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Be still, my heart.
“You should be my fake girlfriend.”
“Can we go back to the part about me definitely not being your fake girlfriend?”
was the kind of person who was anxious to enter social situations but often had fun once she was there.
She often joked she felt more comfortable around fictional men than real ones.
“But it’s nothing serious. Really. It’s all fake, it’s all for show.”
“Who am I going to tell? I spend my days with Oliver Twist, Harry Potter, and Daisy Buchanan. My second-best friend, besides you, is Jane Austen. Your secret is safe.”
I felt lighter, like my heavy backpack of fake-relationship bullshit had been set down for a few minutes.
it’s all fake, it’s all for show—I sobered.
“Men should be seen and not heard.”
“Your laptop is a thousand years old. They found it in an Egyptian tomb.”
God, he had a stupid face. A punchable face,
The cold spread in my chest as I looked into her eyes. I was in love with her, and I wanted to marry her for real.
was getting married tomorrow. Fake married, but still, married.
Right. Our fake marriage. My heart ached once, sharp and fast, and I swallowed. The realization hit me. I swatted it away like a wasp at a picnic, but it wouldn’t leave. I didn’t want this to be a fake marriage. I wanted it to be real.
“This is so fun,” I told her, gesturing at our guests. “Everyone should have a fake wedding.”
