“Because—” Because good fake girlfriends are low maintenance. They smile, don’t have strong opinions on cilantro, and never, ever drag you away from a pool party. “Can you—I need to go to the restroom and—my phone—”
A moment later I was in a bathroom that looked like a luxury spa, purse in my lap. And I’d love to say that I don’t remember how I got there, but there’s a floating memory in my head, a memory of strong arms picking me up; of being carried, buoyant as a bird; of warm breath on my temple, murmuring words I cannot recall.
And that, unfortunately, was that. Was Jack kind and helpful? Yup. Did he believe the story I later made up about not wanting to bother Greg with my migraines? Doubtful, considering his skeptical, cold, insistent look. Maybe he suspects I’m on drugs. Maybe he’s afraid I’ll taint the Smith line with my weak headache genes. Surely he believes his brother can do better.
But it doesn’t matter. Jack’s not my target—his mother is. Which is good, because I don’t have the faintest idea who the Elsie that Jack wants is.
It’s unprecedented. I’m a pro at picking up cues, but Jack—he gives me nothing. I don’t know what to amp up, what to tone down; what to hide and what to fake; what personality to sacrifice at his altar. It’s like he’s trying to puzzle me out without changing me—and that’s impossible. That’s not how people are, not with me.
So when he asks “How have you been, Elsie?” with a tone that feels just a touch too inquisitive, I smile as neutrally as possible.
“The usual. Fantastic.” Not about to collapse on you, for once. “You? How are things at work?” He’s some kind of PE teacher, Greg mentioned. Unsurprising, since he’s built like someone who has a CrossFit decal on his car and drinks protein shakes while reading Men’s Health’s powerlifting column. The other Smiths are lithe, insubstantial brunettes. And then there’s this sandy-haired brick house, a foot taller than his tallest relative, all masculine features and cutting deep voice. My theory: overworked nurse, hospital crib switch-up. “Having a good semester?”
He grunts, noncommittal. “Haven’t murdered any of my students. Yet.”
A surprisingly relatable sentiment. “Sounds like a win.”
“Not to me.”
Shit. He’s making me smile. “Why do you want to murder them?”
“They whine. They don’t read the syllabus.” Syllabi for PE? My gym teacher’s entire curriculum was shame-spiraling us for failing to climb the rope. Education’s making strides. “They lie.”
I swallow. “Lie about what?”
“About several things.” His eyes gleam, and his lips twitch, and his shoulders hulk under his shirt and—
I used to think—no, I used to know that light-haired guys weren’t attractive. Middle school? Everyone went after Legolas, but I was an Aragorn girl. “Which Game of Thrones House Are You” BuzzFeed quiz? Never a Targaryen. I hate that I look at Jack Smith, with his good jaw and his good dimples and those good hands, and find him handsome.
Maybe I just won’t look. Yes, excellent plan.
“Excuse me,” I say politely. “I bet Greg’s looking for me.” I turn before he can reply, immediately feeling like I managed to free myself from a gravitational singularity.
Phew.
The living room’s a couple of twists and turns away, large but crowded, pretty despite the overabundance of naval paintings and aggressive leather furniture. I spend a few minutes reassuring Greg’s aunt that we’ll consult her before choosing a caterer for the wedding; pretending not to notice Uncle Paul licking his lips at me; amiably chatting with an assortment of cousins about the weather, traffic, and bad Twilight takes. The birthday girl is opening presents by the fireplace, telling one of her daughters-in-law, “A coupon for a mud bath? Lovely. It’ll feel like practice for when I’m lowered in my grave and you all fight over my money.”
It’s on brand: the first time I met Millicent Smith, she put both hands on my shoulders and told me, “Having kids was the worst mistake of my life.” Her eldest son was standing right next to her. I have yet to ascertain whether she is a malevolent hag or just unintentionally cruel. Either way, she’s my favorite Smith character.
