It’s getting late and Cabot says, “Hey, do you want to come spend some time with me?” mimicking the words from “Big Spender.” This time he’s the one to wink.
I grin, probably too big, but I don’t care. I like that we have this new secret language between us to call on. Jacen and I used to have one, too. I guess all couples probably do. It’ll make Cabot and me seem more real.
We say our good-byes, and as we walk out of the karaoke room back into the main part of Goodnight Irene’s, this time it’s Cabot who takes me by the hand to lead me through the crowd. Once we’re outside and there’s no one to see, he doesn’t let go. The butterflies swoop and soar and I tell them to simmer down, and I’m starting to wonder if they know more than me. Our first night out as a “couple” and the line between fact and faux has gone a bit fuzzy.
Once we’re in the car, I ask, “Where are we going?”
“There’s a coffee place on the way with an outside deck on the lake. I thought we could go there,” he says. “Don’t worry, I’m sure they have tea.”
At the shop, Cabot buys me a chamomile tea, and himself an extra large coffee. We take our drinks out to the deck, where the huge canopy of oak trees that cover it are strung in lights, reflecting on the lake like tiny stars in the water.
“I don’t know how your heart can handle all that caffeine,” I tell him. “Mine would be racing out of my chest.”
“I’m a seventeen-year-old guy—caffeine is barely a blip on my heart’s radar compared to the daily onslaught of tiny shorts, tight tops, and I guess now…Broadway tunes. Seriously, I had no idea that’s what y’all are doing all day in theater. I may have to consider switching my track.” He smiles mischievously over his coffee cup.
I can’t help the butterfly pandemonium that erupts. Who knew Cabot Wheeler was such a flirt? I’ll have to tread carefully—those looks combined with that smirky mouth is a heartbreak waiting to happen. “You’re already in two, I think that’s plenty,” I counter.
“Are those the kinds of songs you sing with Jacen? Because that doesn’t sound awkward at all after a breakup,” he quips.
“The most awkward thing for me is that Jacen doesn’t feel awkward. Other than the fact that he feels genuinely bad for how I found out—”
“Which he should,” Cabot interjects.
“He’s totally over it, otherwise.” I take a sip of tea, slowly in case it’s too hot—my tongue is only now getting back to normal after the incident the other day.
“And you? Are you over it?”
I roll the question over in my mind. “I’m over the shock, but the rest may take a while. The hardest part is trying to figure out how to fix my plan to go to Los Angeles after graduation.”
“Is that where you’re going to college?” he asks. Of course someone with Cabot’s background would never consider that college is out of reach for someone with my background.
“No, not college. Jacen and I were going to move out there together and start auditioning. But now…I don’t know that I can afford to go by myself.”
Cabot nods knowingly. “I guess Oliver made y’all do the whole ‘living as an artist’ scenario, too?”
“Yeah, but even if I could figure out how to come up with the money, going to Los Angeles, by myself? The farthest I’ve been outside of Austin was the San Antonio zoo in the fifth grade.”
“What do your parents think about it?”
Crap. See what happens when you wander beyond the boundaries of no strings, all fun? My family situation is not a topic I want to delve into on a first date, especially a fake one. I’d feel bad out-and-out lying, though, so I go vague. “You know how parents are,” I say, and let him fill in the blanks on his own, knowing he’d never think to complete them with “died in prison” and “abandonment.” Now to redirect the conversation back to the shallower end of the pool. “What about you? How are you doing getting over your breakup? I’m guessing you didn’t know about Audrey’s, uh, extracurricular activity.”
“No. I didn’t. I guess I’m also over the shock, though. Probably because it didn’t shock me all that much. Audrey is…well, she didn’t used to be this way,” he answers, “or I was too infatuated to see it. I don’t know, maybe I chose not to see it. When I came to NextGen, my parents had just split up, I didn’t know anybody, and Audrey was interested. So we started dating. I hung with her friends, we knew some of the same people outside NextGen, she made being with her easy. And I needed easy back then.”
I could make at least one thousand comments off the top of my head about how easy Audrey is, but I keep my mouth shut. Who am I to judge someone else’s relationship? Silence settles between us and we both stare at the lake for a bit.
