BS Boyfriend: A Standalone Fake Fiancée Romance

by JD Hawkins

  “Sir? Is that what you’re looking for?”

  Now the teen’s voice sounds like the most abrasive kind of alarm clock, pulling me from where I’m happy, deep in that memory. I force a smile and nod my gratitude.

  “Thanks, I’ll think it over. You’ve been a great help,” I say.

  “No problem.”

  I turn and leave. All the way to my gate, waiting a while, then moving through the jet bridge to board the plane, I keep the strip clenched in my hand, sniffing it occasionally, transporting myself back there to the hotel room. To her.

  Buckled up in my seat, I picture her as a nurse, working her job in scrubs, spreading that smile, that laugh, to people who need it. Giving everyone some of her infinite optimism and positivity. She’d be like an angel, except with fun instead of sanctimony. A living, breathing angel you don’t have to look upwards to see.

  And what about when she’s not at work? I see nothing but fog when I try to imagine her out of those scrubs. Suddenly I’m frustrated by the fact I didn’t ask her more about herself, that I didn’t try to learn about her life—even though I know it was the smart thing to do. The only way I could have pulled this off.

  Maybe not knowing is why she suddenly seems so perfect. Does she have loads of friends? All equally as laid-back and positive as her? Does she spend evenings alone? Wrestling with things she never shows anyone?

  The more I try to find something in the fog, the more I wonder what she thought of me, of my strange request, of the days she spent pretending to be mine. Was it as strange and exciting for her as it was for me? Or does she do crazy stuff like that all the time?

  And most of all, I keep asking myself how a girl like that can spend even a second of her life single. She must get hit on by every red-blooded male she comes into contact with. Doctors, patients, randoms she passes on the street. How did she end up so single she’s taking a vacation on her own? Maybe there’s much more to her than laughter and ease… Maybe I saw only what she wanted to show… Maybe there’s something not so nice about her…

  The more I remember, the less it all seems real. Not just Hazel, but even my own life. Montague and Brown. My status there. As if the contrast only just revealed how insane my normality is. I’m about to make it. I’m about to take charge of billions of dollars, and become a major player in the country’s economy. I’m about to breach the highest inner circle of power—me, the kid from the trailer park who never even had two nickels to carry in his pockets… I’ve been running on nothing but ambition and fumes for years, too obsessively focused to stop and look around, but now that I can… I’m actually gonna make it.

  And it’s all because the woman I took a random chance on turned out to be some kind of angel…

  “Hi there.”

  I turn from the airplane window. In the large business class seat beside me, a leggy blonde is just getting comfortable. Pencil skirt, white blouse, and wavy silken hair. The clothes simple because her body’s the main show. Toned calves that she holds demurely over each other as she stretches them out in the spacious seat. A toothpaste smile on a photogenic face. There are two full-sized armrests and a small table between us, but the way she’s looking at me, and the tone of her voice, imply we’re much closer.

  “Hello,” I say formally then turn back to the window, back to my thoughts.

  After a second she says, “You’re a banker, right?”

  I turn back to look at her with a mild frown of confusion. “Close. I’m in investments. Do I know you?”

  She smiles proudly and sidles in her seat so that she can face me a little more. She nods at my feet. “I guessed by your shoes. Kind of a talent of mine,” she says, then holds her hand out. “Lauren Cairn—I’m in fashion.”

  I shake her hand quickly but don’t match her smile. Still, when she has my eyes on her she kicks off her heels slowly, rubbing her own foot with the heel of the other. It’s a gesture that looks practiced, and I know it’s designed to draw my eyes to her legs.

  “Nate,” I reply.

  “Nate…” she repeats with a smile, like she’s enjoying the taste of my name on her lips. Before I can turn back to the window she says, “So you’re from Chicago?”

  “Yep.”

  “Heading home to the wife and kids?”

  She’s perched her delicate face on her long fingers now, leaning over her armrest, facing me over manicured nails with French tips.

  I don’t answer right away, and just stare at her. She’s clearly flirting, and going full for it even though we haven’t even taken off yet. It’s a four-hour flight and she’s giving me eyes like she wants to be blowing me in the bathrooms by the second.

  I’m not the kind of guy to do one-night stands, though I’ve been tempted a couple times since Nicole left, and propositioned ten times as much. Instead, I’ve been blowing off steam by working out—and it’s only increased the number of propositions.

  But even considering the fact that it’s been a long time—my days with Hazel only reminding me of how good it can be, how much better my body feels—I’m looking at this woman with her long, athletic body, and her diamond-perfect face, and only feeling a new sense of resistance. Something else, other than my obsessive self-control kicking in. Something about her putting me off as much as her body might turn me on.

  It takes me a second to realize it, and she’s misconstruing my intense gaze as reciprocation, but then it hits me.

  “Let me ask you something,” I say suddenly, before thinking.

  Her smile broadens and she leans a little toward me as if she’s finally cracked me.

  “Anything you want.”

  “If I randomly came up to you and asked you to pretend to be my fiancée, would you do it?”

