“Am I doing this right?” I move away from the steaming pot of water that I’m about to toss the tortellini in, but Jett is grating cheese for the salad, and acts like he’s never seen a grater before. Poor guy.
“You’re such an amateur,” Javier says from where he’s mincing garlic like a pro. I’m thrilled he agreed to do it, because I HATE chopping garlic. It always gets on your hands and then you smell like it for days. Disgusting.
“No, you are not doing it right,” I say, abandoning the pasta water and going to rescue Jett.
“Martha Stewart would totally take you behind the garden shed and beat you with a mezzaluna.” I take the cheese from him and reposition it to show him the proper way to grate it.
“What the hell is a mezzaluna?”
“It’s a kind of curved knife that you can use to chop things. It’s shaped like a half moon. Mezzaluna means half moon in Italian,” Javier says before I can get a word out. What the crap?
“What? Sometimes I watch cooking shows.” This is a HUGE shock because I’ve never seen him cook.
“Javier is a man of many talents,” Jett says, looking at the grater as if it’s going to bite him. Well, it isn’t called a knuckle-buster for nothing.
I shake my head and go back to the pasta. Hazel has run out to get parmesan cheese because I completely forgot about it.
A bang on the door announces her return. She comes in holding the cheese aloft like Rafiki with Simba in The Lion King. We all clap and bow to her greatness.
“Thanks, Haze.” I say, taking the container of cheese and setting it on the counter next to all the other stuff.
“What can I do?” Hazel comes and puts her chin on my shoulder and peers at the pots and pans, etc., I have going on the stove. I’m pretty sure the last time it was cleaned was circa WWII. Yeah, I’m going to take care of that later. Or someone will, because Jett and I are going to fight.
“Um, could you get the chicken going? Just throw some olive oil in that pan and make sure it doesn’t burn.” This is a task for Hazel. I used to think that people who couldn’t cook were just lazy, and wanted other people to do it for them, but then I met Hazel and realized cooking is a skill like anything else, some people are good at it and some people aren’t.
Somehow, with my help, Hazel manages to not burn the chicken and the pasta is perfect and has just the right amount of lemon and garlic, but not too much. The boys keep working, and sooner than I know it, the dinner is assembled and we’re sitting down to mismatched plates (including some that have beer logos on them) and everyone is eating.
Halfway through dinner, Jett nudges me under the table as Javier and Hazel flirt disgustingly back and forth.
“You were talking in your sleep last night,” Jett says casually, as if it’s a throwaway comment.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say, as agreed on.
“You were going on and on. Haven’t you ever thought about going to see someone about it? It’s kind of a pain.” To my ears, I can tell he’s lying. God, I hope Javier can’t tell.
“Well, I’m so sorry that my uncontrollable sleep talking is disturbing you. Maybe you shouldn’t come over if you don’t like it.” I try to throw as much venom into my words as I can, and it’s almost like I swallow some of it myself. This sucks.
“Look, you don’t have to freak out about it, I was just pointing it out.” Hazel and Javier are silent, watching the verbal Ping-Pong match of words between Jett and me. I’m not sure who’s winning. Seems like no one does in this situation.
“Whatever. I’m just so sick of you criticizing me. If you don’t like the way I sleep, THEN DON’T SLEEP WITH ME.” I get up and throw my “napkin” (it’s really just a paper towel) down and storm to grab my purse.
“I’m sorry, I can’t deal with this right now,” I say, my voice cracking, which I don’t actually have to fake. The tears that are gathering and growing in my eyes are also very real. I cannot look at Jett as I grab my coat and slam the door. I hear Hazel running behind me, trying to catch up. I get to my car and take a shaky breath.
My GOD that was harder than I thought it would be, and it was minor. Fighting with your Fake Boyfriend is horrible, let me tell you. Even when the fight is Fake. All of it feels real. Very real. Breath-stealing, cry-makingly real.
“What the hell, Shan? What was that? Are you bipolar and I just never noticed? Or do you have the most severe case of PMS in the history of the world?”
I wish.
“I just can’t deal with him right now. He was being a jerk, and I didn’t want to put up with it.” I pull the door open and toss my purse in. Time for my acting skills to really kick in. It’s one thing to Fake Fight. It’s another to make your best friend and roommate believe it when she knows you so well.
“Well, I’m going to give it to you straight and tell you that you’re being an asshole to him. He was just making a joke and you’re taking it completely wrong. By the way, why hasn’t he come after you?” She glances back at the apartment building, squinting at Jett’s door and windows.
“Whatever. Are you coming with me or not? I just want to go home.” I jingle my keys.
“Yeah, sure. We can go. Just, um, I’m just going to grab some of the leftovers, if that’s okay.” Well it does kind of suck leaving all that pasta and salad behind. And the cake. Dear God, the cake.
“Grab the cake,” I say. “I’m going to need it.”
An hour later, Hazel and I both have forks and are plunging them into the éclair cake. It sounds a lot fancier than it is. Basically, you layer graham crackers with vanilla pudding and then slather the top with chocolate frosting. It’s delicious, and perfect when you’re depressed about Fake Fighting with your Fake Boyfriend.
