Like stopping in a small tourist shop on our way to dinner to have ourselves drawn as cartoon heads.
Or shrieking in joy at finding my first clam during a dig after talking him into taking two hours out of his workday for stress relief.
Or shuddering every time we walk past a boat.
I feel seen. But it’s still not real.
We have a romantic dinner in the garden one night, where he points out the boat sitting offshore taking pictures of us and tells me to act normal and like we’re in love.
Saturday night, I convince Hayes we need to spend the evening in the crowded bar, listening to mostly terrible karaoke, some of it provided by yours truly, of course.
I do love singing.
Singing does not love me back.
When we’re on our dates-for-show, he tells me about the job responsibilities of being CFO for Razzle Dazzle, which is way more boring than being a movie star. Or an art teacher. I tell him about my favorite parts of my dad’s summer camp, about Hyacinth and me agreeing to only get each other terrible things that make us both laugh until we pee our pants every Christmas, and about things my students have said, done, and arted. On our last night on the island, when I drop my favorite student story on him during dinner at the bistro overlooking the sea—it involves a clay giraffe, parent night, and the word fuckerella—he snorts clam chowder through his nose.
If we were in a real relationship, I’d offer him a blowjob to apologize for the pain, but we’re not, so when we get back to the house, he retreats to his bedroom, and I retreat to shower in the shower to end all showers. I don’t know what kind of showerhead there will be in New York tomorrow, and just in case it’s not the rain shower kind, I want to enjoy it one last time.
But when I sneak down to the kitchen for a cup of tea, he’s at the high counter, freshly showered himself, his dark hair that perfect amount of damp to make me want to picture him naked, his chest covered with a gray T-shirt, those adorable dancing hamster pajama pants hugging his hips again, and he’s fiddling with my phone.
“You keep saying you don’t have cell signal here,” he says.
“That was kind of the point of looking at this part of the country for vacation.” I wince, because I don’t usually avoid people since it’s not kind, but— “My mom can’t call.”
“But you miss talking to your sister.” He hands it back to me. “You’re on the wifi now. It’ll carry a call.”
And this is precisely why Hayes Rutherford would make the best real boyfriend. He pays attention to the little things, fixes what he can, and understands what I need before I realize I need it.
And I want to kiss him senseless for being so kind and thoughtful.
But he’s not my real boyfriend. He’s a man that I’ve agreed to pretend to date who just happens to occasionally do nice things, especially when he’s had enough sleep and enough time away from his office.
“Don’t listen to the messages from your mother,” he orders. “I would’ve deleted them myself but your dog wouldn’t let me. Her emails too. Why the fuck is she still asking if you want to get back together with your ex-husband when she clearly knows you’re dating me?”
I glance at the list of voicemails. The dozens of voicemails. Four from Mom for every one from Hyacinth, who definitely knows, because she still reads the tabloids.
Hayes has a legitimate question. Mom has to be thrilled I’ve upgraded to a billionaire.
Maybe he heard her wrong. She couldn’t possibly be saying I should get back together with Chad now.
I could listen to one. Just to test the theory.
“If you hit that button, I will throw that thing into the ocean, your dog’s opinion be damned. She doesn’t believe you can keep me, and she thinks you need to cut your losses before you piss him off more.” Hayes has his head buried in the fridge, rooting around for cheesecake, I’d bet, not looking at me, but still seeing right through me.
And that’s the most maddening thing.
He’s so normal. And attentive. And a strangely good cook, and also very polite about telling me my own cooking skills suck without telling me my cooking skills suck, but the note taped to the fridge yesterday—Begonia, there’s chicken salad in here. I forbid you to spend your vacation time trying to top it when you’d enjoy making sand castles so much more—very clearly implied he likes edible food and is willing to make it himself to provide for both of us so I don’t have to cook something we’ll both regret, and he respects that I’m here to have fun at the same time.