahawks hat Candace had bought me—my lucky hat that is suddenly feeling incredibly unlucky.

I cork the bottle and set it down with too much force, my fears mocking me for not taking a drink while my future centers me. Drinking would be an insult to the last several weeks—years—of my life and the progress I’ve made, the goals that I’ve set and achieved, and to what Poppy and I shared. Binge drinking and being a drunk isn’t me, though I came awfully close too to allowing it to define me, and it certainly isn’t who I want to become.

I fall across my bed, knots filling my stomach and chest and throat, so tightly bound that I can’t do anything but lie and stare at the rules, recalling Poppy’s reaction to each of the numerals and what they represent.

I wake up to my alarm’s persistent buzzing. My head aches like I finished the bottle of whiskey, and I turn to ensure I didn’t. The bottle is still mostly filled, sitting where I’d placed it last night. I move to sit up more fully, noting my jeans are still on, so are my shoes and the floor lamp. I feel worse than I have after any hangover. My head feels like it was hit by a mallet, and my chest is no better.

I need to start getting ready for the community outreach event, but with every move, I find it a little harder to give a fuck. I think of the finality in Poppy’s tone last night, the way she’d regarded me with so much anger and disdain. I’d offended her on a personal level, worse than that—I’d broken our rules. Something that means more to me than football or having a relationship with my father because the rules had become more than my safety net they’ve become my inspiration—Poppy had become my inspiration.

Three quick raps at my door, and then it swings open and Lincoln stands in my doorway. “Good, you’re up. Get in the shower.”

I start to shake my head. “I’m not going.”

“Yes, you are,” Lincoln says. “Don’t make me see your naked ass. That’s not an image I want to see, but God help me, you’re getting in the goddamn shower.”

Behind him, Arlo appears, his trademark smile absent. “Come on, man. We’ve got you.” His gaze turns to the bottle on my desk and then returns to me, narrowed with what I think is scrutiny but realize a beat too late is sympathy.

I don’t want compassion or sympathy because those emotions mean I have to admit this is over and done. That what is happening between Poppy and me is more than just a misunderstanding that escalated into a fight.

“Where’s Rae?” I ask.

It’s the first time I can recall Lincoln avoiding my gaze. “She had things she needed to do.” To check on Poppy. He doesn’t say it, but I know that’s what happened, and the fact they’re not admitting it only amps up the pity meter.

I shake my head and sit back on my bed. My head feels like it’s a thousand pounds, my temples aching. “Is she okay?”

Lincoln nods once. “Let’s go. You have five seconds.”

“I don’t want to go.”

“You’re going.” He takes a step into my room.

“Goddammit, Lincoln! Back the fuck off.”

He shakes his head. “Not a chance.” He takes another step, so close I have to stand because the threat feels imminent.

“What is your problem?”

“I am not going to let you fail. You can hate me, you can hit me, you can reach for that goddamn bottle, and guess what? I’m going to be here, pushing you, carrying you if I have to. You’re not giving up. Not when you’re this fucking close.”

Anger is swirling in my chest, a thousand words of accusations and hate that refuse to form as they change their trajectory from him to myself. “I can’t,” I tell him, my voice small like a child’s.

Lincoln swiftly shakes his head. “You’re the best quarterback I’ve ever played with—the best quarterback I’ve seen. I refuse to let you think anything else. You’re not going to self-sabotage or hide from your feelings by drinking them away. We’ll figure shit out. Sometimes you just need to give it a little time.”

“Maybe Rae’s right. Maybe I need to talk to her?”

“Right now, you need to get ready.”

Arlo steps beside him. “You both need a little time. Let’s get you all cleaned up and show you off.”

I amble to the shower where the hot water does nothing to relieve what I’m feeling. The moment I shut off the water, one of my asshole roommates pounds on the door. “Five minutes, Pax,” Arlo calls.

I use both hands to flip him off, though he can’t see me, and reluctantly turn toward my pile of clothing and start getting dressed.

I open the door and find Arlo, fist raised as though prepared to knock again. “I’m going to punch one of you before the morning is over.”

Arlo grins in response to my threat and drops his arms over my shoulders. “Bro Code, buddy. Bro Code. Let’s get some breakfast.”

Lincoln is downstairs, tying his shoes. “Ready?”

“I thought we were going to eat?”

“I only cook your sister breakfast,” he tells me. “She doesn’t critique my eggs.”

My smile appears before I can stop it. “You’re such an asshole.”

He grins in response. “Come on.”

We take Arlo’s Tahoe because it’s the easiest for us to all fit in together and drive a short way to the restaurant my family favorites for breakfast.

The restaurant is constantly busy, and this morning is no different, but we manage to snag some seats at the counter and start flipping through the menu that I’ve already memorized before a waitress comes and takes our drink order.

“Is this another intervention?” I ask.

Arlo looks at me and then Lincoln, who continues reading his menu for several seconds before raising his eyes to me. “Do you need another intervention?”

“Depends. Can I book a vacation on a beach?”

“Once the season is over,” Arlo