Maybe It's Real

by North, Isabel

He obliged, gripping her firmly by the hips. “How’s this different from fainting again?”

  Her eyes opened. “Ecstasy and rapture.”

  “Ah.”

  “If there’s no ecstasy and rapture, it’s an everyday faint. Like your grandma.”

  Without thinking, Owen cupped her cheek. “Thank you for this, Chloe,” he said, voice low.

  “For the demonstration?”

  “Yeah. And the rest.”

  “Anytime.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  OWEN: Had fun last Friday. Wedding’s on August 25th, so keep the day free.

  OWEN: If you’re still good with the whole thing.

  OWEN: No worries if you’ve changed your mind.

  OWEN: Let me know if you have.

  OWEN: Sorry for all the texts. Stuck in a car with Jim.

  CHLOE: Are you literally stuck? Do I need to send help?

  OWEN: Hah. No. Waiting on an informant. Two hours late. Am sooo stiff.

  OWEN: Shit. From sitting. Am not sexting you.

  CHLOE: Oops. In that case, please ignore the photo I sent you of my—

  OWEN: Of your what?

  OWEN: …

  OWEN: I didn’t get a photo.

  CHLOE: LOL.

  OWEN: :(

  CHLOE: Re being stiff: remember to move every half hour. Don’t stay in one position for too long. Sitting is as bad for you as smoking.

  OWEN: That doesn’t sound true. LOL?

  CHLOE: I know these things. It’s true.

  OWEN: It’s true. I looked it up. Am getting out of the car and going for a walk right now.

  Did he mean it, or was he humoring her? It was Monday morning and Chloe was at work, with a ten-minute break between appointments. She decided to take a chance and call.

  After three rings, Owen picked up. “Hi.”

  “Enjoying your walk?” Chloe asked.

  “To say I’m enjoying it would be an overstatement. This isn’t a part of the city they put in the travel brochures. On the plus side, as well as getting a break from Jim, I’m avoiding the many health complications of sitting I wasn’t aware of until I Googled it. Who knew doing nothing was dangerous?”

  “I’ll have you giving up red meat before you know it.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think that’ll happen.”

  “High cholesterol. Heart disease. Colorectal—”

  “If you do not finish that sentence, I’ll take you on a fake date that will blow your mind.”

  “I’m intrigued.”

  “It probably won’t blow your mind. But I can guarantee it will be more romantic than ice cream.”

  Chloe’s physical therapy assistant, Anthony, ducked his head around the door and raised expectant eyebrows. She nodded at him and he disappeared. Getting to her feet, she said, “Owen, I have to go. I called to let you know that I’ve marked the wedding date on my calendar. I’ll be there.”

  “Okay. Shit. I’ve got to go, too.”

  “Did your informant show?”

  “Kinda. Jim sprinted past and…hell. Call you later!” He disconnected.

  Anthony had been lying in wait for her, and he pounced as soon as Chloe emerged from her small office. “What are you smiling about, Miss Cheery Pants?” he demanded. They fell into step, heading for the treatment room.

  “Am I smiling? Are you sure it isn’t my naturally sunny nature shining through?”

  Anthony assessed her. “Worse. You’re sparkling. Must have been an exciting conversation.”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Uh-huh. You seem to have missed my subtext. Give me details.”

  Chloe sped up to match his long strides. “There are no details. It wasn’t exciting.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  “Okay, then. My boyfriend is out there right now, fighting crime!” she said. “He had to go because he was chasing someone.”

  “You’re right.” Anthony opened the door to the treatment room for her. “It isn’t exciting.”

  “Chasing a criminal, Anthony. Fighting crime.”

  “I heard you.” He scooted her ahead of him.

  “Like a superhero.”

  “Or a cop? I’m guessing he’s a cop, and not Captain America? Because if you were dating Captain America, that would be a reason to sparkle. Otherwise? Eh.” Before she could open her mouth and greet the waiting client, he scooped her back out of the room and shut the door. “Wait. You have a boyfriend? Since when?”

