Sunday morning came way too soon. I heard Derek shuffle down the hall at nine o’clock and briefly wondered why the fuck he was up so early before pulling my pillow over my head and falling back asleep till noon. I stretched my arms above my head and rubbed my eyes, then reached for my cell to check messages. The first one to pop was from an unknown number. And it was very…chatty.

Hi Evan. This is Mitch. Did we say coffee or lunch or drinks? I have practice every morning this week, and I bet you do too. I’m free any time after one, except for Tuesday and Thursday. I work late those days, but any other day should be okay. Let me know what you think. If you don’t respond, I won’t be offended. But it would be rude, so you should probably at least return my text and let me know if you’re still interested. Okay? Have a good day!

I read the message twice before replying.

You’ve committed a series of texting crimes. Free tomorrow at 1. Lunch at Grub Hub?

Grub Hub? No thanks. Let’s meet at The Grill. And what texting crimes?

I chuckled at his green-faced grossed-out emoji, salad bowl, and five question marks, then typed, I’ll tell you tomorrow.

I stared at his single heart response longer than necessary before making myself get out of bed. There was football on TV and a fridge full of food. My day was set.

Televised preseason pro football wasn’t always the most entertaining. Teams were tweaking their lineups and testing the readiness of their rookie players before the games counted. I didn’t mind. Football was football and I freaking loved it. I always had. I lived and breathed the game from an early age. My childhood room was still decked with pennants, framed jerseys, and prized footballs I’d collected in my youth. As a kid, I couldn’t get enough of the Green Bay Packers and Brett Favre. Don’t judge. I was six at the time, and they were the fucking bomb. Hell, I still loved them.

LA didn’t have a football team back then. The closest live football involved a two and a half hour drive to San Diego. My dad took my brother, Eli, and me one year to see the Chargers play my beloved Packers and it changed my life. Okay…maybe it didn’t change anything, but it opened a world of possibility that solidified into a real dream when my dad told me that if I worked hard, there was no reason I couldn’t become the world’s best football player one day too.

Life hadn’t exactly gone according to plan. Playing four years of football at a Division Three private university wasn’t my ticket to the NFL. The realization that my original dream might not come true had been a hard pill to swallow at first, but I’d adjusted pretty well—if I did say so myself. I lived a couple of blocks from the ocean with my best friend in a sweet bungalow his parents bought after we moved out of the dorms at Long Beach State. They didn’t want Derek living just anywhere or with any ol’ roommate. Maybe they were a touch overbearing and controlling, but the rent was free at their insistence, so I sure as hell wouldn’t complain.

I had the best of both worlds. I lived in Long Beach and in my spare time, I hung out with the group of friends I’d met during my freshman year. And I played football and went to Chilton College twenty minutes away in Orange with a whole other set of friends. Not bad for a guy who’d been knocking on death’s door his senior year of high school. I had a lot to be grateful for, I mused as Derek walked into the living room.

He bumped my fist in greeting, then flopped onto the armchair next to the sofa in a pose that should have come across as uber relaxed. Unfortunately, the tension radiating from him killed the vibe. Derek was a world-class worrier. I had no idea who’d pissed in his Cheerios, but he’d tell me in his own time. And if you asked me, that was why we were best friends. I was mostly mellow and laid-back while Derek was uptight and fastidious. But we respected boundaries and complemented each other. I encouraged him to have fun and not take life so seriously, and he encouraged me to stay focused and pick up my shit around the house. Win-win.

“Where’ve you been?” I asked.

“Coffee with Chelsea. I think that’s all the activity I can stand today. My head hurts and my stomach is off.”

“Ah. A good ol’ fashioned hangover. No wonder you look like shit.” I waited for his scowl before adding, “It’s not like you to get wasted.”

“Don’t remind me. I need greasy pizza or a burrito to sop up the excess alcohol in my system.” He groaned. “What time did you get home?”

“I dunno. Three, I think.”