I wander away with a smile, winding up at the half-played Go board in the corner of the room. It’s been here ever since my first visit, the wooden squares and porcelain stones incongruous amid the coastal decor. Greg is chatting with his dad, and I wonder if we’ll leave soon. I have thirty-three Vibrations, Waves, and Optics essays to grade, which will surely have me wishing for a violent death. A Fundamentals of Materials Science Scantron exam to write. And, of course, a job talk to prepare. I want—no, I need to nail it. There’s no margin of error, since it’s my way out of spending my nights fake dating and my days exchanging emails with [email protected] about whether his chinchilla’s gluten allergy should release him from the Physics 101 midterm. I’ll have to rehearse it a minimum of eleven times—i.e., the number of dimensions according to M-theory, my favorite über-string version—
“Do you play?”
I startle. Again. Jack stands on the other side of the board, dark eyes studying me. All his relatives are here—why is he wasting precious family time to pester his brother’s fake girlfriend?
“Elsie?” My name, again. Said like the universe made that word for him alone. “I asked, do you play?” He sounds amused. I hate him.
“Oh. Um, a bit.” Understatement. Go is mind twisting and punishingly intricate—therefore, many physicists’ extracurricular activity of choice. “Do you?”
Jack doesn’t answer. Instead he adds a few white stones.
“Oh, no.” I shake my head. “It’s someone else’s game. We can’t—”
“Black okay?”
Not really. But I swallow and hesitantly reach for the stones and set them down. My pride plays a nice little tug-of-war against my survival instincts: I won’t conceal my Go skills and let Jack win, but for all I know losing will transform him into a fire-breathing bison and he’ll incinerate a load-bearing wall. I don’t want to die in a house collapse, next to Jack Smith and his threesome-obsessed uncle.
“How’s Greg?” he asks.
“He’s over there, with your cousin,” I say absentmindedly, watching him place more stones. His hands are stupidly large. But also graceful, and it makes no sense. Also makes no sense? There are two chairs, but we’re not sitting.
“But how is he?”
In my humble experience, siblings at best tolerate each other, and at worst spit gum in one another’s hair. (Mine. My hair.) Jack and Greg, though, are close—for undivinable reasons, given that Greg’s a likable human disaster full of Sturm und Drang, while Jack . . . I’m not sure what Jack’s deal is. There’s a dash of bad boy there, a hint of mystery, a dollop of smoothness. And yet a touch of hunger, a raw, unrefined air. Mostly, he looks cool. Too cool to even be cool. Like maybe in high school he skipped the school dance for a Guggenheim fellow’s art exhibition and somehow still managed to get elected prom king.
Jack looks distant. Uninterested. Effortlessly confident. Charismatic in an intriguingly opaque, inaccessible way.
But he does care for Greg. And Greg cares for him. I heard him say, with my own two ears, that Jack is his “best friend,” someone he “can trust.” And I listened without pointing out that he can’t really trust his best friend Jack that much, or he’d be honest with him about the fake dating—because I’m a supportive fake girlfriend.
“Greg’s good. Why do you ask?”
“When we talked the other day he sounded stressed about Woodacre.”
About . . . what? Is this something Greg’s girlfriend should know? “Ah, yes,” I fib. “A little.”
“A little?”
I busy myself with the stones. I’m not winning as easily as I expected. “It’s getting better.” Everything does with time, right?
“Is it?”
“Very much.” I nod enthusiastically.
He nods, too. Less enthusiastically. “Really?”
Jack’s actually not bad at Go. How have I not wiped the floor with him yet? “Really.”
“I thought Woodacre was in a couple of days. I figured Greg’d be upset.”
I tense. Maybe I should have asked Greg for talking points. “Oh, yeah, true. Now that you mention it—”
“Remind me, Elsie.” He takes a tiny step closer to the board, towering over me like a towering tower. But I’m not short. I refuse to feel short. “What’s Woodacre, again?”
Crap. “It’s”—I try for an amused expression—“Woodacre, of course.”
Jack gives me a Don’t bullshit me look. “That’s not an answer, is it?”
“It’s . . .” I clear my throat. “A thing Greg’s working on.” The extent of what I’ve been told about Greg’s job? That he’s a data scientist. “I don’t know the details. It’s complicated science stuff.” I smile airily, as though I don’t spend my life building complex mathematical models to uncover the origins of the universe. My heart hurts.
“Complicated science stuff.” Jack studies me like he’s peeling off my skin and expects to find a banana rotting inside.
“Yeah. People like you and I wouldn’t understand.”
He frowns. “People like you and I.”