\u201cThe Pretend Boyfriend\u201d<\/p>\n
My name\u2019s Mason, and I live in a small Oregon town that smells like rain and pine every night. When the sun goes down, the crickets start singing like it\u2019s their big show.<\/p>\n
I\u2019ve never left this place. I still live in my grandpa\u2019s old white house\u2014the one with the slanted roof and squeaky floorboards. I fix bikes at a little repair shop called Gear & Grind, squeezed between a thrift store and a laundromat. Life here is simple, calm, and predictable.<\/p>\n
At least, it was.
\nUntil she moved in across the fence.<\/p>\n
Her name\u2019s Julia. Early forties. Brown hair that always escapes from her messy bun. Eyes the color of stormy water\u2014gray-green, deep, secretive. Mrs. Larson, the neighborhood gossip, said she used to be a journalist from Chicago. Divorced. Apparently, her ex traded her in for a younger woman who could \u201cdo yoga and keep secrets.\u201d<\/p>\n
For three years, Julia and I were just quiet neighbors\u2014two people living across from each other, like stars in the same sky but too far to touch.<\/p>\n
Then one Thursday, everything changed.<\/p>\n
1. The Proposal
\nI saw her standing on her porch, holding a crumpled flyer like it had personally offended her.<\/p>\n
\u201cEverything okay?\u201d I asked, leaning over the fence.<\/p>\n
She looked startled, then showed me the paper. \u201cNeighborhood block party. Saturday.\u201d<\/p>\n
I grinned. \u201cFree burgers, bad karaoke. Sounds like paradise.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her laugh was dry and nervous. \u201cMy ex will be there. With her.\u201d<\/p>\n
The sound of sprinklers filled the silence. I should\u2019ve told her not to go. But instead, my mouth went rogue.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat if I went with you\u2014as your boyfriend? You know, pretend boyfriend.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her eyes widened. Then she laughed\u2014really laughed. \u201cYou\u2019re kidding.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDead serious. I\u2019m great at pretending. Ask my tax guy.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her smile softened. \u201cYou\u2019d really do that?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy not? No one should face that circus alone.\u201d<\/p>\n
She studied me like she was trying to see through the joke. Finally, she nodded. \u201cAll right. But we\u2019ll need practice. No one\u2019s going to believe it otherwise.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhen do rehearsals start?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cTomorrow. My porch. Bring coffee.\u201d<\/p>\n
I nodded, pretending to play it cool. But my heart was already pounding like a drum.<\/p>\n
2. Rehearsal Nights
\nFriday evening smelled like lilac and possibility. I showed up at seven sharp with two steaming cups.<\/p>\n
\u201cBlack, no sugar for me,\u201d I said. \u201cOat-milk latte, no foam for you.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her eyebrow arched. \u201cYou\u2019ve been spying on my coffee habits.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cCall it research,\u201d I said with a grin.<\/p>\n
We sat on her porch steps, knees almost touching.<\/p>\n
\u201cSo, fake boyfriend,\u201d she said, crossing her legs. \u201cWhere do we begin?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHandholding, level one.\u201d I offered my hand.<\/p>\n
She hesitated, then slipped hers into mine\u2014warm and sure.<\/p>\n
\u201cHow\u2019s that feel?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cLike an awkward middle-school dance,\u201d I said, and she burst out laughing.<\/p>\n
We practiced smiles, pet names, how to look comfortable together. We failed miserably at all of it, laughing so hard she nearly spilled her coffee.<\/p>\n
By the end of the night, she wiped away tears from laughing. \u201cWe\u2019re hopeless.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHopelessly convincing,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
The next night, she invited me inside. Her living room smelled like cedar and coffee. We shared wine, talked about work, about things we fix when we don\u2019t want to think too hard.<\/p>\n
She told me about her old life in Chicago\u2014investigating dog-fighting rings, chasing stories, living on adrenaline. \u201cI thought that was living,\u201d she said softly. \u201cTurns out it was just running.\u201d<\/p>\n
I told her about my grandpa, the man who taught me to fix bike chains and stay put. \u201cLeaving never felt urgent,\u201d I admitted.<\/p>\n
She listened quietly, and for someone used to asking questions, that meant a lot.<\/p>\n
By the third night, she fell asleep mid-sentence on the couch. I covered her with a blanket and sat nearby, listening to her breathing. For the first time in years, my house across the street felt empty.<\/p>\n
3. The Eve of the Show