“Three?” he repeated. “What was happening at three? Probably nothing good, so tell me all about it.”

I gave a half laugh and shrugged. “Nothing really. I hung out with Mitch most of the night.”

“Mitch?”

“Why are you repeating everything I say?” I frowned. “Yes. Mitch.”

“Hmm. What would you and Mitch possibly have to talk about until three a.m.?”

“Music, school…random stuff.”

I gave him a brief breakdown of the Rory and Jenna sideshow. Then I told him about Amanda’s overtures and my theory that she wanted to make him jealous. Derek scoffed distractedly but seemed a bit agitated when I mentioned that she’d also claimed to know that his new teammate was gay. He went quiet for a bit before leaning forward and giving me a sideways glance.

“You know Rory and Mitch were a couple, right?” he asked.

“I found out last night, but…how did you know?”

“Chelsea. She knows everything,” he reminded me.

“Oh. Yeah.” I frowned and once again gave my full attention to the action on the flat-screen.

“Mitch is a good guy. You’d make a cute couple,” he teased.

“Gee, thanks.” I batted my eyelashes and clandestinely pulled a throw pillow over my crotch. I didn’t know what my deal was, but just talking about Mitch made my dick swell. I had to change the topic quickly. “Are you hungry?”

Derek jumped out of his chair and held his phone up. “Yeah. I’ve never needed french fries more in my life. Are you in?”

“Yeah, but only if we get Del Taco. I want a burrito, nachos, a quesadilla…one of everything. Real life starts tomorrow. I have practice at six, class at nine, and then I have to be here for lunch before heading back to Orange for—”

“Why would you come home for lunch? You hate commuting.”

Oops. I’d said too much. I gave him a blank stare and pointed at his cell. “Dentist appointment. You can’t order Del Taco on your phone, dumbshit. You gotta drive.”

He groaned pathetically. “Oh, no. I can’t drive. I’m much too hungover. Rock, paper, scissors?”

I chuckled but nodded in agreement, thankful for the silly diversion. I loved Derek like a second brother and I trusted him for sure, but I didn’t want to talk about Mitch at all. Our wacky, all-over-the-map conversations from the night before and our upcoming lunch were a bit of a mystery to me too. I couldn’t explain why I’d agreed to meet him in the middle of a busy Monday. But the truth was…I couldn’t wait.

The locker room was stifling hot after practice Monday morning. We had state-of-the-art amenities, like a high ceiling, bigger than average individual lockers, and amazing water pressure in the showers. And not to brag, but we even had a sauna and Jacuzzi. Private school perks were awesome, but they couldn’t make up for the unseasonably warm weather outside and the intense workout we’d just had on the field. My body ached all over. I wanted nothing more than to take advantage of the Jacuzzi, then go home and take a three-hour nap. Not happening. I had twenty minutes to get to class before heading to Long Beach.

I figured out the timing in my head. If I left Orange at noon, I could be in Long Beach within half an hour if traffic cooperated. Maybe I’d swing by the house and—

“Yo, di Angelo! Where were you this weekend? You missed Nicole’s party. It’s cool, man. I kept her company.”

I slipped my short-sleeved shirt over my shoulders and tossed a blank look at Jonesie. He was a beast of a guy. Six foot six, two hundred and ninety pounds of sheer muscle. Well, maybe a little fat too. Jonesie loved his Oreos. And he loved a good time. He always knew where to find the best parties, which in his mind were the ones with the hottest babes who treated football players like rock stars or God’s gift to mankind.

Star treatment was a powerful aphrodisiac, but it wasn’t my thing. Been there, done that. I’d rather have a two-way conversation with someone based on common interests than soak up mindless admiration and hope it led to getting laid. And waking up next to a stranger whose name I couldn’t remember lost its appeal the first time I’d done it. But Jonesie, whose first name I’d forgotten the day he told me, was a couple of years younger than me. He wasn’t ready to hang up his party hat anytime soon.

