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

arms around me in a hug. The scent of her perfume is concealed by the initial hit of Mike’s cologne that’s still clinging to her shirt and hair from sitting so close to him.

“I’m so glad.” I pull away and take several steps backward before giving a parting wave and turning on my heel.

What just happened?

“How did it go?” Raegan asks as I get home to our shared apartment. She unloads plates from the dishwasher and puts them into the cabinet as I kick off my shoes and debate how to best summarize my meeting.

“Who’s Anna Beth?” I ask.

Rae grabs the silverware tray and starts reaching for all of the spoons. “I don’t know. I think she was dating Marcus. He’s the cornerback. Dark hair, kind of short.”

“Was, as in, isn’t anymore?”

“I don’t think so, but I don’t know. Why?”

“Because she was there, and she made things go from bad to worse.”

Rae places the butter knives into their spot and turns her attention to me, a slight wince tugging at her lips. “What happened?”

“Mike’s moved back.”

Her eyes grow wide with shock, and before she can ask any of the questions I know she’s going to start shooting off, I continue. “He moved back with his girlfriend, and they’re attending classes at Brighton, and Anna Beth invited them to our Halloween party.”

Rae shakes her head in slow jerks. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“They won’t come, though, right? I mean, Mike hates parties.”

“Not to mention you’re his ex. I wouldn’t want to go to a party Lincoln’s ex-girlfriend was hosting.”

“She doesn’t know I’m his ex. He introduced me as an old friend.”

Raegan’s jaw falls open. “He did not.”

I nod. “I can’t go to the party.”

“You have to go. We’re hosting it. Let’s uninvite them. Text him. Tell him his lying ass isn’t allowed to come. And, how did Anna Beth get invited? This is supposed to be a small event.”

“I can’t text him and uninvite him.”

“Why not?” she asks.

“Because that would show him that I care, and I don’t.”

Her features soften with sympathy and compassion. She knows I’m lying, likely better than I do. “I care. I don’t want him there.”

“You like Mike,” I remind her.

“Not anymore.”

“Speaking of which, are we sure this is still a good idea?” I ask, hoping she’ll say no. Several weeks ago, Rae suggested we throw our first college party, and at the time, I was onboard, but being the introvert that I am, the idea has been quickly losing its appeal. And since we live in a small apartment off-campus, Lincoln suggested we host it at the house he rents with Paxton, Arlo and Caleb, who I’ve known for most of my life—just like Paxton—yet still manage to barely know him. He’s a gamer studying forensic psychology, which often has him looking at situations like my mom, and continuously diagnosing everyone’s bad mood as childhood trauma.

Rae shrugs. “Definitely. Don’t worry about Mike. I’m sure he’ll have enough common sense not to come.” She glances at the clock. “Shoot. I’m late. I have a shift at the aquarium.” She wipes her hands on a dishtowel. “Everything’s going to be okay. I promise.”

I need a thousand more assurances and a solid backup plan, but settle for putting my thoughts onto paper, my own form of therapy.

I grab my journal and plop down on the couch and relive my meeting with Mike, scribbling details that seem more significant now, like how tight and long he’d hugged me, how his eyes flashed with unspoken words and inside jokes like they always did while we were dating. The part that bothers me the most is that he introduced me as his friend. Why wouldn’t he have told his girlfriend that we dated? What stories did he tell her about me? And more importantly, how do I keep Mike from learning I don’t actually have a boyfriend and haven’t dated anyone since we broke up?

I need to eat. Sugar and simple carbs always help me think more clearly. I rifle through our tiny kitchen, searching for snacks or anything that resembles junk food and come up empty. I need to go grocery shopping. Then, inspiration strikes in the form of a boxed mix: cupcakes. I need a cupcake more than I need oxygen. I never bake because the oven is my nemesis, but I can read instructions. I finagle my way around the kitchen, mixing the sparse ingredients and finding the cupcake pan Rae’s mom had given to us with a bunch of other kitchenware when we moved into the apartment this past spring.

We don’t have cupcake liners, or if we do, I have no idea where they are, so I dump the batter directly into the little pots, hoping for one less obstruction between me and bliss.

I set the tray into the oven and start the timer.

Maddie.

Mikey.

When did he become Mikey? What else about him has changed?

Have I?

3

Paxton

“Let’s go!” Our head coach, Coach Harris, claps his hands. It’s Wednesday, and the team is dragging, which has him ready to light a fire under our asses.

Damien Cooke runs forward and does a pump fake that has Coach Baker, our quarterback coach, dropping his head back and emitting another growl.

“Cooke, you’re killing me,” he says. “You’re right-handed, which means you’re always going to lead with your right foot. You know this. You learned this in high school. What’s going on?”

Cooke shakes his head. “Sorry, Coach.” He gets back to the line and starts the drill again. We experienced our first near loss this past weekend against Houston, and the team is split between feeling rattled and overly confident because we managed to pull it off though our game was weak. However, Cooke has been off for several weeks now, and I’m fairly certain it has little to do with our last game and more with the fact it was recently made public that he’s been dating a guy for the past six months—something few knew.

A website popped up shortly after