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

guy. Three, if he dated her, then he clearly was shopping for eye candy and something to make his pants tight and nothing else because she was a shallow idiot. Girls like her only care about shit like money, their hair, and how many people follow them on social media.”

Bitterness tangles in my chest. The very last thing I want to do—now or ever—is defend Candace, yet, I do. “And you know this how?”

He gives me another grin, but this one smells of pity. “I wasted ten minutes listening to her while I was waiting to get my beer.”

“Speaking of which, should you be driving?”

“I only took one drink before I found you.”

I pull in another breath, allowing his earlier words to settle in my mind—why is Candace saying she’s going to get back together with Paxton? Who is she saying this to?

“I heard Lawson’s expected to be a high draft choice.”

“For not liking football, you sure seem to know a lot about Paxton.”

He looks at me again. “He’s not right for you.”

My heart starts hammering faster than a rainstorm. “I thought we weren’t doing this?”

“What happens when he gets drafted next year?”

“Why do you care?”

“Do you even know where he’ll go? What if he ends up on the other side of the country?”

“Like you?” I ask.

“He’s going to be handed millions of dollars and all the freedom. What are you going to walk away with?”

“This isn’t your business. You’re dating Maddie.”

“I don’t love Maddie,” he argues, turning onto the street that connects to the neighborhood my parents live in.

“Then why in the hell did you ask her to move across the country with you? Why wouldn’t you have just told her who I was? You weren’t trying to spare my feelings that day. You were trying to spare yours and hers.”

“You and I have always understood each other. Music, school, people, movies … we have the same interests, the same understanding. He’s never going to understand you.”

I hate that I’m listening to him, and I hate it even more that his words lick at each of my fears. “You have no idea who I am anymore, Mike. I’ve changed. I’m not the same girl I was when we broke up. You need to realize that.”

He’s idling at the house next door to my parents’, but I swing open the door. “We can’t hang out anymore. This is over.” I get out and walk the remaining distance.

31

Poppy

Sampson greets me at the front door, his tail swishing happily as he noses at me, relentless for attention. Mom’s in a black pantsuit, her purse already on her shoulder.

“Dylan just fell back asleep,” she tells me, shuffling through her purse. “Be sure to take his temperature on the hour. I have a chart on the fridge where I’ve been tracking it. Also, he can have his next dose of ibuprofen at eleven.” She stops, her neck snapping as she looks at me more closely. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. It’s just cold out. You’ll want a heavier coat.”

“Thanks again for coming. You are my sanity saver.” She gathers her coat and folds it over her arm. “Remember, medicine at eleven.”

“You aren’t going to be back by eleven?” I ask. Sampson pushes his head against my hand, demanding more attention.

Mom lifts her shoulders. “I don’t know. I hope so, but these can drag on, and it’s with a couple of other people, so it may run late.” She stops and looks at me. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look a little pale.”

I nod. “I’m just hungry.”

She accepts my excuse without question, and for some reason, this has a lump forming in my throat. Nothing feels fine. Have I been acting like Candace? Is Paxton acting like Mike? Playing both of us and waiting for the best option?

I take a deep breath and try to clear my thoughts. “Why’s dad at such a late meeting?”

Mom grins. “Your dad and grandpa are wining and dining some potential clients. Your father can’t stand them. He probably feels like he’s in purgatory.”

“It’s…” I rotate my wrist. It’s only seven. This day just feels like it’s been seventy-two hours at this point. “Never mind. I’ve got things covered, don’t worry.”

She leans forward, her lips leaving a cold outline on my cheek. “If you want to stay over, there are clean sheets on your bed. Also, don’t kill me, but if you have time to program the remote, it’s not working again.”

I try to grin because my throat feels tight again. I glance beyond my mom at the Christmas tree glowing warmly and realize I have nothing but time tonight for the first time in over a month, and it has me feeling almost uneasy because I don’t know what to do with it. “Drive safely.”

She disappears, hitting the keypad on the other side of the door that locks the deadbolt with a click.

“Come on,” I say to Sampson, heading into the kitchen first, where I grab him a biscuit that he goes and happily eats on his dog bed while I make a quick detour to the guest bathroom and put my feet in the tub before I take off my shoes and peel off my socks, releasing a trail of sand on the tiled bottom. I brush out my jeans and then rinse my feet before heading upstairs. Dylan’s door is cracked open, and I push it wider, hearing his soft snores.

Sampson follows me in, his footsteps light, but tail clumsy as he knocks over a toy. Dylan doesn’t stir. My parents were worried when Dylan was younger because he got sick constantly—especially ear infections—and was always a little small for his age. His allergy list is longer than my arm and had my parents reaching toward both western medicine and more holistic options to help him. Since turning eight, he’s been growing and filling out and experiencing fewer bouts of illness that have all been milder. I feel his forehead with my palm, relieved that he’s