“I bet. Did you have fun?” I asked.

“Can’t remember, so yeah, it was probably awesome. Nicole was looking for you, though. She was real disappointed you didn’t show up. I told her you’d be around this weekend.” He waggled his thick brows lasciviously and slapped high fives with a couple of the guys getting ready nearby.

“How do you know I’m gonna be around this weekend? I’m a busy man, Jonesie.” I tied my shoes as fast as possible. Then I swung my workout bag over my shoulder and started buttoning my shirt.

“We’ve got a game, man. You gotta hang with us afterward.”

“Right.” I flashed my best noncommittal smile and bumped his arm as I made my way to the exit.

“If you don’t want her, I call dibs,” he shouted.

I stopped in my tracks and scowled as I turned around. I wanted to smack the shit-eating, pompous look off his face, but I literally didn’t have time to get into a fight. However, I wasn’t going to let him off the hook.

“Don’t talk like that, dude. She’s a person, not a fucking ice cream flavor. Show some respect and show some fuckin’ class,” I huffed derisively.

All eyes were on us for a second or two before the silence was interrupted by a flood of idiotic hoots and catcalls. I held eye contact with him for half a beat longer, then walked away.

The unexpected surge of adrenaline propelled me across campus in record time. I had no regrets about telling Jonesie off, but I was pissed that he’d opened his mouth in front of an audience because I knew how this shit worked. He’d apologize at our next practice…after he made sure Nicole knew I’d stood up for her, which in his mind meant I was hot for the gorgeous brunette who’d been stalking me off and on all summer. He’d make it sound like a sleazy but honest infatuation with a chance of something more. Fuck. This was the stuff that made me grateful I was graduating next May.

The Grill was located in Belmont Shores. The vibe in this section of Long Beach varied from bohemian chic to family-oriented but still hip. I found a parking spot on the street a block away from the restaurant and lucked out again when the hostess led me to an outdoor table for two under a big yellow umbrella. I thanked her, then pulled my sunglasses out of my front pocket and sat back in my chair to partake in some first-class people-watching until Mitch arrived.

The posse of stylish young moms decked in yoga gear pushing strollers, the older woman walking her ginormous French poodle with a bright pink bow tied around her collar. Nothing outlandish today. I opened my menu and fumbled it a moment later when someone tapped my shoulder.

“Hi, there! Sorry I’m late.”

Mitch pulled out the chair across from me and smiled. Damn, he had a nice smile. It was kind of toothy and made his eyes crinkle at the corners and then light up with a sincerity that took my breath away. Most people didn’t smile like that. They guardedly gave you pieces of themselves they thought you wanted instead of just being real.

“No prob. How’s your day goin’?” I stared at the menu unseeing, hoping to get my suddenly erratic heartbeat under control.

“Busy. I had practice early this morning and I didn’t sleep very well, so—” He glanced up when a good-looking waiter stopped by our table to introduce himself and take our drink orders. “I’m fine with water, thank you. And I’m ready to order if you are, Evan.”

“Uh…sure. Go ahead.”

“I’ll have the spinach salad, dressing on the side, hold the bacon and double the avocado. Oh! And can we get a side of fries, please?”

The waiter’s indulgent grin dimmed slightly when he turned to take my order. “I’ll have the burger and I’ll take the bacon my friend is leaving off his salad, and we don’t want a side of fries. We need a plate. Or a platter. The bigger, the better. I’m starving.”

“Got it. What would you like to drink?” the waiter asked.

“Do you have chocolate milk?”

“We should be able to do that. We have milk and there’s chocolate syrup for sundaes so…sure. Anything else?” The waiter addressed both of us, but his gaze roamed back to Mitch, who shook his head and thanked him again.

“He has a crush on you,” I commented when we were alone again. “I betcha I wouldn’t get chocolate milk if it wasn’t for you, so cheers.”

