CHAPTER 6: Terms and Conditions
1261 Words
SLOANE
I woke up on December 28th with a kids’ menu pinned to my fridge and the distinct feeling I had lost my mind.
The crayon looked even more ridiculous in daylight. THE HOLIDATE PACT in Jackson’s careful block letters. Twelve holidays. Three-second kiss maximum. No feelings. No exceptions. Our signatures at the bottom, like we’d just bought a house, instead of agreeing to a year-long performance.
I stared at it while the coffee brewed, waiting for the panic to hit.
It never really did.
Instead, a calm settled in. The kind of calm that comes right before you do something irreversible.
By noon he texted.
JACKSON: Coffee? Need to lock the story before New Year’s.
ME: Brew & Bean on Clark. One hour.
I showered, threw on black jeans and yet another black sweater (my wardrobe is basically a funeral director’s mood board), and drove.
He was already there, corner table, two black coffees waiting. He slid one across as I sat.
“Figured you still take it like an adult,” he said.
He remembered. Of course, he remembered. We’d only had coffee together four times, but he’d noticed.
We didn’t waste time on small talk.
I opened my phone notes. “Family interrogation prep. They’ll ask everything.”
We built the legend in under ninety minutes.
How we met
Mutual friend named Alex (marketing, gender-neutral, conveniently always traveling). Introduced us at a rooftop work thing in late October. We bonded over mutual hatred of forced networking and cheap rosé.
How long we’ve been together
Two months. Long enough to be official, short enough that I wasn’t a monster for keeping it quiet.
Why no one knew
I wanted to protect it until I was sure. Classic Sloane, private, cautious, hates family input until absolutely necessary.
What I love about him
He listens. Actually listens. Doesn’t fill silence with noise. Makes me laugh when I don’t want to. Doesn’t treat thirty-five like an expiration date.
What he loves about me
I’m direct. Funny in a dry, slightly murderous way. Zero pretense. Smart enough to scare most men and not sorry about it.
Future plans
Taking it slow. Enjoying the moment. No labels beyond boyfriend/girlfriend yet. Kids/marriage/Australia relocation all “discussing when the time is right.”
Deal-breakers
Dishonesty (ironic), cruelty to waitstaff, voting for people who say “thoughts and prayers” unironically.
We quizzed each other like it was finals week.
“Favorite childhood pet?”
“Goldfish named Steve. Died in three days. Traumatic.”
“Worst date you’ve ever been on before me?”
“Guy brought his mom. She ordered for him. They shared an entrée.”
“Scars?”
He rolled up his sleeve, thin white line on his forearm from a nine-iron to the face at age twelve. I showed him the faint one on my knee from falling off a swing set while trying to impress a boy who didn’t even notice.
By the time we finished, we knew we could pass a polygraph.
Then he said the thing I’d been avoiding.
“We should practice the physical stuff. Before New Year’s. Make sure we don’t look like robots.”
I knew he was right. Stories are easy. Touch is harder.
He reached across the table and took my hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. His palm was warm, calloused in all the right places. I waited for the awkwardness.
It showed up, but it was manageable.
We held hands for a full minute while pretending to look at our phones. The woman at the next table smiled at us like we were adorable. I almost laughed.
“See?” he said quietly. “Not terrible.”
“Not terrible,” I agreed.
We scheduled the dress rehearsal for the 29th. Actual restaurant. Actual public. We would arrive together, order for each other, touch appropriately, pay as a couple, and leave without looking like we’d rehearsed in a mirror.
December 29th, 6:47 PM
I stood in front of my closet for twenty-three minutes and still wore black.
He picked a tiny Italian place in Logan Square none of my friends frequented. Safe zone.
I arrived first. He walked in at 6:59 wearing dark jeans and a charcoal shirt that made his eyes look unfairly blue. He spotted me, smiled like he’d been thinking about this all day, and crossed the room.
Then he did the thing we’d practiced exactly zero times.
He kissed my cheek. Lingering. Warm. Real enough that the hostess noticed and grinned.
“Good to see you,” he murmured against my skin.
I forgot how to breathe for a second.
The entire dinner was a test we didn’t know we were acing.
He pulled my chair out. His hand stayed on the back of my neck for a count of three while we looked at the menu. When the waiter asked what we were drinking, Jackson answered for both of us—chianti for him, montepulciano for me—because we’d added favorite wines to the dossier that afternoon.
We shared bruschetta. He fed me a bite from his fork without thinking. I let him. It felt disturbingly natural.
He rested his arm along the back of my chair the way boyfriends do when they’re not trying to prove anything. His thumb brushed the bare skin at my shoulder once. Accidentally on purpose.
I laughed at his stories. He laughed at mine. We argued good-naturedly about pineapple on pizza (he’s pro, I threaten divorce). The couple at the next table asked how long we’d been together. Jackson said “almost three months” at the exact second I said “two and a half.” Close enough.
When the check came he didn’t even glance at it—just handed over his card. I reached for my wallet out of habit; he covered my hand with his.
“I’ve got you.”
Four words. Simple. Dangerous.
Outside, the air was sharp enough to cut glass. He walked me to my car, hand at the small of my back the entire way. Protective. Possessive in the best way.
At my door he didn’t kiss me goodnight. We’d agreed no practice kissing until absolutely necessary.
But he did tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and let his fingers linger at my jaw.
“Tomorrow night,” he said. “New Year’s Eve. Peter and Jennifer’s. You ready?”
“No,” I admitted.
“Me neither. But we’ve got this.”
He waited until I was locked inside with the engine running before he walked away.
I drove home in silence, pulse racing like I’d just run a 5K.
When I got inside, I opened my phone to seventeen texts from my mother.
MOM: A boyfriend???
MOM: Since when???
MOM: You’re bringing him tomorrow???
MOM: Sloane Elizabeth, you answer me right now.
I typed back one line.
ME: You’ll meet him tomorrow. Be nice.
Then I texted Jackson.
ME: We’re terrifyingly good at this.
JACKSON: Told you. Excellent liars.
ME: Night, boyfriend.
JACKSON: Night, girlfriend. See you tomorrow. Wear something that makes your mother faint.
I laughed out loud in my empty apartment.
Tomorrow night the performance begins for real.
Tomorrow night I walk into my brother’s house on Jackson Reeves' arm and a story locked and loaded.
Tomorrow night the clock strikes midnight on the strangest, most promising year of my life.
I fall asleep with the kids’ menu on my nightstand, and a smile I can’t wipe off.
We’ve got this.
- Writer
