Writing the Rules: A Fake Dating Standalone

by Mariah Dietz

  “Mike is going to rain on your parade,” I point out. “He hates Thanksgiving.”

  “Who hates Thanksgiving?” Dad asks as the door leading to the garage opens, and he and Dylan come inside with the box that our Christmas tree is stored in.

  “It’s nothing, dear,” Mom says. “I was just telling Poppy that the Rios are coming for dinner.”

  “For the record, I was not in support of the idea,” Dad says.

  Mom waves her hand like she’s brushing away his words as inconsequential. I take another drink of my cider, trying to silence my nerves.

  “Poppy, help me with this tree, will you? It gets heavier every year.” He cranes his head around to look at Dylan. “Are you lifting?”

  Dylan looks up from his cell phone. “Yeah, Dad.”

  “Put your phone down. It’s Thanksgiving. The only people you need to be talking to are here in this house.”

  “Mom invited friends over,” Dylan counters.

  “Tree,” Dad says. “Focus on the tree. You’re killing my back.”

  “Sometimes, you sound so old,” Dylan says.

  I walk toward them, grabbing the back of the tree that is grazing the floor because of Dylan’s lack of attention.

  “That was harsh, kid,” Dad says to him. “If your mom weren’t here, I’d be telling you that your sister’s my favorite.”

  Dylan shakes out his long, straight brown hair. “You tell me that all the time.”

  We carry the tree through the dining room, past Dad’s office, and into the formal living room that is never used except for when company is here and Christmas morning.

  “Are we getting the rest of the Christmas stuff?” I ask.

  Dad shakes his head. “I think your mom hired someone to come and put up the lights outside, and you know how she feels about decorations. It’s just not her thing. Good thing you have your own apartment. You can make it look like the North Pole threw up.” He hooks his arm around my neck. My mom is nearly always serious, and my dad certainly has his moments as well—few things make him less easygoing than the discussion of losing profits and hearing complaints about one of his crews. However, when he takes a break from work and plays the role of dad or husband, he likes to joke around and be goofy. It has always been the side of him that I love seeing because it allows me to find my silly side as well.

  “Did mom order desserts with sugar in them?” Dylan asks. “Like real, processed, good stuff.”

  Dad shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

  “I hope so.” Dylan pulls his phone out again.

  “Dylan. Tree,” Dad says. “Come on. Both of you, help me set this thing up so I can get rid of the box before your mom changes her mind about the tree being up.”

  We assemble the three sections of the tree in a matter of minutes, then Dylan plugs in the tree, and his disposition changes, reminding me of the same version of him that I still always imagine when thinking of my little brother. The goofy, dinosaur-loving, awkward kid who insisted I tuck him in each night where we’d lie together in his bed and read fantasy books about dragons and far-off lands and imagine ourselves there in the pages.

  The doorbell rings, bringing me back to the present. Mike is here. Mom’s heels tap across the floor as she goes to answer it, a quick pace that matches my heart. It feels like I’m about to meet the Volturi.

  Dad links his arm around Dylan and reminds him of his manners as he directs them toward the door, leaving me to follow on my own accord.

  Even while we were dating, the Rios never came over for holidays, which makes having them gathered in our foyer and shedding their coats even more shocking.

  “Poppy!” Mrs. Rio calls my name and flings both of her arms out. I was surprised when she and my mom began spending time together because the two are opposite as day and night. My mom is orderly and punctual and thrives on data and facts. She also hates sugar and all processed foods. Mrs. Rio always has cookies in the house, loves reality TV, and shows affection openly and often with hugs that usually last a few seconds too long.

  I step into her hug, surprised by how normal it feels.

  “Mike!” Dylan’s excitement slips before he can temp it down to match his typical, too-cool-for-school temperament. I feel Mike’s eyes on me and confirm it with a glance. He’s wearing another button-down, but this time he has a Nirvana shirt over the top with its symbolic smiley face winking at me. It’s so much more him than the sweaters and other outfits I’ve seen him wearing, and I almost voice the fact.