Mitch raised his water glass and tapped it against mine. “Hmm. Two questions. One, what makes you think he has a crush on me? And two, who over the age of ten orders chocolate milk with a burger? Ew.”

I snickered at his “yuck” face and gave him a lopsided pirate’s smile. “Me. And don’t look now, but our waiter is checkin’ you out again.”

Mitch cast a sideways glance at the waiter and gave me a Cheshire cat grin. “He is cute. Should I give him my number?”

I shrugged nonchalantly, though the idea bugged the hell out of me. “I dunno. That’s your business. My business is finding out important shit like…what do you have against chocolate milk?”

He chuckled as he pulled his sunglasses from his shirt pocket and set them on his nose. “Nothing in particular. I’ve read all the studies about how the balance of protein and carbohydrates make it an ideal post-workout drink, but I don’t like it. I haven’t had chocolate milk in a decade. I’d rather have a protein shake.”

I creased my forehead in faux confusion, then lowered my sunglasses and gave him a knowing look as I pumped my fist suggestively. “Oh. You mean like…”

“Get your mind out of the gutter,” he said primly.

I laughed and once I started, I couldn’t stop. Mitch kicked me under the table and then leaned across to smack my hand. He rolled his eyes when I shook my hand as if in pain. Then he dipped his fingers into my water and flicked it at me.

“Hey!”

“Don’t even think about retaliating,” he warned when I reached for my glass.

“You can’t just tell me not to do it. You have to call a truce,” I said. “It’s a rule. Like in football. If you step out of bounds, the play is dead. Not because I told you so but because it’s been discussed and agreed upon by all parties before being written down. No one gets to run willy-nilly up and down the field to get to the end zone.”

“Fine. We’d better call a truce because if you get my new shirt wet, I may go ballistic.”

“I like it. You look nice.” I gave the light blue button-down garment a once-over and tried not to stare at the hint of skin at his open collar. It was kind of…sexy.

“Thank you. I bought it yesterday. I had a much-needed retail therapy session I may regret when I get my next credit card statement, but it felt good at the time. Maybe even necessary after that episode with Rory Saturday night. We don’t need to go over all of it again, but…thank you for being there and for being so cool. I know it was weird. I was afraid you might not want to meet me today.”

“Nah.” I waved dismissively. “The part with Rory was unexpected, but the rest was really…nice.”

“Yeah. I think a few of our friends were talking about us the next day,” he said cagily.

“What’d they say?”

He gave me a crooked smile. “The usual ‘Mitch has a crush on a straight boy’ kind of thing. I hoped I didn’t scare you away.”

“I don’t scare easily, and I’m too curious about your mystery project. Tell me all about it.”

Mitch took a sip of water, then cleared his throat theatrically but still didn’t speak for a few moments. “Okay…well, um.”

“Not a good start,” I teased.

Mitch snickered. “I know. Sorry. I’m nervous and I don’t know why. All right, let me try again. I’m a communications major. My senior project is a thesis exploring the impact of social media, specifically in video format.”

“Like on YouTube?”

“Yes, exactly. I think there’s a strong argument that reality television and now platforms like Instagram and Twitter are popular because they give every regular guy and gal their instant fifteen minutes of fame. But they’re better because the fame stretches with every ‘like’ and comment on their pages. We eat up details in other people’s lives with more interest than our own. Have you noticed how many ‘couples’ have their own YouTube channels? Some of them make bank too.”

“How?” I asked incredulously.

“Sponsorships. Businesses advertise with YouTube sensations with lots of subscribers. They know thousands of people tune in to watch snippets of a cute couple making an impromptu dinner. Viewers fawn over how attentive and sweet they are to each other. The way one guy rubs his boyfriend’s back while he stirs marinara sauce and then—”

“Are we talking about gay couples?”

“Of course. I mean, it’s all out there. Gay, straight, bi, trans, pansexual…one partner, two.…But I try to stick with what I know. And I know I’m gay,” Mitch announced.

