CHAPTER 4: Mel's Diner at Midnight

SLOANE

I wasn’t supposed to text him. 

And yet.

It’s 11:07 PM and I’m flat on my back in the dark, staring at the ceiling like it owes me an explanation. My body is exhausted, but my brain is doing cartwheels. Every time I close my eyes I see blue eyes and a dimple and that ridiculous kangaroo sweater.

I grab my phone before I can talk myself out of it.

ME: Still awake?

The reply comes in under five seconds.

JACKSON (TARGET GUY): Dangerously awake. You?

ME: Same. Want to meet for actual food? Mel’s?

Three dots. Gone. Back again.

JACKSON (TARGET GUY): Leaving now. 20 min.

I’m already pulling on jeans.

Seven minutes later I’m parking beside his Subaru. He’s leaning against the hood, collar turned up against the wind, breath fogging in the streetlight. Snow is falling in fat, lazy flakes that melt the second they touch the ground.

"You beat me," I say, slamming my car door.

"Couldn’t sleep anyway."

Inside, Mel’s is nearly deserted. Same burnt coffee smell, same cracked vinyl, same Doris who looks like she was born behind the counter and will die there. She pours two mugs without a word and disappears.

We order pancakes and a burger because it feels wrong to sit here and not eat something. The food arrives fast and greasy and perfect.

We don’t bother with small talk. We’re past that now.

Jackson speaks first, voice low. "I can’t stop thinking about next Christmas. And the one after that. And the one after that. My mum’s already planning her March visit like it’s a military operation. She’s bringing photos of single women. Actual printed photos."

I laugh, but it’s hollow. "My mother has a binder."

"A binder?"

"Color-coded tabs. Church guys. Work guys. Sons of her hairdresser. Dental hygienists are apparently a hot market."

He winces. "That’s next-level terrifying."

We eat in silence for a minute. Outside, the snow is starting to stick.

Then he says it.

"What if we helped each other?"

I pause, fork halfway to my mouth. "Define helped."

"You need your family off your back. I need mine off mine. What if we just… gave them what they’re asking for?"

I set the fork down. "You’re suggesting we fake date."

"Not date. Partner. For family events only. We show up together, hold hands, smile for the photos, let them think we’re happily coupled-up adults. Then we go back to our real lives. No more setups. No more lists. No more pity."

I stare at him. The idea is so insane it loops around to brilliant.

"Keep talking."

He leans forward, elbows on the table, suddenly alive with it. "Major holidays only. Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter if your family does that. Maybe a couple birthdays. We set ground rules. No feelings. No sex—that complicates everything. We keep our real dating lives completely separate. If one of us meets someone for real, we end the arrangement, no drama. One year. Twelve events, max. Then we stage a calm, adult breakup and go our separate ways."

I pick up a fry, dunk it in ketchup, buy time. "And we’d have to sell it. My mother can smell a lie from three states away."

"I’m a terrible liar," he admits. "But I’m willing to study. We’ll make a dossier. Favorite foods, childhood stories, how we met—Target returns line stays, obviously, it’s too good. We’ll rehearse."

"Rehearse," I repeat, half laughing.

"Like a play. We’re actors. Method actors."

I chew slowly. My brain is running spreadsheets.

Pros: 

- Zero more Chads. 

- Peter loses his smug ammunition. 

- My mother stops crying in the laundry room when she thinks I can’t hear her. 

- Susan gets to drink in peace instead of prophesying my spinster death.

Cons: 

- This is batshit crazy. 

- If we get caught, the fallout will be nuclear. 

- He’s annoyingly attractive and I’m only human.

But the pros are winning.

"One year," I say.

His whole face changes. "You’re in?"

"I’m in. But we do this properly. Contract. Boundaries. Safe words."

"Safe words?"

"In case one of us needs an emergency exit at a family dinner. You text me ‘kangaroo’ and I fake a work crisis. I text you ‘enamel’ and you pretend your appendix burst."

He grins so wide both dimples show. "Deal."

We shake hands across the table like we’re closing a business merger. His palm is warm, calloused, steady. We don’t let go right away.

"First rule," I say. "We start slow. Nothing before New Year’s. Gives us time to build the story."

"Second rule," he counters. "Total honesty with each other. If it stops being fun, we pull the plug. No guilt."

"Third rule. We never lie about the big stuff. If one of us actually falls for someone—"

"We end it immediately. Clean. Public if we have to."

I nod. "Fourth rule. We don’t sleep together. That way lies madness."

"Agreed. Professional only."

Doris drops the check. Fifteen dollars. We split it without discussion.

Outside, the snow is thicker now, blanketing the parking lot in hush. Our footsteps crunch.

At my car, he stops. "So tomorrow we start building the legend of Jackson and Sloane?"

"Tomorrow," I say.

He hesitates, then pulls out his phone. "Send me your schedule for the next year. Every family thing you know about. I’ll do the same."

"Done."

Another beat of silence. The snow swirls around us.

"This is crazy," I say.

"Completely insane," he agrees.

"And it might actually work."

"It might."

I unlock my car. He steps back.

"Text me when you get home," he says. "So I know you didn’t slide into a ditch."

"Yes, dear," I deadpan.

He laughs, the sound bright against the quiet night.

I drive away watching him in my rearview mirror, standing in the snow like he belongs there.

By the time I walk into my apartment, my phone is already buzzing.

JACKSON (TARGET GUY): Home safe?

ME: Safe. You?

JACKSON (TARGET GUY): Safe. Also grinning like an idiot.

ME: Same.

JACKSON (TARGET GUY): Tomorrow we start writing our origin story.

ME: I’m weirdly excited.

JACKSON (TARGET GUY): Me too. Night, girlfriend.

I stare at the word until the screen goes dark.

Fake girlfriend. 

Professional girlfriend. 

Holiday girlfriend.

Whatever this is, it already feels dangerously real.

I fall asleep with snow tapping against my window and a smile I can’t wipe off my face.

Next Christmas, I won’t be alone at that table.

I’ll have Jackson.

And for the first time in years, I’m actually looking forward to the holidays.

Even if the whole thing is a beautifully orchestrated lie.

Especially because it is.

(Word count: 1,243)