Finally, I ask. “Should we talk about the next steps in our fauxmance, ways we can amp it up at school?”
“Absolutely,” says Cabot. “What are your ideas?”
“Let’s see…” I say, brainstorming next steps. “First, we should make sure everyone knows that we’re hanging out tonight. Do you have Instagram?”
“Yes, but I don’t post a lot and it’s mostly photographs for art class.”
“Does Audrey still follow you?”
He takes his phone from his pocket. “I think so.”
“Then we’re golden.” I fluff out my hair, then dig through my clutch for my tube of lipstick. I reach for his phone and use the camera so I can apply the vivid scarlet color. “There’s no point in taking any pictures if I don’t look good—Audrey won’t see me as a genuine threat otherwise.”
“I doubt that’s a problem,” Cabot says as I hand him back his camera. “You always look like you’re about to walk onto a film set.”
I bite the inside of my lip, suddenly feeling shy after his unexpected compliment. “What if I put my head on your shoulder, like this, and you lean your head against mine. That’ll be cute.”
“Tilt your face this way,” Cabot tells me, using his fingertips to move my chin. “You’ll get better light.” Then his cheek presses the top of my head. He smells warm and soft, like a blanket you want to snuggle in on a rainy day. Before I know it I’m imagining the two of us curled together on a sofa watching old black-and-white movies while thunder rumbles outside. I’d select something classic and funny with a dash of romance, like The Philadelphia Story, my favorite. Dashing Cary Grant and the magnificent Katharine Hepburn, razor-sharp banter, chemistry, and so much swoon! Cabot and I holding hands under the covers and…
“Mariely? Are you ready?”
I don’t know how many times he’s said my name before I finally hear him.
“Hmm? Yeah, okay, I’m ready,” I say, pulling my head out of the romance clouds and back into the fauxmance firmament where it belongs. Cabot clicks the button.
“Don’t move,” he says. “You always want several to choose from.” When we’re done we sit back, but now instead of there being space between us like before, our shoulders touch, not a lot, certainly not cozy-fantasy-inducing like before, but enough that my heart begins to beat out of rhythm. When he reaches across to show me his phone screen, I hope Cabot can’t feel it. It’s one thing for me to know how his proximity affects me, and entirely another for him to know. How do movie stars handle it when their leading man or lady is out-of-this-world beautiful? Other than sleep together, I mean. Maybe I can ask Willa’s soon-to-be stepmom, because I definitely need some tips for keeping my cool around Cabot.
We flip back and forth through the shots. Of course, Cabot, his indigo eyes and sculpted bones, looks like he just stepped off a photo shoot. He was right about the light, too; it gives us a soft, old Hollywood look.
We look good together. More importantly we look like we’re together together.
“Which one should we pick?” he asks. “You look great in both of them, but I look like less of a doof in the second one.” As if that’s even possible.
“The second one it is.”
He uploads the picture to his Instagram. “Any caption?”
“Hey, that’s my line. I’m the photographer. Okay, it’s done.”
“Not quite,” I say. I open the app on my phone and look up his account. “Your profile name is Cabot Wheeler? That’s it?”
“That is my name, what else would it be?”
“I don’t know, something more arty? Like Photoguy or Paintordie or OldBlueEyes.”
This gets me the side-eye. “I think Frank Sinatra already took that name,” Cabot says drily. “I don’t know, I’m not creative that way, I guess. What’s your profile name?”
“ATXDramaQueen, of course.”
Cabot’s eyebrow flicks up. “Of course.” I click to follow Cabot and then regram the picture.
“We want as many eyes on this as we can get,” I tell him.
Cabot puts away his phone. “I wanted to ask you, what about kissing?”
Just as my heartbeat had started to slow back down after our photo session, his question sends it straight into speed-racing mode. “You kissing me? Us kissing?” I reach for my tea and take a big gulp to wash down the ten thousand cotton balls suddenly lodged in my throat.
“I think kissing is the next step if, like you said, we want to amp this up. Do you think you would be okay with kissing me in public?”
