CHAPTER 5: The Proposal

SLOANE

I spent all of December 27th trying to talk myself out of it.

Didn’t work.

By four-thirty in the afternoon I’m sitting at my kitchen table, laptop open to a gym campaign that’s due tomorrow, cursor blinking like it’s personally offended I haven’t written a single word. The document is titled “NEW YEAR, NEW YOU – DRAFT.” The only thing on the page is the title and a coffee stain.

My phone is face-down beside my mug. I’ve read Jackson’s last text seventeen times.

JACKSON (TARGET GUY): Thanks for meeting me. Even if you say no tomorrow, tonight was nice.

My reply: It was.

Two words. Safe. Non-committal. Adult.

I flip the phone over again. Open Notes. Start a new one titled FAKE DATING SANITY CHECK.

CONS 

- This is objectively deranged 

- Lying to my entire family for a year 

- If we get caught the fallout will be biblical 

- I know almost nothing about him 

- Attractive Australian accent might be a problem for my impulse control 

PROS 

- Mom stops ambushing me with dentists 

- Peter loses his favorite hobby (judging me) 

- Susan stops predicting I’ll die alone surrounded by cats (I’m allergic) 

- Twelve months of breathing room 

- I never have to explain another solo New Year’s Eve 

The pros list wins by a landslide.

I text Maya on impulse.

ME: Hypothetical. Someone proposes fake dating to get family off their back. Thoughts?

MAYA: You’re already doing it, aren’t you.

ME: I haven’t decided.

MAYA: You absolutely have. Do it. Report back for science.

I laugh out loud in my empty apartment. She knows me too well.

At 4:58 PM I g****e him. Not stalking. Due diligence.

Jackson Reeves, 34, Australian professional golfer. Solid tournament record. Third in Indiana, fifth in Milwaukee, consistent top-twenty finishes. Clean social media. One old article mentions a “fresh start” in Chicago and nothing else. Whatever he left behind in Australia stays left.

Good enough.

I open our text thread.

ME: I’m in. But we need rules. Mel’s. Now?

His reply is instant.

JACKSON (TARGET GUY): On my way.

Thirty-three minutes later I walk into Mel’s clutching my coat like body armor. He’s already in our booth, kids’ menu spread out in front of him, box of crayons lined up like he’s about to color-code a merger.

I slide in opposite him. “Crayons?”

“Official contract stationery,” he says without looking up. “Feels binding.”

Doris pours coffee. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t care. She’s seen everything.

He’s written THE HOLIDATE PACT at the top in green block letters.

I raise an eyebrow. “Holidate?”

“Holiday plus date. Trademark pending.”

I steal the red crayon.

We work fast.

Mandatory appearances (non-negotiable): 

- New Year’s Eve (trial run) 

- Valentine’s Day 

- Easter 

- Fourth of July 

- Thanksgiving 

- Christmas 

Optional but probable: birthdays, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, random cookouts that somehow become couple audits.

PDA parameters 

- Hand holding: always allowed 

- Arm around shoulders/waist: encouraged 

- Cheek kisses: default greeting/goodbye 

- Mouth kisses: maximum three seconds, closed mouth, only when survival demands it 

- No tongue. Ever. We are professionals.

Gift protocol 

- $50 limit per event 

- Nothing sentimental 

- Receipts kept for possible regifting

Sleeping arrangements (if overnight events occur) 

- Separate rooms or couch for one of us 

- No drunk exceptions 

- No “it’s cold” exceptions 

- No exceptions, period

The Feelings Clause 

- Zero real feelings permitted 

- If feelings appear, immediate termination 

- No discussion, no negotiation, no second chances

Exit strategy 

- Either party can end it with 48 hours’ notice 

- Public breakup story must be pre-agreed and gentle 

- No villainizing the other person, ever

We initial every section. The dinosaur in the corner of the menu watches us like he’s seen worse.

By 1:47 AM we have a full page of crayon rules and a second page titled ORIGIN STORY.

How we met: Target returns line, December 26th (true) 

First date: midnight pancakes at Mel’s (also true) 

How he asked me out: passed a note in the returns line that said “coffee?” on the back of a receipt (romantic lie) 

Favorite thing about each other: to be determined, but we’ll workshop it

Jackson signs first, neat cursive in blue. I sign underneath in red, the crayon wobbling because my hand is shaking from caffeine and adrenaline.

We stare at our handiwork.

“This is the dumbest legal document in history,” I say.

“Or the smartest,” he counters.

He takes a photo. I take a photo. Evidence, insurance, keepsake—take your pick.

Doris drops two pieces of pie we never ordered. On the house, apparently, or she’s just tired of us.

We eat in silence for a minute.

“New Year’s Eve,” he says eventually. “Four days. My friends are doing a thing—rooftop bar, nothing fancy. You in?”

“Peter and Jennifer always host. Open house, bad champagne, passive-aggressive board games. I was planning to fake the flu.”

“Bring me instead. Trial by fire.”

I nod. “Okay. I’ll tell Mom I have a plus-one. She’ll lose her mind in a good way.”

He smiles, slow and dangerous. “Then we’re really doing this.”

“We’re really doing this.”

Outside, the wind has teeth. Snow swirls under the streetlights.

At my car he shoves his hands in his pockets. “Text me when you get home.”

“Bossy.”

“Safety first, girlfriend.”

The word lands between us like a spark on dry leaves.

I drive home with the windows cracked because I need the cold to keep me from floating away.

When I walk in my apartment, I pin the kids’ menu contract to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a wine bottle.

It looks ridiculous.

It looks perfect.

My phone lights up.

JACKSON (TARGET GUY): Home safe?

ME: Safe. You?

JACKSON (TARGET GUY): Safe. And still smiling like an idiot.

ME: Same.

JACKSON (TARGET GUY): Four days until showtime.

ME: Don’t be late, boyfriend.

I fall into bed fully dressed, boots still on, snow melting off them onto the floor.

For the first time in years, the new year doesn’t feel like another lap around the same lonely track.

It feels like the starting line of something I can’t predict.

And I can’t wait.