I smiled at the server who stopped by the table at that moment to deliver our lunches. When he stepped aside, I grabbed a few french fries and popped them into my mouth.

“You don’t say?” I snarked.

“That’s not going to be a problem for you, is it?”

“Mitch, we discussed anal tongue sex the other night. I know you’re gay. In fact, I’m pretty sure the first time we met, you were wearing a rainbow tie-dyed T-shirt that said, ‘I’m gay.’ ”

He barked a laugh and shook his head. “I wouldn’t be caught dead in tie-dyed anything. It was just a rainbow.”

“Whatever you say. Hey, before you get rollin’ again…I was supposed to get your bacon. Just throw it on my plate.”

Mitch glanced down at his salad and frowned. He scooped up a few bacon chunks with his fork and tossed them in the general direction of my plate. “Oops. They’re a little slippery.”

“Use your fingers. I don’t care.”

He obeyed with a laugh, then wiped his hands on a spare napkin and picked up his fork. “Happy now?”

“Ecstatic. Start talking. You want to make a YouTube video with me in it. Is that right?”

“Not exactly. I want to do an Is It Real or Isn’t It? series featuring you and me…as a couple,” he blurted.

“A couple of what?” I asked around a bite of hamburger.

Mitch held eye contact until he finished chewing; then he set his fork down and reached for his water. “This is the part where I need to ask you to listen and be open-minded. If you’re not interested, I won’t be offended but—”

“I’m listening.”

“Okay. The premise is fairly simple. We would make a series of ten-to-fifteen-minute videos entitled ‘Is This Real?’ and post them intermittently over the course of the semester. The idea is to explore stereotyping and gather statistics about the perceived reality in social media. My following is small potatoes compared to some of the more popular YouTubers, but I have a decent base for this project. In the first video, we’ll begin by announcing we’re boyfriends.”

“Boyfriends?” I repeated.

“Yes. At the end we’ll make a ‘Real or Not Real’ statement, but it’s all based on the premise that we’re a couple. Viewers might not believe we are, but we’ll ask them to play along and weigh in. For instance, episode one…we’re a new couple. Real or not real? Episode two, we talk about things we’ve learned about each other. Evan loves bacon and french fries, and he gets a little cranky when he’s hungry. Real or not real? Get it?”

I furrowed my brow and set my half-eaten hamburger aside. “I think so. You want us to be pretend boyfriends.”

“Not really ‘pretend.’ We’re not trying to fool our friends or family. It’s only for the project. We want viewers to wonder and maybe question why they become invested in the lives and relationships of strangers.”

“Do you really think anyone will care if we’re ‘real’ or not?”

“You’d be surprised. I told you people follow YouTubers religiously. This is a good way to explore the ‘actual’ reality behind so-called reality TV. Audiences love couples. I’m gay and out and proud. Obviously I need a male partner. And you’re perfect because you’re my exact opposite and yet…we have things in common.”

“Like what?”

“We’re both athletes. I’m a gymnast, and you’re a football player.”

“You’re a yell leader,” I reminded him with a frown.

“I’m a trained gymnast.” Mitch narrowed his eyes and huffed. He played with the condensation on the side of his glass before continuing, “I know this is weird. I’m only asking because you said you’re open the other night. Your exact words were something like ‘Love is love, sex is sex, and sexuality is fluid.’ Ring any bells?”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I’m looking for a boyfriend.”

“This is not real, Evan. Ugh! Why do straight men think every other gay guy wants to suck their cock?”

“Hang on. You don’t want to suck my dick?” I asked in mock confusion.

He smirked. “Of course I do.”

“You really do, or are you fucking with me?”

“I’m totally fucking with you,” he replied with a straight face. Then he cocked his head and bit his bottom lip in a seductive gesture that made my mouth go dry. “Or am I?”

“Uh…I can’t tell.”