\nFriday night, she texted: Come over. Made pasta. Out of fake excuses.<\/p>\n
Her kitchen glowed golden under one hanging bulb. The smell of garlic and basil filled the air. She moved barefoot, hair pinned up with a pencil, apron stained with sauce.<\/p>\n
\u201cDon\u2019t just stand there,\u201d she said. \u201cOpen the wine.\u201d<\/p>\n
We ate slowly. The noodles were slightly overcooked, but neither of us cared.<\/p>\n
When I reached out to wipe a bit of sauce from her cheek, she froze\u2014then smiled.<\/p>\n
\u201cThanks.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnytime.\u201d<\/p>\n
As we washed dishes together, our shoulders brushed. The silence between us changed\u2014heavier, sweeter.<\/p>\n
She broke it first. \u201cAfter tomorrow\u2026 when this is over\u2026 what happens then?\u201d<\/p>\n
I dried my hands, trying to sound calm. \u201cThen we decide if we want to keep pretending.\u201d<\/p>\n
She looked at me for a long moment. \u201cOkay.\u201d<\/p>\n
When I left that night, the air smelled like rain\u2014and something else I couldn\u2019t name.<\/p>\n
4. The Party
\nSaturday evening painted the sky in shades of peach and gold. I crossed the street wearing my best shirt\u2014clean, at least.<\/p>\n
Julia stood on her porch, stunning in a pale green dress that made her eyes glow.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou look incredible,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
She smiled shyly. \u201cSo do you.\u201d<\/p>\n
She slipped her hand into the crook of my arm, and we walked to the park together. The place buzzed with chatter and laughter under strings of twinkling lights.<\/p>\n
When people saw us, they whispered. Julia\u2019s shoulders tensed. I squeezed her hand. \u201cRelax,\u201d I whispered. \u201cWe\u2019ve got this.\u201d<\/p>\n
Then I saw him\u2014Mark, her ex. He looked exactly how you\u2019d picture a man who thought he\u2019d never be replaced\u2014expensive watch, fake charm, smug grin. Beside him stood a young blonde, Tiffany, who looked barely old enough to rent a car.<\/p>\n
\u201cJulia!\u201d Mark called, smiling like a shark. \u201cDidn\u2019t expect to see you here.\u201d<\/p>\n
She stood tall. \u201cMark.\u201d<\/p>\n
He gestured to the blonde. \u201cThis is Tiffany. Tiffany, my ex-wife.\u201d<\/p>\n
His gaze turned to me. \u201cAnd you are\u2026?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHer boyfriend,\u201d I said smoothly, wrapping my arm around Julia\u2019s waist. \u201cMason.\u201d<\/p>\n
Tiffany giggled. \u201cDidn\u2019t know you liked mechanics, Jules.\u201d<\/p>\n
I smiled, but my voice was calm steel. \u201cCareful. That\u2019s my girlfriend you\u2019re talking to.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her laugh died instantly. Mark\u2019s grin faded. Julia straightened and said coolly, \u201cEnjoy the party.\u201d<\/p>\n
Before he could answer, a slow song came on\u2014Can\u2019t Help Falling in Love.<\/p>\n
I leaned close. \u201cDance with me.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her eyes widened, but she nodded.<\/p>\n
We moved together under the lights. My hand rested at her back, her head against my chest.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou okay?\u201d I whispered.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d she murmured. \u201cBut keep going.\u201d<\/p>\n
We swayed quietly as the town disappeared around us. Mark watched, his jaw tight.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe doesn\u2019t win anything tonight,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
She looked up at me. \u201cProve it.\u201d<\/p>\n
So I did. I kissed her.<\/p>\n
Not for show. Not for revenge. For her.<\/p>\n
The world went still. When she pulled away, breath shaking, she whispered, \u201cThat wasn\u2019t part of the plan.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cGuess we\u2019re off-script.\u201d<\/p>\n
5. Silence
\nShe left the party with her head high, her hand still in mine. On her porch, she stopped. \u201cThat kiss\u2026 it wasn\u2019t fake.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d I said quietly. \u201cIt wasn\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI need time to figure out what this is.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cTake all the time you need.\u201d<\/p>\n
Days passed. Every morning, I left coffee at her door. Sometimes she drank it. Sometimes she didn\u2019t.<\/p>\n
I saw her once, typing on her porch, sunlight in her hair. Our eyes met for a second. She gave a small nod\u2014not quite a smile. Then she went inside.<\/p>\n
Neighbors gossiped about our \u201cperformance.\u201d I didn\u2019t correct them. Mark and Tiffany stopped showing up around town.<\/p>\n
Life went quiet again. But not the same kind of quiet.<\/p>\n
6. Rain on the Porch
\nLate August. Thunder rolled across the sky. When I got home, I noticed something strange\u2014my porch light was on.<\/p>\n