Five minutes ago, in my head when we were under the covers watching suave Cary woo taciturn Katharine on the silver screen, kissing Cabot felt exactly like the next step, but in reality?
Whoa.
I try to play it cool. “Oh, sure. Stage-kissing comes with the job, so it’s no big deal for me. If you’re going to be an actress you’ve got to be convincing when kissing people you just met, or who you aren’t attracted to in real life, but uh, we already know each other and I’m obviously attracted—I mean not just me, everyone can see how attractive you are, it’s kind of empirical—” Oh by the buttons of Katharine Hepburn’s trousers. Shut up, Mariely! We’re talking about a stupid kiss, not negotiating peace deals in the Middle East. It’s not a big deal.
Cabot smiles, a wry, discerning smile that I’m not sure I like. “Does the idea of kissing me make you nervous, Mariely?”
“N-no,” I stutter, indignant that he sees through me. “I told you I’m okay with it. I’ve stage-kissed dozens of guys.” Okay, it’s more like four or five guys, including Jacen. I’m rounding up.
“What’s a stage kiss?”
“It’s how actors kiss. Just the lips, nothing more. Like this.” To prove how not nervous I am, I lean over and kiss him, quick and to the point, like I’m kissing my little brother good night. “See, I’m totally okay with it.”
Cabot’s surprised look makes my impulsiveness feel even more triumphant, at least until I realize he’s biting down on the corner of his lip trying not to laugh at me. “Mariely, that’s not a kiss.”
“Sure it is. It’s a stage kiss, for acting. That’s what we’re doing, acting.”
“We’re not acting like we’re brother and sister. No one is going to buy for a second that we’re hooking up if I kiss you like that.”
“What’s your suggestion? Should we slobber all over each other? Because that’s, well, it’s gross. I can’t see myself doing that, especially not at school.”
Cabot slants his head. “Who’s slobbering? Hasn’t anyone ever kissed you properly?”
“Of course, I’ve been kissed, I had a boyfriend.” Jacen and I kissed. We didn’t try to devour each other, but we kissed, at least in the beginning. Kissing Jacen was nice. I know that the way we broke up makes my kissing experience suspect, though. “What do you mean ‘properly’?”
Cabot stares at me for a long moment and then he cups my face in his hands and leans in, and his mouth is so close I can feel his breath against my lips. Everything stops, my breathing, my pulse, and all I can feel are Cabot’s fingertips on my skin. His eyes loom large in front of me, intense and impossibly dark, searching mine like he’s looking for permission. I answer by letting my eyelids flutter closed, and I hear myself sigh. Because Cabot Wheeler is about to kiss me.
Properly.
Or at least he was until my phone, volume level one hundred times infinity, blares siren-like between us. I pull away, fumbling for the damn thing, and Cabot’s hands slip from my cheeks. It’s Willa and her amazing BFF superpower of saving me in the nick of time from myself.
“Mariely, are you alive?” she demands when I answer. “You’re not answering my texts. I thought you said you’d be here by eleven?”
I glance at the time. Crap, it’s eleven thirty. “Sorry, Wills, Cabot and I were almost kissing talking and I completely lost track of time. We’ll be there soon. Bye.” I hang up, but it’s too late. The mood is dead, murdered.
“I guess I should get you home,” Cabot says.
I nod, but don’t say anything because I’m not sure what to say. We almost kissed. Not stage-kissed, but kissed kissed. I agree with Cabot that if we want to make people believe we’re hooking up, we should kiss, only I don’t know that I’m prepared for the way Cabot wants to do it. My way feels like the safest option, probably because with my way I keep breathing. But Cabot’s way feels…well, I don’t know what Cabot’s way feels like, thanks to Willa.
The car ride is mercifully short, since it’s awkward as hell. We park in front of Willa’s house. Cabot breaks the silence. “I think we should probably stick to stage-kissing, like you said. You’re right.”
“I am?” I try to hide the disappointment in my voice, not because I disagree, but because I think Cabot was about to let me in on this huge secret that everyone knows but me and now I’ll never know.
“Yeah, I don’t want you to be uncomfortable with anything—”
“You don’t make me uncomfortable, Cabot.”