  Fake boyfriend, but... “It’s new,” she told him primly. “And we’re running late.”

  * * * *

  CHLOE: The zoo?

  OWEN: The zoo.

  CHLOE: … SF zoo?

  OWEN: ?

  CHLOE: You took me to the zoo for our date? Did we at least do anything sexy and illegal, or did we hold hands and look at the animals?

  OWEN: I’m a cop.

  CHLOE: So, we bribed a security guard to let us stay after closing hours, and then we made love in the reptile house, is what I’m hearing.

  OWEN: I hate snakes.

  OWEN: Public indecency is a big no for police detectives. As is trespassing.

  CHLOE: And…

  OWEN: And we made love in the reptile house. Because I’m romantic like that.

  CHLOE: Best boyfriend ever! XOXO

  * * * *

  OWEN: Are you free next Saturday?

  CHLOE: Yes if you’re taking me to Paris. No if you’re going to cheat and take me on another one of your ‘top ten dates in San Francisco’ as suggested by the internet.

  OWEN: Busted ;) This will be a real-world fake-date rather than an imaginary fake-date.

  CHLOE: PARIS????

  OWEN: I never at any point mentioned Paris. Almost as exciting, though. BBQ at Jim’s.

  CHLOE: I’m in. Sounds fun.

  OWEN: …

  CHLOE: It’ll be fun!

  OWEN: …

  * * * *

  CHLOE: Say it, Owen.

  OWEN: It was fun.

  CHLOE: I’m not convinced.

  OWEN: So fun. Especially the part when Jim’s kid hosed me down with soda.

  CHLOE: You mean this precious moment right here?

  OWEN: Nice photo. Thanks for sharing. Please don’t send it to Jim.

  CHLOE: Um.

  * * * *

  CHLOE: Hey, Owen. Haven’t heard from you for a few days. Hope work isn’t too crazy.

  * * * *

  OWEN: Sorry it took me so long to get back to you. Work IS crazy. Catch up soon?

  CHLOE: Sure :) You should know, in the past week, we have been on a romantic walk on the beach, spent a day in Golden Gate park, and attended a dance workshop. You stunned me with your salsa skills. Your freestyle skills, however, are amazeballs.

  CHLOE: Don’t care how lame that word is.

  CHLOE: Amazeballs.

  * * * *

  Chloe’s fingers clenched around her phone and she tossed it onto the passenger seat with a snort of annoyance. She was checking it again.

  For the fifth time.

  She shuffled around in the seat, trying to get comfy and failing. She’d texted Fraser when she arrived to let him know she was waiting. He’d texted his acknowledgment in the form of a single letter, k, and that was it. The drive out here had only taken an hour, but she’d been in the parking lot for forty minutes.

  Chloe popped the door open and slid out. Reaching her arms up and over her head, she stood on tiptoe, tipping her face to the sun. She’d give Fraser ten more minutes, then she was leaving his ass here.

  Well, no, she wasn’t going to leave him here. But she would definitely call him and ask him what was taking him so long.

  Dropping her heels back to the ground, she twisted at the waist from one side to the other and let her arms swing loosely at her sides. The tight muscles across her shoulders and her upper back softened.

  What about Owen?

  Should she call him and ask him what was up?

  It was a week since she�
��d sent her last text. He hadn’t responded to it, or to the two texts she’d sent before that.

  Chloe had to ask herself if this was his emotionally closed-off way of telling her that the whole point of fake-dating someone was not having to put in the effort of staying in contact.

  Once she’d had the thought, she’d read back over their long text conversation.

  No, she decided. Owen had been as into it as she was. Since the night he’d taken her to dinner, they’d traded ridiculous and not-so-ridiculous date ideas.

  Hers being the ridiculous ones, his being the not-so-ridiculous.

  In fact, Owen’s had been…sweet.

  But in between their banter had been other texts. If she was honest with herself, she’d looked at these the most. The simple ones, checking in with her for no reason other than to ask how her day had been.