“I thought you guys were doing so well. You seemed happy. I just don’t get it.” I stab at the cake and shovel it into my mouth. I want to eat it, but I also want her to stop talking. I don’t want to talk about it, so I tell her.
“Okay, fine. Don’t talk about it.” She puts her fork down and turns on the television. Good. Something to distract my attention.
Or maybe not. The first channel she turns to is playing Mean Girls. What are the flipping chances of that?
“Change it,” I snap, and she gives me a look before she does. After skipping all of the news and sports networks (I just wasn’t in the mood) she gets to a channel that loops old television shows. Leave it to Beaver is on. Hazel stops channel surfing without me even having to say anything. We may be very different people, but we both share a weird fascination with shows like this. The moms with the perfect hair who wear heels to vacuum the house, the perfect children, the meals, the subtle misogyny. Ah, good times.
“I think her hair is tornado proof,” Hazel says as Mrs. Cleaver sets out yet another perfect dinner.
“You know, I always wonder if Eddie Haskell and Mrs. Cleaver were secretly banging each other. He’s always complimenting her and she kind of flirts with him back. But then no one had sex in the 1950s, so that never would have happened.”
“That would have made the show so much better. I bet there’s fan fiction out there with them.”
“Agreed.”
We demolish half of the cake as the Beave tries once more to get himself out of a situation. The episode finishes and all is well. Big shocker. There’s something comforting about a show like that. You know exactly what’s going to happen and at the end of the day, everything turns out fine.
“I want an apron,” I say as another episode starts.
“I’ll get you one for your birthday.” I set the cake tray back on the table. I’m full, but I still feel like shit. The cake was supposed to fix everything.
“You still don’t wanna talk about it?” Hazel says.
“Nope,” I answer. She shrugs and goes back to watching the show.
Hazel goes to bed early, which is great for me. I stay in the living room watching random television, waiting for Jett. I’ve been staring at my phone every few minutes, waiting for a text. I guess I could text him first, but I’m scared.
I’m scared that he’s going to safe word. There is no way that this is worth it for him. He might as well just end it here.
Finally around 11, I get a message.
Is the coast clear?
I dash to Hazel’s room and put my ear to the door. Her soft deep breathing greets me, but I listen for a few minutes just to make sure. Yup, she’s out.
Come on over.
I go to the kitchen and make two cups of tea, one of which is in the bear mug for him. I also change into the mint green outfit, but I put a robe I’d also bought at the store over it so I’m not wearing a lace getup while lounging in my kitchen. That would be a little weird. And cold.
I’m here.
I rush to the door and open it ever so slowly. My heart goes frenetic at the sight of Jett in a sweatshirt and shorts.
“Hi,” I whisper, leaning against the door.
“Hi,” he says, his hands shoved in the pocket of the sweatshirt. “Can I come in? It’s kinda cold out here.”
“Oh, yeah.” I move back to let him in and then shut the door as quietly as I can behind him.
“I think Hazel is asleep, but we should probably go to my room.” I grab the two mugs of tea and tiptoe to my room. Hazel’s room is off the living room, and mine is off the kitchen, so they’re far enough away that most sound doesn’t carry. Thank God.
I shut the door and Jett sits down on my bed. I hand him the bear mug and sit down next to him, pulling my knees up and setting my tea on them.
Jett’s the first to speak. “That sucked, Shan.”
“Completely. What was it like after I left?” He sips his tea before he answers.
“Javi wanted me to go after you, and I had to pretend that I didn’t want to. Then he called me an asshole and left and hasn’t been back to the apartment. And then I came over here. I’m really, really sorry about what I said. I know it was fake, but I’m still sorry.” I bump his shoulder with mine.
“It’s okay. I know you didn’t mean it, and I’m not that sensitive.” God, I’m such a liar.
“Good. So can we make up now? The bear really wants to know.” He holds the mug up and I laugh.
“Yeah, I’m sure. Yes, we are made up.” I set my mug down on my dresser and take the bear from him.
“Good,” Jett says, and then he pulls me forward for a soft kiss. Or at least it starts with the intention of soft. But then my mouth opens and somehow our tongues get involved and before I know it, the robe is falling away from my shoulders and my lips are swollen and throbbing and my head and my mouth are filled with Jett.
He breaks away from me and pulls back to look at my outfit. I’m still standing and he’s sitting on the edge of my bed with me between his legs.
“What are you wearing?” Until this point, all of my nighttime attire has been pretty modest. This is the most skin of mine he’s ever seen at one time.
“I got it today. Do you . . . do you like it?” His hands move down my shoulders, barely touching me. They move down my sides, skimming just over the lace and then skip across my stomach.
“Yeah,” he says, swallowing, not taking his eyes off me. “Yeah, I do.” His hands are big and warm and they make me throb everywhere. And judging by his shorts, I’m not the only one affected.
“Jett—” I start to say, but he interrupts me.
“Perspicacious,” he whispers.