“Or nervous, whatever. I know we’re pretending to be together, but our real-life breakups just happened. Maybe it’s too soon to start kissing other people.”
I start to argue. “But…” Then it hits me: Cabot isn’t ready to kiss someone else. He came close, so close it made him remember Audrey. Kissing Audrey. Properly. Agreeing with me gives him a way out without having to admit why. This was our agreement, no strings, but after what happened in the karaoke room, what almost happened a few minutes ago, I feel disappointed. “Yes, I think it’s best, for both of us.”
Cabot gets out of the car and comes around to open my door for me. “Hey, Willa,” he says as he helps me out of the seat.
“Hey, Cabot,” Willa says.
“Thanks for inviting me tonight. I had a good time,” he tells me.
“I told you karaoke was fun.”
“No, that was excruciating. But I enjoyed your performance, Triple Threat.” He winks before leaning down and kissing me on the cheek, a light brush, casual, friendly. My heart blushes. “I’ll see you Monday, Mariely.”
“Yes, Monday. And if we feel the moment is right, you know, for maximum effect, we’ll kiss.”
One side of his mouth hitches up. “Yes, ma’am. Just lips, nothing more. No big deal.”
“No big deal,” I agree.
He drives away and I walk into the house, Willa at my heels. My best friend’s constraint amazes me when she gets the door all the way shut before she pounces.
“What the hell? What happened tonight? Where were you? I thought this was all supposed to be pretend. I saw that picture on Cabot’s account. Looked awfully cozy.”
Cozy reminds me of my on-the-sofa-under-the-covers-movie-watching fantasy from earlier, but the mother hen look on Willa’s face tells me I should keep that to myself for now.
“Jeez, calm down, Willa. Nothing happened. We went to talk after we left karaoke. That’s all. The picture was to piss off Audrey.”
“And that kiss?” I know she means the one on the cheek, but that’s not the one I’m thinking about.
“Was a friendly kiss. We are friends now, after all. Take a breath. Please.”
>
“I’m worried about you, about this whole thing. It’s only been a week since things imploded with Jacen. Cabot also got his heart stomped on only seven days ago. And as this whole fauxmance scheme proves, y’all are clearly not in your right mental spaces. I think it could be really easy for one of you to get confused about what’s real and what’s not between you.”
Nope, I am definitely never telling her about my under-the-cover fantasy or our near-miss kiss.
“Willa, I’m an actress. I play fake people in fake relationships all the time. Cabot and I have a plan; we’re on the same page. Cabot is not confused with how this works; I’m not confused.”
Willa finally takes a deep breath, exhales slowly. “Fine, if you say so, I’ll try to stop worrying. Even though that’s the best friend’s job.”
I throw my arms around her. “I know. And I love you for it. But I’m in no more danger of falling in love with Cabot than you are of falling in love with Finn, right?” Willa’s cheeks go scarlet and her eyes get wide, almost as if I’ve called her out on a deep, dark secret she didn’t want revealed. Before I can say anything, though, she shakes it off.
“Whatever, it’s not even the same.”
“How is it not the same?”
“You are comparing apples and oranges—for one.” She lowers her voice, which means he must be around. “Finn is not hot.”
“Now who’s confused?” I whisper back. “He is soooo hot. You’re just refusing to acknowledge his hotness out of spite.”
“Are you saying that you’re unaffected by Cabot’s looks? ’Cause I am calling straight-up bullshit, Mariely. I’ve seen how you’re all nervous and weird around him.” Great. So Cabot’s not the only one who’s noticed. I’ve got to work on that.
I continue my argument. “Then it’s a good thing Cabot doesn’t live in my house walking around with his hotness all the time, or have his bedroom three feet across the hall from me, isn’t it?”
“That’s right, Finn lives in my house, because his mom is going to marry my dad. We’re practically related.”
“Only technically related, you don’t share blood, and you met like five minutes ago,” I remind her. “All I’m saying is that if I were in as close proximity to Finn McCain on a daily basis as you are, there would be definite fireworks.”
Crazy, Stupid, Fauxmance (Creative HeARTS) Page 8