  Or one that woke her up at three in the morning to say goodnight, meaning Owen had just finished work.

  Or the flurried exchange they’d had over whether or not they needed to take anything to Jim’s BBQ, which Chloe solved by calling Jim and asking him.

  Standing on one leg, she bent a knee and caught her ankle behind her, drawing it in to her butt to stretch out the front of her thigh.

  Had something gone wrong at the barbecue that she hadn’t noticed? Was that what had caused his radio silence?

  Owen had picked her up at eleven and they’d been at Jim’s by noon, barely making it up the driveway before the side gate had been flung open and Jim came out to drag them around back.

  It was a small gathering, with Jim and his Danish wife, Karin, and their three children, and two colleagues—Rick, who Chloe recognized from Roscoe’s and was keen to talk to her again about his knee, and Helen, who she hadn’t met before. Both had brought their spouses.

  Owen had brought Chloe.

  They’d had a good time.

  Especially when Owen was doused with a two-liter bottle of soda.

  Jim’s youngest, a blond-haired, brown-eyed six-year-old called Mads, had taken a shine to Owen and stuck to him like glue, when he wasn’t running screaming around the yard with his sisters.

  In a rush to be a good host, the little boy had darted off to get Owen a top-up, and must have shaken the bottle up as he hurried back from the kitchen. Owen had held out his glass for Mads to fill, and when the little boy had grown red in the face, frustrated because he couldn’t get the top off, Owen had obliged.

  The foaming spray hit him in the throat first.

  Mads lunged to help, they grappled briefly, the bottle disgorged its fizz all the way down Owen’s shirt, and ended up in his lap.

  He was comprehensively soaked.

  The practical Karin had whisked Owen inside to throw his clothes in the washer, and Owen had spent the rest of the afternoon in an extremely close-fitting pair of Jim’s SFPD sweats.

  Chloe hadn’t been distracted by his tight ass and straining biceps at all.

  “He’s never going to come to a barbecue again,” Jim had sighed to Chloe as they were taking their leave. “I’m finally cracking his crunchy shell to find the bro below, and my little heathen has set me back eight months.”

  “How long have you been working together?”

  “Eight months. Owen’s a tough one. But perhaps all is not lost. He’s relaxed a lot since he met you, Chloe. I mean, he’s so tense that sometimes I get the feeling that if I speak too loud when he’s not expecting it, he’ll either scream or throw me across the room. But he’s definitely improved.”

  Soda disaster aside, the barbecue had been great. Chloe didn’t think Jim had to worry about any setbacks.

  Whatever the reason for Owen’s silence, it wasn’t that.

  Perhaps it was her after all?

  Ugh. Chloe scowled. Now she was going in circles.

  Giving in to the urge to check her phone, she slid into her car, registered the figure sitting beside her in the passenger seat, and screeched. “Fraser! What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Getting a ride. Because someone insisted they’d drive out here even if I called a cab.”

  “You could have said something.” She reached across the car and dragged him into an awkward, twisted hug.

  “No need to choke me,” her brother said into her hair.

  “This is a hug.”

  He squeezed back, then detached her. “Oh, I know. Trust me, I know. After three months in this place, I’m very familiar with hugging. And talking. So much talking.”

  Chloe studied him. His skin was clear, blue eyes bright, brown hair shiny. “You look good.”

  Fraser dipped his chin. “Worked fucking hard enough for it.”

  “Yeah, you did. Ready to go?”

  “Hit the gas.”

  Chloe started up her Prius, and they put the rehab center in the rearview mirror.

  The tension didn’t leave Fraser until they were in traffic on the road back to San Francisco.

  Two years ago, he’d ended up in hospital after getting in between a big wave and some hungry rocks while surfing. He’d been living down in Southern California at the time, working in a graphic design studio, and he hadn’t called Chloe to tell her about the accident until he’d already had surgery and been discharged from the hospital.