“See?” He slapped his hand on the table and grinned like a madman. “It’s perfect! The hint of intrigue. Is this for real? Are Mitch and Evan actually a couple? And supposing they are, what’s their relationship like? What do they really know about each other? It’s like a mini version of the Newlywed Game. Faux or no?” He gasped and snapped his fingers. “That’s what we’ll call it! Damn, I’m a genius.”

“Except our friends and family will know it’s fake. Someone we know will weigh in online and ruin it. It won’t work,” I said.

“Yes, it will. It’s called acting. I don’t know about your family, but my grandmother has no idea what YouTube is, and she wouldn’t watch if she did. As far as our friends are concerned…we won’t actively lie, but they may start to wonder if we spend time together doing boyfriendy things.”

“Like what, kissing?”

I was kidding and I fully expected Mitch to roll his eyes and tell me not to be ridiculous. But he tilted his head and gave me a thoughtful look that made me nervous. My pulse accelerated as I waited for him to continue.

“Maybe,” he said, drawing out the two-syllable word until it seemed like a full sentence. “Have you ever kissed a guy?”

“No,” I lied.

“Would you kiss me?”

I stared at his full lips for a moment and then met his eyes. “Uh…”

Mitch smiled. It was a slow, knowing grin with a flirtatious edge I should have found humorous because…he had to be joking, right? Or was this a seduction of some kind? And why couldn’t I tell?

His nose twitched with delight before he snickered. “You’re kind of adorkable. But don’t worry. You’re charming and very good-looking, but I’m not interested in converting you to my gay religion. You’re safe with me, Evan.”

“That’s strangely disappointing,” I quipped.

“It’s not my style to throw myself at a straight man. Even a sexy one. When you eventually decide you can’t live without me, you’ll have to win me over the old-fashioned way. You know, draw our names in the sand in a heart at the beach. That kind of thing.”

“Gotcha. All right. I’ll do it.”

“Do what? The heart in the sand? I’m open to other gestures too. Skywriting would be cool.”

“And expensive,” I snarked. “Don’t get carried away. I meant, I’ll be your project boyfriend.”

“Really?” He dropped his fork on his plate and grinned.

“Sure. It sounds easy enough. We do a few videos, answer a few questions, and maybe kiss once in a while, right? If we throw in a couple of lunch dates like this one, people might think we’re the real thing. I bet they think we’re boyfriends now.”

“I doubt it. Boyfriends are more touchy. You’d have to act like you want me. Like you’re thinking about what we did in bed thirty minutes ago and the memory alone is giving you palpitations.”

“Palpitations or a hard-on?”

Mitch shot a wicked grin at me as he speared a piece of spinach. “Yes.”

“I can do that,” I said confidently. “When do we start?”

“Immediately. And thank you. This is going to be a kickass project! I’m gonna owe you big time. More so if it gets me into grad school. What’s your schedule like this week?”

“Practice, class, game on Saturday. Game days vary, but otherwise it’s the same basic schedule through November. What about you?” I asked before popping the last of my burger in my mouth.

“Same. It sounds like neither of us has much free time. Are you sure you won’t mind spending yours with me?” Mitch inclined his head. “The boyfriend thing may mess with your booty call game. If this isn’t working for you at any time, let me know. Or if you see a potential hazard, like a girl you want to ask out or—”

“That won’t happen.”

“How can you be so sure?”

I smacked his hand when he reached into the basket of fries. “Because I’m super focused during season. This is my last and I’m making the most of it. No distractions. I’ll go to a few social events because it’s expected. But I won’t stay long or party like a rock star. And as much as I like sex, I don’t want to get involved with anyone who might mess with my game.”

“Sex messes with your game?” he asked dubiously.

“No. It actually helps my game. It’s the emotional BS I can’t handle. I’m not a smooth operator. I tend to put my foot in my mouth, and then I feel bad about it and inevitably it fucks with my head. I’ll be on the field, waiting for the whistle to blow, thinking about what I should have said or done instead of paying attention to the ball. Not okay.”

