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

feel like an obligation or like a claim. Poppy isn’t going to intentionally try and make me jealous or scream at another girl who looks at me. I’ve defended Candace for much of the past few years, but this time apart has been eye-opening in so many ways. Things I hadn’t realized or deemed unhealthy or toxic now feel like textbook examples of unhealthy relationships.

“I need to use the restroom,” Poppy says. “I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll go with you. I have a feeling it’s going to get a lot more crowded in here,” Rae says.

Poppy doesn’t object, but I can see that she wants to. I’m sure my sister does as well, but she doesn’t let it stop her from going.

“I’m missing beer tonight,” Lincoln tells me as he peers around at the party. It’s still early, most of the crowd standing around and talking, drinking too fast in an attempt to fast forward the evening since it’s already getting late.

“Hey, Pax.” The all too familiar voice has me turning around, discovering Candace. “You had a really good game tonight.”

I wait for the dig or the punchline, but instead, she gives me a guarded smile. “Could we talk for a minute?”

“Now?”

She shrugs. “If you don’t mind.”

Lincoln gives a single shake of his head.

“I just want to apologize and clear the air,” Candace says.

“It’s so clear, a fucking plane could take off,” Lincoln says.

Candace keeps her gaze on me. “Please. I don’t want things to end the way they have. We’ve known each other for so long.”

I want to assign a time limit or a short list of rules, but this would be callous and demeaning and not the kind of guy I ever want to be. However, after my dad cheated on my mom, I also have no desire for even a whisper of infidelity.

“There’s no bad blood,” I tell her. “I appreciate you coming and talking to me, but you can rest easy in knowing things are cool between us.”

Candace glances at Lincoln, who’s still nearby. He lifts both hands and takes a few steps back, joining the rest of the crew.

“How are you doing?” she asks like the conversation is new and we’re old friends. It reminds me of the beginning of freshman year when we were equally excited to find time to be together between classes and football.

I nod. “Things are looking up,” I tell her. “How about you?”

She smiles, and it’s timid and so un-Candace-like. “I can tell. You seem different.”

Another wave of conflicting emotions about me being the same person, but dealing with less shit, and how it’s allowed me to breathe without needing a drink or a nameless girl … well … not entirely. I still sometimes feel the fingertips of both assuring me that it would be easier and way more fun. Then another wave hits like a rising tide, this one carrying accusations about how hard I’ve worked and how critical everyone has been of every minor infraction—none of which have involved breaking any rules.

She must sense my mood changing because gone is her trepidation as her confidence shines with another smile. “You’ve been such a big part of my life, and I would really like for us to remain friends. I haven’t had the guts to tell my mom we broke up. She still thinks you’re coming home with me for Christmas break.”

“Candace, I can’t…”

“I know we aren’t together, but my uncle asked me if you guys might be interested in doing a volunteer opportunity with the Seahawks.” Her uncle works for the organization, so while she has a record of lying, I don’t doubt this is honest. “It would be a great way for you to get some exposure and meet the team. Even the coaches will be there.” She flashes a smile. “Think about it. I’ll text you the details.” She shares a final smile and then disappears without a raised voice or insult.

“Don’t trust her,” Lincoln warns me.

Before I can reply Rae and Poppy return. “Are you okay?” I ask Poppy.

She glances at me and nods instantly. “Yeah. Of course. I’m just tired.”

“We can go.”

She stares at me for a moment and then shakes her head. “No, your game was awesome. We need to celebrate.” She takes my hand and draws me closer to our friends where Arlo is telling an animated story about a play tonight.

I settle in, my hand loose on Poppy’s hip, looking forward to my future for the first time in months.

19

Poppy

“You look nice,” Mom says as I step into my childhood home that resembles a dollhouse found in the pages of a toy catalog. It’s a stately Victorian style house that sits atop a hill. My father built it before I was born as a gift to my mom for when he proposed—talk about pressure.

“Thanks. Happy Thanksgiving,” I say, kissing her cheek. I set my purse on the bench that is only supposed to look like a drop center. Mom hates when anything is placed on it. I’m only allowed to use it now because I don’t live here anymore. Sampson, our golden retriever, comes barreling into the room, wagging his tail as he leans against my legs, seeking attention. It took me four years and multiple reports that I pitched during family dinners about the benefits of children owning pets before Mom finally caved and let us get a dog. We found Sampson at the first shelter we stopped at, filled with unbridled energy and a penchant for sitting on laps though he’s way too big.

“I wouldn’t have paired the color with your hair, but I actually think it’s stunning on you.” She looks over my reddish-brown dress that hits my knees and has a ruffled front with ivory buttons and puffed sleeves.

I pat Sampson’s flank, uncertain why we’re discussing the dress when my mom’s closet consists of pant suits and more pant suits. “Yeah, I think it’s because the dress is redder and a lighter shade. I like your pant