  “Hey, Dill Pickle,” Mike says to my little brother.

  Dylan doesn’t correct him, allowing him to use the nickname I donned him at a young age that he’s been trying to shake for the past two years. Instead, he smiles wider. “Are you home for the week? I got a new video game we should play.”

  “How’s the tree house?” Mike asks.

  Dylan lifts a single, floppy shoulder. “I’m a little too old for the tree house.”

  Mike grins. “No one’s ever too old for a tree house. I plan to build one in my backyard when I get my own place.”

  Dylan scoffs with doubt but doesn’t say anything.

  “Nice to see you, Poppy,” Mr. Rio says.

  “You, too,” I say, my response genuine and honest. I always liked Mike’s parents. They were always accepting, kind, and funny, and they welcomed me into their lives, making me feel like I belonged. He looks a bit older, his hair more silver than blond, and he’s a little fuller around the middle, but then he smiles, and familiarity floods me with a dozen memories, all of them fond and comforting, but like a paper cut, they leave a pain that stings the longer I think about them.

  “We brought pie, brownies, and ice cream,” Mr. Rio says.

  “Brownies!” Dylan shouts victoriously.

  “I think we have a winner,” Mom says. “Come on in. Dinner will be in about an hour—just enough time to have a drink and eat some finger foods.”

  Mrs. Rio keeps her arm around my waist. “You’re too thin. You’re built like your mother with that long neck and long frame. Willowy.” It’s the same word she’s used to describe me when we met for the first time before our homecoming dance sophomore year. It feels like a lifetime ago and also like it just happened last week.

  When Dad offers drinks, it’s my chance to escape. I follow Dylan over to the spread of appetizers, where he looks across the feast, his face expressing his thoughts and interest level of each dish before he reaches the dips. “Ranch?” he asks.

  “Doubtful. Probably a crab or artichoke dip.”

  He cringes. Dylan was born picky, and it’s only gotten worse, but there are enough appetizers to feed a dozen people a full meal. Shrimp cocktails, mini brie pinwheels with pomegranate seeds, candied walnuts, cherry tomatoes, mozzarella, and basil leaves skewered with toothpicks and drizzled with a balsamic glaze, fruits, vegetables, braided bread, crostini with artful toppings, and more fill the kitchen island.

  “You’ll like these,” I say, pointing at the mini quiches.

  “They have vegetables,” he says. “No way.”

  I grab one and take a bite. There’s a little onion, but not enough that he will be able to tell over the bacon and cheese. “Bacon,” I tell him. “We have these every year. Those are ham, and these are bacon. These are the ones with the veggies.” I point at the ones with red bell peppers and tiny bits of broccoli coloring the top. “And you like the cheese and crackers.” I stop on the deviled eggs. “Mom made deviled eggs?”

  Dylan shrugs, the detail seemingly inconsequential to him but beyond bizarre to me because my mom has always considered them retro and overly hyped.

  “I feel like you lied to me,” Mike says, making me jump. Thoughts are racing through my head as I try to read his expression, which seems too joyful and humorous for such an accusation. Does he know that I lied? Did Paxton say something? Is that why I haven’t heard from him today?

  “You always said your mom didn’t do anything big for the holidays.”

>   I stare at him, my relief coming as short breaths that slowly inflate my lungs. I look across the dining room and kitchen and beyond to the family room at the ceramic pumpkins. “She doesn’t,” I tell him. “This is a first for the decorations and a first for this much food. And she let my dad and Dylan bring out the Christmas tree.” I glance at where my mom is talking to his mom. “Maybe she’s been abducted by aliens.”

  Mike chuckles. “People change. You’ve always loved the holidays. Maybe she’s doing this for you?”

  His gaze is balanced on mine, unwavering and confident. It’s not fair because I feel everything but confident while standing across from him. Everything involving him from moving here to moving here with a girlfriend to being in my class to having him here right now feels like an anvil hitting me. I feel hesitant and nervous about what more he might be hiding from the past couple of years.