  She laughs, lifting her knee until her skirt stretches and then sliding it down her calf again. “That’s a new one.” She grins, resting her look on me again. Her eyes narrow with interest, lips pouting with sexuality. “Why? Is there something you’d do with a fiancée that you wouldn’t do otherwise?”

  “I’m serious,” I say, and her eyebrows knit a little in confusion at how I’m not playing by the typical rules of flirting. “Let’s say I was meeting with someone when we land, and I needed you to pretend to be my fiancée for him. Would you do it?”

  “Is this a…financial arrangement you’re suggesting?” she asks warily.

  “Not at all,” I say. “More like a favor, for a new friend.”

  This time her crossed legs tighten rather than rub, and she draws her head back slightly. The look on her face—despite her completely different appearance—reminds me only of Nicole.

  “Um… No? That’s kinda…crazy. What kind of woman would do that?”

  Something breaks inside of me, and I almost feel like laughing. I suppress it, mostly.

  “Yeah.” I nod emphatically, not even really to her, but just at the sheer accuracy of it. “That’s it! What kind of woman would do that? Exactly…”

  She turns that look away from me, rolling her eyes a little. Then puts earbuds in her ears, and starts thumbing a magazine, making it clear that she’s done, but I don’t care—because there are a million others just like her, and she’s just helped me figure out that thing that’s been nagging in the back of my mind since I left the hotel.

  What kind of woman… Maybe one in a million…

  As if to make me certain that I’m back, that California is in the past, there’s torrential rain in Chicago when we land. Even inside the airport, the rain seems to exude its oppressive influence. It’s all big coats and umbrellas. Dark clothes and beleaguered faces.

  Despite it being a short distance, and despite me being in a hurry, I get soaked through while walking across the long-term parking lot to my car, putting the luggage in the back and getting inside the driver’s seat. The loud rush of rain disappearing, replaced by silence when I shut the door. German engineering, I guess.

  I pull out my phone, still off, and take a moment to sit and breathe before dri
ving back to my penthouse apartment in the city center. A few moments to rid myself of all the craziness and color of my little trip to Cali. Playtime’s over. I’ve got a job to do. A job to get.

  One more time, I’ll let myself remember her. How she looked, how she laughed, how she felt, how she tasted…

  One last time I’ll let myself imagine something other than reality, where I could have more than whatever I have now.

  And then I’m done, turning on my phone, firing up the engine, already thinking of how I can use the information I gleaned at the conference to follow up on some promising clients. Focusing once again on my goal so tightly that every aspect of my being, mind, body, and soul, is directed at it.

  My phone starts pinging almost immediately with the dozens of messages I’d missed while on the flight. I wouldn’t care, I’m not in any rush to reply until I get home at least, but a word catches my eye. A name. Even in my peripheral vision it seems larger than everything else, cutting through the dark rain like a fifty-foot neon sign. It’s not even a contact, just a name in the first line of a text that disappears beneath others as soon as it appears.

  I scroll through the still emerging texts to get back to it. A text from an unknown number.

  Hey. It’s Hazel. Just texting you my number like you asked. :)

  I gaze at it for a while, as if even this digital artifact bears some trace of her that I can enjoy. My prior focus fading at this novelty, at connecting with her even in this inconsequential way, even here in wet Chicago, where I know nothing but money and power.

  Perhaps playtime doesn’t have to be over just yet.

  11

  Hazel

  Some things get so familiar, you only notice them after you’ve been away for a while.

  The incessant, abrasive noise of freeway traffic next to my apartment building, the dilapidated, graffiti-ridden walls of the parking lot outside, the bad smells and depressing atmosphere of the place I call home. Only my good mood, a satisfying tiredness in my tanned body as I lug my suitcase up the crooked front steps and use my key to enter, shields me from getting too down about it—though I make a silent promise to myself to try to find some place better to live when my lease is up.

  All I want to do is hit the sack and sleep as much as I can before my early shift tomorrow. The only reason I check my mailbox is the fact it’ll probably be full of junk and that I already have my keys in my hand. I pull it open, shove the pile of stuff into my purse, and make my way upstairs to my tiny studio.

  I smile as soon as I’m inside, immediately allowing myself to remember my trip, Nate, the things we did. I leave the suitcase unopened, dump my phone and the mail on the bedside table, undress, then practically collapse onto my bed. Ready to let this tiredness take me. I only turn aside to set my alarm, plug my phone in, and grab the pile of mail to lazily flick through it.

  Advertisements…a scam…grocery store coupons…bills…

  And then an envelope of such thick, fine quality I could paint on it. My name and address written by hand.

  I peel it open and pull out a card of even finer quality, then read what’s written there about fifteen times before I can believe it.

  A wedding invitation. For…

  Theo’s wedding.

  The guy who left me only four months ago is getting married—and he’s invited me.

  The whole week’s worth of relaxation and pleasure disappears in an instant, replaced by a sense of something more like sickness. Anger and sadness and desolation filling me and mixing like some powerful poison.

