I sit up and rest my head against the wall.
Huh. Who would have thought it?
Bryson replies two minutes later. Not that I am watching the clock or anything.
Well, I’ll cook for you sometime.
I drop my phone.
Haha. You dropped your phone, didn’t you?
Another message follows hot on its heels, and it sends more heat rushing to my face.
You’re probably blushing right now. Haha. It’s awesome.
I exhale. Here in my room I can be anyone. I can have the confidence that I never would have dreamed of when it came to Bryson Keller.
Why do you like me blushing so much? I ask. I add a tongue-out emoji for kicks. Let’s see just how much Bryson Keller likes me flirting. Sometimes in life you have to give just as much as you get.
I don’t know. I guess I like how honest it is. Your mouth may lie but your face can’t. It’s like a siren.
Well then, I promise to blush for you a lot. I’m not much for emojis, but sometimes one is required. That it’s my second in such quick succession is unprecedented. The winking face mocks me as I hit send. Who have I become?
I watch the dancing ellipsis as I wait for his response. And when the dots disappear, I worry that maybe I overstepped. Maybe I shouldn’t have flirted with a straight guy. I move to lie on my back. I’m holding my phone above me when I see his reply. I drop my phone again and it smacks me right in the middle of my face. And only that pain proves that this is all real and happening.
On my screen is a selfie of Bryson Keller. His face is pulled into an overdramatic shocked expression. And he captioned it: Are you flirting with me?
Let’s see if you’re blushing. Send me a selfie. You have to give as good as you get. I read his new text and am surprised to find that they are words that I just thought. I start to type a response saying no but I stop halfway. When, if ever, will I be given a chance like this? Yes, this relationship is fake, but for a few days it can feel real. For these five days I am allowed to act cute with my boyfriend.
A boyfriend who wants a selfie of me.
With a pounding heart, I open my camera and tap the front view. Instantly I am assaulted by the sight of me. My curly hair sticks up in different directions. It’s longer than I normally keep it, and in a week or two I will need to visit the barber with Dad. The galaxy of freckles on my face stand loud and proud against the redness of my skin.
Whoever thought that the front-view camera was a great idea was surely mistaken. Just as quickly as I opened it, I close it. This is a bad idea. There’s a reason my Instagram only has fifteen photos total, and why only five of them are of me and my face.
Ticktock. His words mock me. They urge me on.
I open the camera again and extend my arm. There’s a click and a flash as I take the picture. I turn to study it. It’s terrible—a crime against humanity. For the next two minutes I try to perfect the art of the selfie, until finally I succeed. The last photo that I take before giving up isn’t half bad. I’m posing with my arm behind my head, and my brown—almost black—eyes surprisingly don’t look vacant and/or dead. I’m also smiling wildly—showing off perfectly straight teeth that are a result of years of braces and a great orthodontist. And before the shambles of my confidence scatter on the wind, I hit send.
I add a caption: happy now?
He responds not even a minute later.
See. I shall make a boyfriend out of you yet.
It’s followed by a stream of confetti-cannon emojis.
And I know that it shouldn’t, but my heart catches on the word boyfriend. On the fact that he has referred to himself as that. It’s physical evidence of this, whatever it is, actually happening.
As we chat, it almost becomes like he’s sitting next to me. So much so that I imagine him doing just that. There is no distance between us now, there are no phones and texts. It’s just him and me here in my bedroom.
Bryson’s light brown hair is damp from a shower. He’s wearing a white tank top that shows off his toned and tan shoulders and basketball shorts revealing the light sprinkling of hair on his legs. His large feet are bare, too. Okay, so maybe I’ve had this exact fantasy one or two times before.
“So, we should talk about our five-day relationship,” he says.
“Yes, we should,” I reply nervously. The tension from earlier comes crashing back into me. It’s always surprising that something so unseen can be so heavy.
“Well, the basics: I usually give my weekly dates rides to and from school….Is that something you want? Or not?”
I think on it. I’m pretty sure that none of his previous “dates” have had to stress about something so trivial. And yet, one wrong move and I can have rumors spreading about me.
“I mean, just because two guys are together…doesn’t make them gay?” I say. “So I’m pretty sure that will be fine. And if anyone does ask, we can use the drama assignment as our cover. Which isn’t actually a lie—we do need to work on it. Besides, this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for me.” I laugh nervously. “When else would I ever get to date the most popular boy in school?”
“Haha, who, me? I don’t know about that. Anyway, just let me know if it ever feels too much for you,” Bryson says. “No dare is worth the risk of outing you before you’re ready. You can end this at any time. If you feel like it’s too much. The last thing I want to do is make you uncomfortable.”
I’m pretty sure I swoon when I read that.
“Does everyone have this option?”
“Yes,” Bryson says. “I’d never want to force someone to play this game if they’re uncomfortable. It’s why we have the rules. But on top of that, if at any time during the five days someone wants to break up, we can.”
“Has that ever happened?” I ask.
“No. Not yet,” Bryson says. “You know, you’re strangely more talkative over text.”
“That’s because you can’t see me. I’m a really anxious person. So on top of all that, I also have this huge secret that I would prefer no one knowing until I leave this place.”
“You’re going to be out in college?” he asks.
“That’s the plan. Or should I say, dream,” I reply. “I mean, I know Fairvale Academy is a pretty welcoming and accepting place on paper. We have the right clubs, but I’ve heard the jokes. The teasing that we’re just meant to accept as lighthearted, even though it hurts. So I just don’t want to put myself through that.” Not again is what I don’t say.