  She’d had no idea of the extent of his injuries until he’d shown up in San Francisco at the beginning of the year to confess that he’d lost his job and his apartment, and gained an addiction to his pain meds that scared the shit out of him.

  Chloe had been furious. Not with Fraser, with herself.

  As a physical therapist, she knew how easy it was for a struggling patient to rely on, then depend on, and then inevitably need medication, just to get themselves through the day.

  And yet with her own brother, she hadn’t seen the signs.

  She should have pushed him on his recovery, but he’d kept telling her he was fine, he had no problems, everything was under control. Right up until that horrible day he’d appeared out of the blue, terrified but determined.

  “How did Mom sound when you talked to her?” Chloe asked Fraser as they drove through the city.

  “Excited. Yeah. Can’t wait for me to rock up. You know Mom.” He added in a flat monotone, “It’ll be cookies and cuddles all the way.”

  “Right.” They turned down their parents’ street. The houses were large, the lawns were immaculate, and Fraser’s tension had returned.

  As they drew closer to their childhood home, Chloe began to feel some tension of her own. She parked, but left the engine running.

  In unison, Chloe and Fraser turned their heads to look at the imposing townhouse.

  She didn’t miss the way Fraser clenched his jaw.

  “Here we are, then,” Chloe said cheerfully. “Home sweet ho— oh, forget it.” Before Fraser could even make a move to open the door, she slammed the locks down and threw the car into drive.

  “Chlo—”

  “Nope,” she said. “Nuh-uh. Not doing it. Can’t do it.”

  “Got somewhere to be?” Fraser asked, sounding amused. “And slow down. You’re going over the speed limit. Let’s not celebrate my first morning of freedom with you getting a ticket.”

  Chloe eased off the gas. “We’re going home. You’re staying with me.”

  “Unless your apartment sprouted another room in the last ninety days, things are going to be pretty tight.”

  “You can sleep on the couch. Or we’ll take turns, couch-bed-couch-bed and so on. I promise I won’t smother you.”

  Fraser was quiet for a second. She felt him stare at her. “In the night?” he said eventually. “Okay. Always happy to be reassured that I won’t wake up to a descending pillow—”

  “I meant I won’t fuss and hover and tell you to eat your greens.”

  Fraser burst out laughing. “Oh, Chloe. Yes, you will.”

  “I won’t!”

  “You won’t be able to help yourself.”

  “Fraser—”

  He kicke
d his head back against the headrest and blew out a breath. “If you’re going to save me from staying with the parents, you have my permission to nag me about kale all you want. Shit, I will sleep in the tub if I have to.”

  “Couch is fine. And I’m not a big fan of kale.”

  He shot her a grin. “Do the other hippies know?”

  “Goddammit, I am not a hippie! I don’t have a single item of crochet in my wardrobe. I’ve never worn a headband in my life. I like maxi skirts and candles and I don’t like meat. What is the big deal?”

  “Did I hit a nerve there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “I do not. I want to talk about you.”

  “I have had ninety days straight of talking about me. If there’s any way we can schedule that for sometime next year, I’d be grateful.”

  Chloe chewed her lip.

  “I’m working the program.” He tugged her hair. “I’ve got this. Stop worrying.”

  Chloe slapped his leg. “Don’t touch the driver.”

  “So, who’s Owen?”

  She glanced at him. “What? How do you know about Owen?”

  “You’ve had about three texts from him in the last five minutes.”

  “Is that my phone? Put it down. Stop looking at it.”

  “Boyfriend?”

  “No,” she said. “Maybe. Sort of.”

  “Ah. Gotcha.”

  “We’re not hooking up, it’s not like that. It’s also not…entirely real?”

  “Huh. Is Owen real? Or is this an app? Ooh, if it’s not, then I’m inventing it. My Fake Boyfriend. It will start off with a little light text-flirting, then continue on to the really filthy stuff. That’s where you make the money. Keep the sexts behind layers and layers of in-app purchases.”