Fluorescent Numbers

The sharp clatter of a spoon against porcelain makes me flinch, my fingers gripping my own mug. Across the small café table, Evan doesn’t react. He’s studying the laminated menu like it’s a museum piece, his expression calm. I wish I had that kind of composure. My knee bounces under the table, a nervous rhythm I can’t seem to stop.

“So,” I begin, my voice a little too loud for the quiet space. “Thanks for meeting me on such short notice.”

Evan looks up, his brown eyes warm. “No problem. Your message said it was urgent.” He closes the menu and leans back. “What can I do for you, Margot?”

Right. Straight to the point. I like that. I take a deep breath, the scent of coffee and baked goods filling my lungs. “I need a date,” I blurt out. “For my sister’s wedding. In the Hamptons. This weekend.”

One dark eyebrow arches upward. “A date,” he repeats, his tone neutral.

“Not a real date,” I clarify quickly, heat rising to my cheeks. “A pretend date. I need you to be my boyfriend. Just for the weekend.”

I watch his face carefully, waiting for judgment or amusement. Instead, he just looks thoughtful. “Why?” he asks simply.

The question is straightforward, but the answer is a complicated snarl of family expectations and my own insecurities. “My family is…” I search for the right word. “A lot. My sister is marrying this perfect guy from a perfect family, and I’m the screw-up who hasn’t had a serious relationship in years. I just need someone to help me get through it without a million questions and disappointed looks.”

Evan nods slowly, like this makes perfect sense. “Okay,” he says. “I can do that.”

Relief floods through me, so intense it almost makes me dizzy. “Really?”

“Really,” he confirms. “But we should probably set some ground rules. Make sure we’re on the same page.”

“Of course,” I agree readily. I pull out my phone and open the notes app, where I’ve already started a list. “I was thinking we should have a backstory. How we met, how long we’ve been together, that kind of thing.”

Evan leans forward, interested. “What did you have in mind?”

“Well,” I say, scrolling through my notes. “I thought we could say we met through work. I’m a gallery assistant, and you’re a photographer. It makes sense we might cross paths.”

He nods. “That works.”

“And we’ve been together about six months,” I continue. “Long enough to be serious, but not so long that people expect us to be engaged or something.”

"Good thinking," Evan says, a slight smile lifting the corners of his mouth. “What about pets? Any imaginary dogs or cats I should know about?”

I can’t help but smile back. “No pets,” I say firmly. “I travel too much for work, and you’re too busy with freelance gigs.”

“Perfect,” he agrees. His expression turns more serious. “We should probably discuss physical touch. What’s okay, what’s off-limits.”

My cheeks flush again, but I nod. “Right. We need to look comfortable with each other. Holding hands, maybe a kiss on the cheek. Nothing too intense.”

Evan’s gaze is steady. “Got it,” he says. “And we should probably practice a little. Just to make sure it looks natural.”

“Practice?” I echo, my voice a little high.

He shrugs. “If we want to be convincing, we can’t look awkward when we touch each other for the first time in front of your family.”

He has a point, but the idea of practicing touching him makes my palms sweat. “Okay,” I agree, setting my phone down. “How do we start?”

Evan stands up and moves around the table to sit beside me. “Like this,” he says, his voice low. “If we’re sitting together, I might put my arm around you.” He demonstrates, his arm settling lightly across my shoulders. “Is this okay?”

My heart is suddenly pounding, but I manage to nod. “Yes,” I say, a little breathlessly. “It’s fine.”

He smells good, like clean laundry and something warm and spicy I can’t quite identify. I have to fight the urge to lean into him.

“What about this?” He takes my hand, his fingers weaving with mine. “We should probably hold hands sometimes.”

I look down at our joined hands, my pale skin against his warmer tone. “That works,” I say, my voice a little steadier now.

He squeezes my hand gently. “Okay,” he says. “I think we’ve got the basics down.”

He moves back to his seat across from me, and I immediately miss the warmth of his touch. *This is going to be harder than I thought*, I realize, picking up my coffee cup to give my hands something to do.

“So, we’re agreed?” I ask, trying to sound businesslike. “You’ll be my boyfriend for the weekend, and I’ll pay you the rate we discussed?”

Evan nods. “Agreed,” he says. “But Margot…” He hesitates, like he’s not sure he should say what he’s thinking.

“What?” I ask, a flicker of anxiety sparking in my chest.

He meets my gaze, his expression serious. “We need to make this believable,” he says. “That means we have to be consistent. We can’t just turn it on and off depending on who’s around.”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he says, leaning forward again, “that we need to act like a couple even when we think no one is watching. Your family will be looking for cracks in the facade. If we want to fool them, we have to fool everyone, including ourselves.”

His words make me shudder. *Can I really do this? Can I pretend to be in love with a total stranger for a whole weekend?*

But what choice do I have? The thought of facing my family alone, fielding their questions and pitying looks… it’s too much.

“Okay,” I say, squaring my shoulders. “We’ll make it believable. We’ll be the most convincing couple the Hamptons have ever seen.”

Evan smiles, and for a moment, I forget to breathe. “Sounds like a plan,” he says, lifting his coffee cup in a mock toast. “To us.”

I touch my cup to his, the ceramic clinking softly. “To us,” I echo, ignoring the flutter in my stomach.

As I take a sip of my now-lukewarm coffee, I can’t help but wonder… what have I gotten myself into?

The rehearsal dinner is held at my sister’s future in-laws’ “cottage,” which is actually a sprawling estate overlooking the ocean. As we pull up the long driveway, I smooth down the skirt of my emerald-green dress, my palms sweaty. Beside me, Evan looks infuriatingly calm in his navy suit.

“You ready for this?” he asks, his voice low.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I murmur back. *Which is not at all.*

He reaches over and squeezes my hand. “We’ve got this,” he says, his thumb rubbing my knuckles. “Just follow my lead.”

I nod, trying to absorb some of his confidence. We climb out of the car and walk up the front steps, Evan’s hand settled on the small of my back. The gesture is casual, possessive, exactly the way a real boyfriend would touch me.

Inside, the house is a whirlwind of activity. Caterers bustle around with trays of hors d’oeuvres, a string quartet plays in the corner, and my family and the groom’s family mingle in the spacious living room.

“There you are!” My mother descends on us almost immediately, her eyes sharp as she looks Evan up and down. “We were starting to wonder if you’d gotten lost.”

“Sorry we’re late, Mom,” I say, pasting on a smile. “Traffic was a nightmare. This is Evan, my boyfriend. Evan, this is my mother, Amelia.”

“Mrs. Bennett,” Evan says, stepping forward and extending his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Margot has told me so much about you.”

My mother’s expression softens slightly as she shakes his hand. “Call me Amelia, please,” she says. “I wish I could say the same about you, but Margot has been very secretive about her love life lately.”

Evan laughs, a warm, rich sound that seems to put everyone within earshot at ease. “That sounds like her,” he says, sliding an arm around my waist and pulling me close. “She likes to keep me all to herself.”

I stiffen for a moment, caught off guard by the easy affection, before forcing myself to relax into his embrace. *This is what we rehearsed*, I remind myself. *This is what we’re supposed to do.*

“Well, I’m glad she finally decided to share you with us,” my mother says, her smile growing more genuine. “It’s about time she brought someone home.”

Evan grins. “I agree,” he says. “She’s pretty special.”

*Oh my god, he’s laying it on thick*, I think, but I can’t deny that it’s working. My mother is practically beaming, and even my father looks impressed when he joins us a few minutes later.