In my head, Jane and I didn’t wake up one morning and decide that our fake relationship was real. It was gradual, and the feelings inside the fake-dating op were never fabricated. But Jane was slow to let me in, and she’d say that we were “pals who fuck” for most of that time. The technical answer is two days ago. The answer I feel is more ambiguous, and both are wrong ones to tell her dad. Make a decision, Thatcher. Steam billows from my cup and heats my face. “It’s felt like a long time,” I say. “Feelings tend to blur rationality.”
