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

“This has to be the movie theater,” Poppy says. “And this one has to do with football,” she passes the list to me. “How much time do we have left?”

“Ten minutes,” I say, skimming over the hint that she’s pointing to.

“There’s no way we can get all of these.”

“They said it would take a full day, but with football and school, we knew that would be near impossible. I still think we might win this, though. Ty and Cooper don’t stand a chance because they don’t know Seattle, and Arlo and Ian won’t know the childhood clues. Caleb and Rae are going to be our toughest competitors. We’ve got this. Let’s go in and find this clue.” I open the large glass door, noting the reluctance in her green eyes.

“I hate unfinished lists,” she murmurs.

I grin. “That doesn’t surprise me at all.”

Inside of the movie theater, it feels like the air conditioner is running, and the lights are dimmed and purple, casting a cool glow across the space. “I can’t believe you guys still come here,” I say.

Poppy looks back at me. “This is the best theater. You can watch a double feature with a tub of popcorn and a pop for eight bucks. Plus, no one comes, so you have the entire theater to yourself. And bonus, there’s a really good Thai restaurant around the corner.”

I want to circle back and joke about how no one comes and why when I see Lincoln and Rae. “We’re definitely at the right spot,” I tell Poppy, nodding at the two.

“It looks like they’re looking for the clue still.” She peers around the darkened lobby. “Popcorn!” she whispers quietly. “I bet they haven’t checked the concessions.”

“Poppy!” Rae sounds excited and relieved to see us. “I don’t think it’s here.”

Poppy slows and switches directions. “It has to be. We’ve been coming here since we were ten.”

“I had to list like a hundred places,” Rae tells her. “I’m trying to recall if there were any other questions that I would have filled out a movie theater for.”

Poppy grins as her gaze drifts to the concession counter where we’d been headed. Lincoln notices as well. “We’ll call it a tie,” Poppy says, but Lincoln and I are already racing toward the counter where I see Rae’s cardboard face, chased by the girls’ laughter.

“Come on!” I say, grabbing for my phone and shoving Lincoln out of the way. Poppy is giggling as she reaches my side, and I tug her closer, my arm tight around her waist as I snap a picture of us.

A guy behind the counter hands us a small cup of popcorn while Poppy reads the directions. “I have to throw it, and you have to catch a piece in your mouth.”

Rae and Lincoln are already taking the same picture, eating into our time.

“Do it,” I tell her. “Try to get some arc on it.”

She tosses the first piece and nails me with it in the crotch.

Her laughter grows.

“Come on. We’ve got this. Focus.”

She’s in stitches as she tosses the second piece that I have to drop to my knees to catch.

“Too bad you didn’t take a picture,” Rae taunts us as she gets her camera ready.

Poppy straightens, her face turning serious as she fishes her phone from her purse and sets the cup of popcorn down. She reaches for a handful and throws all of it at me. I try to focus on a single kernel and barely manage to capture it with my lips as the others nail my face and chest.

Poppy is giggling as she lifts her arms in the air with a victorious pose. “Champions!”

14

Poppy

Today marks the third day in a row that I’m going to be seeing Paxton. After the scavenger hunt, we had gone to dinner at Rae’s favorite Italian restaurant, a change from the Mexican restaurant we usually celebrate at, but Lincoln said they had plans to go there on Sunday with Rae’s mom and grandparents. Lincoln had rented out the Italian restaurant, and the chef prepared a menu especially for our party. The food was lick-your-plate delicious, and the bread and butter were even better. Whipped herbed butter is amazing, and I’d wanted to slather it on everything I ate, except for the tiramisu cake that was presented for dessert.

The night had stretched on, and the following day we went to the football game and then another bonfire. Our rules or possibly our short routine made the night better than the week before. I didn’t spend the evening waiting for Paxton to show up or second-guessing the situation, which felt like a small win.

“Hey,” Pax says from a table made to seat four, his laptop and a pile of books out. “Want some pizza?” he asks as I take a seat across from him. It’s Sunday, our first designated study date.

“Do you even have to ask?”

He chuckles. “Want some garlic knots, too?”

“Only if you want me to stay.”

He rewards me with another smile and pairs it with a long stare that feels like a challenge. I want to blame my competitive nature for meeting his gaze, but I’m not entirely sure if it’s that or because there’s a sense of familiarity that’s growing between us that I think we’re both trying to identify if it’s been there all along or if it’s new. It kind of feels like both.

Something passes between us, a thought or maybe a secret. It’s personal and intimate and too much. I throw the white flag and look away, grabbing for my bag, but I feel the stitch in our tapestry it leaves behind.

“I have to say, I’m a little surprised you haven’t declared your major yet,” Pax says.

“Why is that?”

His shoulders roll in what I think is supposed to be a shrug, but it’s so casual that it’s uniquely a Paxton gesture. “You’ve always been so good at school and have always had such a level head. It