  In my long history of bad boyfriends Theo was probably the worst, because I gave him the most. He was weak and manipulative, with a fragile ego that had me constantly walking on eggshells, but I chose to only see his big ambitions and what few decent qualities he had. I forgave his little “mistake” at a party one night, justified the mean things he said to me as coming from his own fears and insecurities, always played the accommodating, compromising one because I thought that’s what “working at a relationship” meant. I couldn’t stop myself from giving more and more, even as his flaws mounted, my instincts only compelling me to help him fight against them, until I realized that’s who he was.

  Except I didn’t even realize. Not myself, anyway.

  And after all that, he’s the one who left, abruptly and unsympathetically—and I never even had the dignity of eventually seeing sense.

  And now this. A year together, with me giving it everything I had, and he deemed it worth leaving. But four months (and I wouldn’t bet on it not being longer) max with whoever this is, and he’s…getting married.

  Clutching the invitation, watching it blur through wetness, I forget everything good I felt on my vacation.

  Welcome back to real life, Hazel.

  My first morning back to work at the hospital feels like one of the busiest in a year.

  I could almost believe that the multiple injuries sustained at a concert, half a dozen labors, and near-terminal heart attack had somehow been waiting for me to arrive before occurring. Or maybe it just feels like that. My head still operating on “poolside lounging” time, while my body is compelled to move at “every second is a matter of life and death” time.

  Maybe it’s even that the thing I love most about my job—that it allows me to put other people first—for once feels a little at odds with my mental state. Theo’s wedding like a weight on my mind and body, so that everything I do, every interaction I have, feels like it takes twice as much effort.

  Still, I slip into the old routine, and in the rush there’s not much time to catch up with my colleagues. We even stagger our lunches, taking them alone to be sure there are always enough nurses on shift. So apart from a few quick exchanges about my vacation as I change beds or exchange notes with the other nurses, I don’t really get to say anything about it.

  Even when Mia accosts me in the corridor as she’s dashing the other way, we’re both rushing too much to speak.

  “Hazel!” she beams as she takes me in a quick hug, then already starts walking away backwards. “You’re back!”

  “I’m back,” I say, walking away myself.

  “Listen, I’ve got to run—but come by the house after your shift if you can. Colin’s away on business so we can catch up, just us two. I wanna hear everything.”

  “Oh…sure,” I call back, though she’s already out of earshot, and pretty much has to glean my agreement from my nod and smile.

  Mia’s new house is not too far from the hospital, but it’s stunning, peaceful, a million miles away from the dense urban environment of Santa Teresa.

  She’d been house-hunting for over a year, her meticulous eye for detail and inability to accept anything less than perfection making it seem like an impossible task, until she eventually just bought a dilapidated building in a nice spot, had it torn down, and built her own house to her own specifications. People probably thought she was crazy, but anyone who knew her could have told you she would eventually take matters into her own hands. We could also have predicted that the final result would be incredible.

  Orange and lemon trees hide the house from the road, and made it feel like an “unveiling” every time you step through the fence onto the gravel path that leads up to it. Beautifully large paned windows adorn the deep red brickwork, topped by sweeping black tiles that point skyward. Set among the vibrant and well maintained flowers of the gardens around it, the darker tones of the house seemed more homey than stark, more comfortingly safe than gloomy.

  Every time I walk through the gate and see the hammocks on the porch and the wide steps and the way the path gently curves, it seems to beckon me along, luring me toward the house, just as the building draws my eyes upwards to the iron railed balcony on the second floor.

  I’m utterly beat after my first shift back at the hospital, but not once did I even consider taking a raincheck on visiting Mia. In a way, coming here is like really coming home—even though it isn’t my own, it feels more like one than m
y crappy small apartment right next to the freeway and all its honking horns and car noise.

  “Hey!” comes Mia’s voice as I’m dreamily heading up the path. I turn to find her kneeling over some carnations with her pruners in hand.

  “Hey there,” I reply as she tosses off the gloves and glides toward me for a hug. “You’re working in the garden even after a shift like that?”

  “It’s quite relaxing, actually,” she says, putting an arm around me and ushering me toward the house. “More than just lying on the couch. Now that would have me thinking all my energy away.”

  I laugh as Mia breaks from me on the porch, gesturing for me to take the swinging bench there.

  “Where’s Alison?” I ask.

  “Sleeping,” Mia says in a hushed voice. “Toby bought her one of those harnesses on wheels, and she tired herself out bumping into every piece of furniture we have. Iced tea? I made a good one.”

  “Sounds great,” I say.

  “Are you hungry? Want me to rustle something up?”

  I laugh—the idea of Mia having worked a full shift, taking care of her kid, gardening, and still wanting to take on another task just for me is somewhat typical, and still amusing.

  “No. I’m good, Mia.”

  She smiles back and disappears into her house, leaving me to breathe in the aroma of her garden and feel a little more of the day’s stress leave my body. Swinging gently on the bench here, it feels a little ridiculous that I spent a week in that gigantic hotel. I could have just hung out here for a week and felt better. But I guess there are certain things that can only happen on vacation…and that Mia will probably ask me about soon.

  “So,” she says as she emerges again, before she’s even set the tray with the pitcher and ice and glasses down, “tell me all about it. Or him, I should say.”