  “It’s likely for her new book,” I say. “She’s probably running a social experiment. We should play along and eat.” I reach for a plate and scan over the food, recalling Paxton asking me why girls don’t eat in front of guys as my stomach lacks all interest in the tasty treats. Still, I fill my plate, hoping the nerves subside.

  “Poppy, did you offer Mike something to drink?” Mom asks.

  I glance at my filled cup and plate to Mike’s empty hands. “Sorry,” I say, setting my dishes on the kitchen counter. “What can I get you? Cider? Water? Pop?”

  “Surprise me,” he says.

  “We don’t have Mountain Dew,” I tell him.

  That familiar spark hits his gaze, and I can tell he likes that I can recall his favorite drink. It would be impossible not to. He drank a Mountain Dew every day of high school. I turn toward the fridge in an attempt to ignore his expression. “We have orange juice, carbonated water, Pepsi, Sprite…” I push aside the milk, knowing he doesn’t drink it.

  “Pepsi would be great,” he says.

  I pull out the chilled can and hand it to him. Our fingers brush as he takes it. It isn’t intentional, but I compare his fingers to Paxton’s. Mike has artist’s fingers, long and thin, his nails short and clean with rounded cuticles, whereas Paxton’s fingers are thicker, his cuticles squared. Sometimes he carries a tennis ball around that he squeezes to work on his grip, and I study his hands, watching the muscles and tendons flex and release.

  I withdraw my hand, close the fridge door, and take the long way around the extended kitchen island toward my plate and cup.

  “Want to take this outside?” Mike asks.

  My plate starts to tip, but I correct it and take a breath. He makes me feel so unbalanced and nervous that I begin to feel self-conscious over the fact. My cheeks are likely pink. I want to prove to him and me that I’m not affected by him. “Sure. Yeah. Do you want to grab some food first?”

  He looks at my plate. “I think I’ll be fine.”

  “You know I don’t share food,” I remind him.

  Mike laughs. “We’re about to eat a whole turkey dinner. There’s no way you can eat all of that and then a meal.”

  I eye my plate, realizing I filled it fuller than I should have.

  “Come on,” he says.

  No one is paying attention. Mom’s engaging Dylan to tell the Rios about his piano lessons, making our escape too easy.

  Mike leads us out to the sunroom, where the temperature is at least twenty degrees colder than the house. Goosebumps line my skin.

  “Why isn’t your boyfriend here?” Mike asks, catching me off guard once more. It feels like every time I line up a defense, he comes at me from another angle, although I should have seen this one coming.

  I shake my head. “Why don’t you say his name?” I ask.

  Mike nods once and then takes a drink of his pop. “Because I don’t like him.”

  “You don’t even know him.”

  “I know enough.”

  I shake my head. “You don’t know anything.”

  “How’d that come about, anyway?”

  “What?”

  “You dating a meathead.”

  “He’s not a meathead.”

  “He’s a jock,” Mike says.

  “You of all people should hate stereotypes. How many people assumed you were a massive pothead because you liked grunge music?”

  “I was a pothead.”

  “You smoked twice. That hardly constitutes being a pothead.” I sit on the overstuffed wicker couch, indignation resting against my nerves.

  I expect a sarcastic retort, but instead, Mike grins and takes a seat beside me, leaving a large enough gap that Dylan could fill the space. “I’m not trying to argue. Let’s call a truce.”

  “Pax is a good guy.”

  Mike nods. “But is he good enough?”

  I shake my head. “I’m pretty sure that’s none of your business.”

  He lifts his hands. “Fair enough. I do want to call a truce—wave the white flag. I don’t want to fight. I want to hang out and find out how things are going and catch up.”

  I want to ask him why he’s trying to be friends now? Why he’s acting so rude toward Pax? I also don’t want to even get in the vicinity of those answers.

  I pull in a breath and steel myself, trying to be pragmatic and logical and turn my emotions off. “How does it feel being back in Washington?” I ask. “Do you miss Arkansas?”

  He looks at me, his eyes roaming slowly over my face like he’s still trying to count the differences. “Not as much as I missed Washington.”

