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

if this is a trick question. Of course, I know. Did he not? If he didn’t, why? Does he really pretend like I never existed in his timeline? Do his parents? He’s wearing a black Nirvana shirt today, but it’s not any shirt—it’s a shirt I gave to him for Christmas senior year. My thoughts spiral. Why does he still have it? Why is he still wearing it? Is he wearing it intentionally?

No. Guys don’t do that. He probably doesn’t even remember I gave it to him. “Yeah...” I say too late, trying to recall the original question about our moms hanging out.

His eyes warm. He’s smiling without smiling. It used to be one of my favorite expressions of his because it felt private like he was letting me in on a secret that no one else knew. “How’s your boyfriend?”

I wonder why he doesn’t use his name? “Pax is great.” I cringe a little, wondering if I sounded defensive to him or just in my head. “How’s Maddie?”

“She’s adjusting to the West Coast.”

His response sounds more believable because he gave a short yet legitimate answer, whereas mine was defensive and was only three words.

I consider elaborating, but I don't know what part of our week to dissect, and before I can think of anything that seems adequate and not overly revealing, our professor enters the room, seizing my chance.

Paxton: What’s your favorite color?

I read the text twice, thankful for the distraction from my homework as I watch Dylan play a video game.

Me: I don’t have a favorite.

Paxton: How is that possible?

I don’t have a good answer.

Me: Maybe yellow?

Paxton: Maybe?

Me: Peacock blue?

Me: Lilac?

Paxton: My mom just painted her living room lilac. It might make you reconsider it as a contender.

Me: What’s your favorite color?

Pax: Blue.

I scoff. That was too easy.

Me: Seahawks blue?

Paxton: That’s the one.

Me: What’s your favorite holiday?

Pax: Super bowl.

Me: LOL. That’s not a holiday.

Pax: Hang out with me long enough and you’ll see that it is.

Pax: What’s your favorite holiday?

Me: Easter or maybe Valentine’s Day, though I always claim to hate it. I like holidays where there aren’t huge expectations and chocolate’s involved.

Pax: Why do you claim to hate Valentine’s?

Me: Because it’s the cool thing to do. Everyone says it’s a commercialized day, and it’s true, but I don’t understand why they don’t just make it represent what they want. Rae and I used to make it Galantine’s Day—movies, chocolate, and hang out, and it was glorious. Why can’t couples just make it easy and simplify the day?

Pax: Because they’re not smart enough to make rules.

I read his response three times, each time trying to read less between the lines. We’re not a real couple. Real couples don’t make rules.

Me: What are you doing?

Paxton: Eating before practice. What are you doing?

I imagine him standing near the stove in his kitchen, watching and smelling the food like he has while cooking for me.

Me: Watching Dylan.

I regret the word “watching” because it makes it feel like a chore, and while it is a responsibility, I enjoy hanging out with Dylan. Maybe it’s our ten-year age gap or because I’d always envied Rae and her close relationship with her siblings, but I loved Dylan as soon as I learned of his existence and have teetered between roles of a mother hen and an overly attached sister since he was born. I wear both badges with pride.

Me: We’re playing video games and making cupcakes.

Paxton: Sounds fun.

Several minutes pass without another message. I feel strangely disappointed.

Me: What time do you want to meet for the party tomorrow?

Paxton: I’ll pick you up at 8.

I check my phone for what feels like the hundredth time. It’s five after eight on Friday, and I’m waiting for Pax and our second party—not counting the bonfires. I’m wearing a new black shirt I picked out on Tuesday. The neckline plunges lower than anything I own. I paired it with a pair of dark green cigarette pants that hint at being too formal and a pair of black heels.

I check my reflection in the small mirror hanging beside the door. My lipstick is called “rosebud”—the most daring shade I own. It’s not as bright or bold as a traditional red but still gives me a pop of color that makes me feel sexy. My eyes have a thicker dark brown line that I extended into a cat eye, and my cheeks have a subtle pinkish-orange glow.

Is my eyeliner on my right side higher?

I lean closer to inspect as the doorbell rings.

Rae and Lincoln are out on a date tonight. A date date. Nice dress, full makeup and hair, and a heavy dose of nerves. I’ve realized from watching their relationship progress and seeing how she still gets butterflies that there’s another thing I want for my future boyfriend and it seems much harder to quantify because it’s a feeling. I want that edge of excitement. I want butterflies.

I grip the door handle and take a breath as my stomach rolls and twists, nervous and also for our night.

Pax is on the other side of the door dressed in a pair of dark wash jeans and a black Henley that looks like it was made for him, pronouncing the broadness of his shoulders, the width of his biceps, and the hard planes of his chest. I stare at him for too long, but when I look at his face his eyes are on my shirt. My cheeks flush, and I wonder if he’s going to tell me it’s too low. I fidget, and his eyes snake up to meet mine.

“Do I look okay? Usually, I have Rae here to ask this question to.”

He blinks and then blinks again, his cheeks ballooned like he’s struggling to know what to say. My cheeks burn brighter. Why did I buy a new shirt?

“You look great,” he manages.

“Are you sure?” I don’t mean to sound so unsure. I constantly agonize over clothes and what I’m wearing. It’s been exacerbated with