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

small part of me that hoped I did—wanted to—because I knew Mike. I knew him so well that I knew what to expect and how it would be to fall back into a routine with him. But then I realized I’d had feelings for someone else for most of my life, and the feelings I had for Mike were nothing more than nostalgia and fear of moving on.”

“I heard you and Paxton broke up. That it wasn’t real. That you were pretending to date to get each other’s exes back?”

“The fake dating part is true, mostly.” I tell her. “But it wasn’t to get Mike back or his ex, either. I just wanted to break out of my shell and have fun, go to parties and have people actually notice me, and not just be the redhead. And the fake dating was never very fake, not for me anyway.”

She blows out a breath. “I wish you’d told me that you were Mike’s ex.”

I nod. “I do, too. And I’m really sorry that you’ve been hurt in this.”

“Mike cares about you.”

“I can’t speak for him, and I’m not trying to defend him because right now, I’m pretty pissed at him, too, but Mike’s feelings for me are no deeper than mine were for him. I know this because he never tried. Not once. He had no interest in a long-distance relationship, and we never talked about moving together, and he never reached out to me, ever. I’m not going to defend him and tell you to give him a second chance. That’s your business and your decision, but I don’t think for one second that he has feelings for me that hold an ounce of substance.” I know because I’ve felt the full weight of the sun and know what undiluted, unrestrictive, uninhibited love and how it makes me feel seen and whole, and how it made me want to give without expecting and take without keeping a balance sheet.

“I’m going home for the holidays, and I’m not sure I’ll be coming back.”

“I’m really sorry. I know I keep saying it, but I sincerely mean it. I am so, so, so sorry.” I wish we had met under different circumstances because I could see myself being friends with her, but I don’t tell her this realization just like I don’t tell her she deserves to be someone's first choice, though I desperately hope she knows this.

“I appreciate you being honest with me.”

“If there’s anything else you want to know…”

She shakes her head. “There’s really no point in it. I already know enough.”

My cheeks blaze with guilt. I may not have sewn the lie, but I allowed it to remain on my tapestry when I should have cut it out weeks ago and righted the stitch.

Maddie leaves, and my interest in coffee and the pastry case becomes non-existent. I head to class and sit through ninety minutes of lecture hall but don’t hear a single word before I cut my day of classes short and return home.

Dear Diary,

Telling the truth kind of feels like a cleansing of the soul. Apparently, it was addictive because I couldn’t stop. I vacuumed, washed all of my laundry and Rae’s, I cleaned the fridge, and the bathrooms, and the pantry which reminded me I needed to go grocery shopping, and then I came home and realized I really needed to eat something sugary. So I made a batch of cupcakes. They were my best ones to date. Fluffy, moist, and lusciously chocolate. They’re basically pillows that I want to sleep on. And because I’m not in Vegas with Rae and Paxton and everyone else and I was desperate for a distraction, I spent an hour on YouTube learning how to fill cupcakes and made a marshmallow cream filling and then a chocolate buttercream frosting. They might be the best cupcakes of my life, and our kitchen paid the price. It’s going to take me all of tomorrow to clean it, which is probably a good thing because otherwise I’d spend it curled in a ball on my bed.

I miss the way he smells, and how he felt like my own personal sun when he was near me, and I miss his smiles, and talking to him about everything and nothing. I miss him.

I close my diary as tears burn my eyes. I’ve managed to keep myself busy all day to avoid thinking about Paxton, and the moment my pen hits the paper, it’s all I want to write about—consuming my thoughts.

I head into the chocolate war zone that is our kitchen and fill the cupcake tray with a dozen cupcakes. I should soak some dishes, so the sugar doesn’t harden like cement, but instead, I slide on my coat and take the tray of cupcakes and drive to my parents’ house.

I knock as I open the door so as not to surprise them. It’s something I never did while living here, but now it feels almost customary. “Hey!” I call, setting my purse and the cupcakes down on the hallway table.

Mom comes in from the living room wearing a dark brown pantsuit, a glass of red wine in her hand. “Poppy. You’re a nice surprise.”

“I brought cupcakes.”

She glances at them. “I didn’t know you knew how to bake.”

“I’ve been teaching myself.”

She smiles. “Two great skills for life, baking and a thirst for knowledge. Bring them into the kitchen. We’ll eat one before your dad and Dylan get home.”

“Where are they?”

“Basketball practice,” she says, checking her phone after it vibrates against the counter. It’s strange to not know the nuances of their daily lives, stranger not to be involved in them. Yet, moving out has also helped me gain an appreciation for when I do see them.

“How are things going with school?” Mom asks.

“I’ve declared my major.”

This news has my mom turning to fully face me. “You have?”

I nod. “I think I want to be a teacher.”

Mom’s lips curl up in a smile. “You’d make a fantastic