  My heart beats noticeably in my chest, both faster and firmer as his gaze stays on mine, unabashedly, but it’s not the good pitter-patter that indicates butterflies but instead feels like a warning in my chest.

  “Guys!” Dylan yells from inside the house. “Hello? Mike? Poppy?”

  “We’re out here!” I holler, grateful for the interruption.

  Dylan appears. “We’ve got less than an hour before dinner. I want to show you the video game. Come on,” he says from the doorway.

  “We can do it after dinner,” Mike tells him. “I’m not in any hurry. I plan to stick around.” He looks at me as he says this, and though my fingers are still frozen, his words sink into me, feeling intentional.

  Dylan looks rejected, but he doesn’t let it stop him from coming outside and plopping on the chair across from me. Two years ago, I’d be bribing him so he’d give us some time alone, but today, I offer him my small stack of crackers, hoping it encourages him to stay.

  With a bit of prompting, Dylan tells us about school, his karate lessons, and then video games. While he talks, my thoughts blur and travel to Paxton. I recheck my phone to see if I’ve received any word from him. A missed text has me quickly unlocking my phone.

  Chloe: Happy Thanksgiving!! XO!

  Mike cuts his attention to me. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. It’s just a friend,” I say, setting my phone down.

  He doesn’t say anything, but I can hear his silent questions, and while they’re not intrusive, they’re insistent, making me get to my feet. “We should go inside. Dinner will be ready soon.”

  I arrive home late, the apartment dark and empty. I regret not accepting my parents’ invitation to spend the night. I set two plates of leftovers on the counter and take off my jacket, hanging it up as my thoughts drift over the evening. Mike sat across from me at dinner, our eyes meeting several times until I finally found the right distraction by asking Mom to tell us about her latest book deal and the book tour that’s tied with it. After dinner, we went to the living room, and the Rios family helped us decorate the Christmas tree. We had dessert and watched a movie until Dylan whined enough about the video game that Dylan, Mike, and I went up to the loft to play.

  I want to say it was uncomfortable and boring. That it was weird hanging out with Mike again, especially after the tension between him and Pax, and our own strange altercation in the sunroom, but instead we ate more dessert and laughed over my poor video game skills, and then Dylan got tired of us talking
too much and switched the game to single player and Mike and I went down for more brownies. He opened a new playlist that was peppered with artists I knew, and we laughed and talked about music and lyrics and the significance behind them until Mrs. Rio announced it was time to leave.

  I change into my pajamas, wash my face, and brush my teeth while I replay the looks we exchanged, the words we shared that sometimes seemed to hold hidden meanings. I think of the way he’d moved to sit beside me when he turned on the music and was close enough that our legs brushed.

  I climb into bed and check my phone again for any messages as I send replies to friends who had contacted me throughout the day that I never responded to. None of them are from Pax.

  I scroll through social media, seeing pictures of people with their families, of feasts, pies, turkeys, football games in the backyard. I stop at a picture that Paxton posted of him with his mom, Rae, Lincoln, and grandparents. Another that he posted of their dinner, one of him cutting the turkey, and a final one of him with whipped cream on his face with a crooked smile like he didn’t want to laugh but couldn’t help it.

  Maybe I should text him? We’re friends, after all. But as my thumbs hover over the keyboard, I can’t find the right words to say, so instead, I set it on my nightstand and roll over.

  20

  Paxton

  “Aren’t we supposed to be hanging out?” Vanessa, Cooper’s girlfriend, asks, stopping in the living room where Tyler, Cooper, Ian, Luis, Caleb, Arlo, Lincoln, and I are watching tape. All of last year, I couldn’t tell the twins apart, but Vanessa cut her hair recently, and it’s been a saving grace because I can finally tell who is who.

  Arlo looks around at us and then back at her. “We’re hanging out and working. Two birds, one stone,” he says, holding up his index finger.

  Vanessa raises her eyebrows. “It’s Friendsgiving. Work isn’t allowed.”

  “Ten more minutes, and we’ll be done,” I tell her. “You have my word.”

  Vanessa looks at me. “I’m going to hold you to it.”