The Real Deal

“So,” Theo says, clucking his tongue as he changes the subject. “You and Dean.”

Ah, there it is. My lips twitch in a grin that I try to hide. “Me and my prom date,” I say playfully because I kind of can’t resist teasing him on this front.

“You and your prom date,” he echoes, his voice tight as we near the drugstore.

“We just had the best time that night eleven years ago,” I say with a dreamy sigh. I sell it to the jury when I bring my hand to my heart. “I can remember every detail like it was yesterday.”

He stops in his tracks, and I turn around and face him. The look in his eyes is priceless. He knows he’s being played. I crack up.

“Fine. Fine. You win that one, but something is up with the two of you,” he says, his gaze leveling mine.

We stand on the street corner, the brick of the bookshop nearly peach in the morning sun. “Does it bother you?”

He heaves a sigh and says no. “But I’d just rather know what the backstory is. Since I’m your—” He stops to sketch air quotes. “—‘boyfriend.’”

My shoulders tense from the reminder of our fictional status. But then, why am I irritated? Of course, he’s my pretend boyfriend. “Dean is just a friend.”

“You sure?” Theo arches a skeptical eyebrow.

An image flickers before my eyes, and it’s an answer to a question he posed on the train. I blurt it out. “Right now. I would paint you red.”

“Yeah?” He slides a hand down his cheekbone, over his jawline. “My face?”

So much for the anti-lust zone. I’ve zipped back into Flirtville, and I can’t say I regret it. I like Theo. A lot. It’s coursing through me. My want is true and it’s real, and in this moment, it’s more powerful than my sabbatical.

I raise my hand and bring it near his neck. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “I’d start here,” I say with the gentlest touch on his throat. I hover my hand over him as I move with my words. “Then move down across your pecs. I’d make you a pot. Boiling over.”

He laughs and drags a hand through his thick mess of hair. “It’s that obvious? That I’m jealous?”

“Yes.”

His expression softens, and he purses his lips, then whistles. But it’s no ordinary whistle he makes. The sound from his lips is a teakettle boiling over.

I smile and clap. “Well done.”

He shrugs and taps his chest with both hands. “Yes. Jealous. That’s me.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised. You’ve always been the jealous type. The whole time we’ve been together,” I say, sliding back into the stories. This time I go there because I like how they make me feel. I want the tingles all over. The burst of desire.

He tugs on my tank top strap and narrows his eyes. “I hate when other men even look at you.”

“It drives you absolutely crazy, doesn’t it?”

“Insane,” he whispers in that hot dirty voice as he smooths the strap of my shirt, then fingers a curl of my blond hair. I fight back a tremble. My knees are wobbly. I want to fall into his arms. I want to swoon into him. I want to throw myself at him and smother him in kisses. He lets go of my hair, steps back, and drops the tale. “But you really don’t have a thing for him?”

My stomach pirouettes. The realization that he’s well and truly jealous—still, now, the morning after—is quite possibly the most awesome thing I’ve experienced in a while.

“Dean and I are friends. Yes, we went to prom together, but we went as friends. When I kissed him, I felt nothing.”

Theo’s eyes approximate saucers, and I hear a huff of breath through his nostrils. “You kissed him?” He bites out each word.

“It was prom. We were friends. It was nothing. We both looked at each other with this sense of ‘that was like kissing your sister.’”

He takes a breath, which seems to be calming him down. “Fine. It was a sisterly kiss. Go on.”

“Look, my mother was dying for me to marry him, but that’s because she’s best friends with Bob’s wife, Carol, and I’ve no doubt the two of them plotted our nuptials many moons ago,” I say as we resume our path to the drugstore, where he holds open the door. “I swear, whenever they see us talk, they hear Pachelbel’s Canon play in their ears. Their minds latch on to calendar dates, and white dresses and cake tastings, and then to happily-ever-afters when both their city kids come home to roost.”

His expression darkens for a moment as we head to the tissue aisle. “They want you to be with someone from here.”

“Yes, they do. As you can see, they’re ridiculously into this whole lifestyle. But they also don’t want me to be hurt. They’re convinced all the men from the big, scary city are liars and Slick Willies who’ll break my heart,” I say, and Theo flinches.

“We aren’t all like that.”

“I know that. But parents worry,” I say; then I quickly correct myself. Theo doesn’t have parents anymore, so he hasn’t experienced the helicoptering even into one’s twenties. “My parents worry.”

“Because they love you. Because they want you to be happy.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true. Sometimes I think it’s because they don’t know what to make of me or my job. It doesn’t fit their construct of normal work. They think I paint faces at fairs, and I skip around the city, plucking petals off daisies without a care in the world. So they want me back here. They want me with someone from here. They want me near them. And my mom and Carol thought for the longest time that Dean and I were destined to be happy together,” I say as I grab ten boxes of tissues and drop them into the big canvas bag I brought with me. “But Dean and I—we are only friends. We don’t have that—” I stop to think about the words.“—that butterflies-in-the-belly and crazy, madness feeling.”

A corner of his lips quirks. “Butterflies are important to you?”

I look at him, wishing I didn’t feel so many things this very second. “I like butterflies.”

“Me, too,” he says softly as we head to the checkout.

A curly-haired bottle redhead beams at me. “April! So good to see you.”

“Hey, Ruth,” I say to the cashier I’ve known my whole life. She owns the store, works the register and never has a bad day.

“Hey, sweet thing. How’s the crazy reunion shindig going?”

“Crazy. Definitely crazy,” I say, then briefly introduce her to Theo.

She tips her forehead to him and stage-whispers, “He’s adorable. I’m so glad you met someone. Especially after—”

I shake my head and give her a knowing look, one that says shhh. Word spreads fast here. But then, I invited such gossip with my eggnog-fueled tell-all.

She blinks, and nods exaggeratedly. “Especially after how hard it is to meet someone. You both need to come back again soon. Promise me.”

“Absolutely,” Theo says as he takes the bag of tissues and slides it up his shoulder.

A stab of guilt hits me in the breastbone. Theo won’t be coming back at the end of the summer. He won’t be coming back for Christmas or New Year’s or anything else.

I know that. Logically, I know that. But the words remind me that every single interaction we have is a fabrication. The awareness of that is like a stone in my gut. No matter how many stories we make up or how jealous he gets, this is a ruse.

I’d do best to remember that, rather than let myself be fooled by tingles or butterflies.

“Especially after what?” Theo asks once we leave.

I make light of the exchange. “Oh, you know how it goes.”

“After what?” he pressed. “Or should I say after who.”

“It’s nothing.”

“No, it’s something. You had a douchey ex.”

“Who doesn’t have a douchey ex?” I say breezily.

“I have a douchey ex. She was the grade-A, top-choice, dictionary definition of ‘douchey ex,’” he offers.

“Yeah? You think your douchey ex is more douchey than mine?”

“I’d be willing to bet.”

“Okay, here goes: Mine said he was divorced, and it turned out he wasn’t. The jerk was still married.”