A note was taped to my door:<\/p>\n
Meet me on my porch. Bring your appetite. \u2014 J<\/p>\n
My heart kicked hard in my chest as I crossed the street.<\/p>\n
Julia was sitting at a small table, two mugs steaming, sandwiches wrapped in foil. She looked peaceful, lighter.<\/p>\n
\u201cTurkey and Swiss,\u201d she said. \u201cYou like mustard, right?\u201d<\/p>\n
I grinned. \u201cYou remembered.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI pay attention,\u201d she said softly.<\/p>\n
We ate in silence, listening to the rain and the distant hum of crickets.<\/p>\n
Then she pulled a folder from under the table and slid it to me.<\/p>\n
\u201cI sent it,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
Inside was her essay: \u2018The Day I Found Myself Again.\u2019 At the top corner: Pacific Northwest Quarterly \u2014 Accepted.<\/p>\n
I read the first line out loud:
\n\u201cI used to think love was a deadline. Turns out, it\u2019s a porch light left on.\u201d<\/p>\n
My throat tightened. \u201cJulia\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n
She smiled, eyes shining. \u201cThey want more. Maybe a whole series.\u201d<\/p>\n
At the bottom, a handwritten note:
\nFor the boy who left coffee and never asked for anything back.<\/p>\n
I looked up, speechless.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou didn\u2019t have to thank me,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cI wanted to,\u201d she whispered. \u201cI was scared, Mason. Scared of what people would think. Scared of needing someone again. But I\u2019m tired of being scared.\u201d<\/p>\n
She reached across the table, covering my hand. \u201cI don\u2019t know what this is yet. But I don\u2019t want to figure it out alone.\u201d<\/p>\n
I turned my palm and held her hand tight. \u201cThen don\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n
Rain began to fall harder, drumming softly on the porch roof.<\/p>\n
\u201cCome inside,\u201d she said, standing and offering her hand. \u201cIt\u2019s getting cold.\u201d<\/p>\n
I followed her, leaving the mugs and her published dream behind.<\/p>\n
The porch light burned bright through the storm.<\/p>\n
7. After
\nPeople like to think love stories end with kisses and thunder. But real endings are quieter\u2014they settle in the heart like a song that keeps playing.<\/p>\n
Julia kept writing. Her essays became a series about loss, courage, and finding love again. One piece mentioned \u201ca mechanic who taught her that not everything broken needs fixing.\u201d<\/p>\n
That winter, I opened Haven Cycles, a bike-and-coffee shop downtown. Julia wrote the article that helped us get our first rush of customers.<\/p>\n
Now, every morning, she sits by the window with her laptop and her coffee, smiling at me over the counter. No pretending. No rehearsals.<\/p>\n
When the sun sets behind the mountains, we close up and walk home together. Sometimes we stop at the fence where it all began.<\/p>\n
\u201cRemember when this was fake?\u201d she teases.<\/p>\n
\u201cBest rehearsal ever,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
And under the soft smell of rain and pine, our quiet little town finally feels like home\u2014for both of us.<\/p>\n
Because what started as pretending became the most real thing either of us ever dared to believe in.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
\u201cThe Pretend Boyfriend\u201d My name\u2019s Mason, and I live in a small Oregon town that smells like rain and pine every night. When the sun goes down, the crickets start singing like it\u2019s their big show. I\u2019ve never left this place. I still live in my grandpa\u2019s old white house\u2014the one with the slanted roof […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-34855","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/newzdiscover.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/34855","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/newzdiscover.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/newzdiscover.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/newzdiscover.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/newzdiscover.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=34855"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/newzdiscover.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/34855\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":34856,"href":"https:\/\/newzdiscover.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/34855\/revisions\/34856"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/newzdiscover.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=34855"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/newzdiscover.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=34855"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/newzdiscover.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=34855"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}