“Hmm. Makes sense.” He held his hand above the basket of fries and gave me another mischievous look. “So let’s talk french fries. Boyfriends share and—”

“Nope.”

“What do you mean ‘nope’? I gave you my bacon. You upped my side of fries order to a trough, Evan. But it was always my order. You have to share. It’s a perfect way to show your undying affection for me,” he hummed.

“There are plenty of other ways to show fake affection,” I assured him with a laugh.

“Not fake…faux. It sounds better,” Mitch said, setting his napkin beside his plate before leaning in. “Show me what you got. Prove your faux affection for me.”

“Now?” I took a quick glance around at the nearby tables. Everyone was engrossed in their own conversations. None of which were as weird as this one, I bet.

“Yep.”

The challenge in his gaze was filled with humor. I had a feeling he didn’t expect much from me on this project. He’d probably script easygoing dialogue and include a random kiss to throw people off once in a while. No doubt I was his third or fourth choice, filling in for someone else…like Rory. In fact, I was suddenly sure of it, and the idea pissed me off for no good reason at all. My niggling sense of misplaced jealousy made me want to surprise the hell out of him.

“Okay, fine.” I wiped my mouth, then stood abruptly and moved to his side.

Mitch looked up at me and frowned. “Are you leaving?”

“No.”

“Then wha—”

I cupped his face in my hands and pressed my lips against his.

The kiss was meant to shut him up and throw him off stride. And okay, maybe I hoped he’d forget his name for half a second and realize I should have always been his first choice. A harmless kiss to seal the deal seemed like a good way to counteract negativity and prove I was fully onboard.

But I hadn’t counted on his lips being so damn soft. I sank into the connection and lost myself for a moment. He was sweet and seductive and fuck, he felt amazing. I wanted to taste him and smell him. I rubbed my thumbs over his jaw and sucked on his lower lip to keep myself from pushing my tongue inside his mouth. The desire was real but my timing was off.

I backed up slowly and moved to my chair with a lopsided smile that I hoped exuded confidence I didn’t feel. It could have been a total fail. Mitch’s shocked expression didn’t bode well. I had to say something. Anything.

“How was that?” I winced. Lame.

“What was that?” he asked, touching two fingers to his bottom lip.

“A boyfriend kiss. The spontaneous in-public kind that should convince the average passerby that I’m into you. How’d I do?”

Mitch nodded slowly and absently reached for his water. “Very, very well. You’re hired,” he deadpanned.

I busted up laughing and held my hand out for a high five. “Gee, thanks.”

“I appreciate this, Evan. I know I’m asking a lot. More than the average friend of a friend should. If you want to get back to me tomorrow or—”

“Let’s not overthink this. It’s an assignment or a friend helping a friend.” I pulled my wallet out of my pocket and set my credit card over the leather folder the waiter left between us. “The way I see it, life is short. I don’t want to be cautious or careful, and I don’t want to say no to any challenge that comes along. When I die, I want to know I lived. That’s all.”

Mitch nodded slowly. “Okay. Well, next step…we need to go over a schedule. We’ll have to rehearse before we film for the first time. We need to check lighting, angles, and go over material. And we’ll have to plan a few appearances. Nothing major. A trip to a coffee shop will work. Be prepared for selfie central. If your selfie game is weak, I can give you pointers. I’ll create a joint account for us on other platforms, like Instagram. Do you have Instagram?”

I shook my head and chuckled at his flabbergasted expression. “I don’t have time. I barely check Facebook.”

“Oh, boy. I’ll handle it. And not to worry, I won’t post anything without your approval.”

“I trust you, Mitch.”

“Thanks. For everything. I think we’re about to do something amazing. I can’t wait,” he gushed.

We shared a smile that felt like a handshake or signing our names on a dotted line side-by-side. Or some version of a commitment that came with a virtual eraser. This wasn’t binding. It was just for fun. A new way to push old boundaries and to remind myself that complacency was a form of death. And I wasn’t giving in or giving up yet.