Episode 3: The Fake Date Draft
1121 Words
“So, technically,” Chase said, leaning across the table like he was about to tell me a state secret, “you owe me one.”
I paused mid-bite of my croissant. “Excuse me?”
“From the book event,” he said. “I read your edits out loud. In public. That’s trust.”
“You changed a character’s name mid-speech and called it a plot twist.”
He grinned. “Still. I was vulnerable.”
I rolled my eyes, but he wasn’t done. Chase leaned in, eyes gleaming with mischief.
“Which is why you’re going to be my fake date this weekend.”
I choked. “I’m going to be your what?”
He slid a folded invitation across the café table like it was evidence in a spy movie. I opened it.
Navarro–Gonzales Family Reunion
Saturday, 6:00 PM | Dress: Casual–to–Don’t Get Judged By Tita May
I blinked. “This is a family reunion. Not a date.”
“My cousin’s calling it a date,” he said, sipping his coffee. “Long story short, I made a bet with him last year that I’d be in a stable relationship by now.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because I was trying to prove him wrong. And then he made a comment about how romance authors ‘don’t actually believe in love’—so obviously, I had to double down.”
I stared at him. “So you lied.”
“I narratively embellished.”
I gawked.
“And now,” he continued, “I need you to help me save face.”
“I’m your editor, Chase. Not your alibi.”
He gave me the smile. The one that came with dimples and disaster.
“It’s just one evening. One dinner. One tiny white lie where you pretend you’re wildly into me.”
“I’m already wildly annoyed by you. Is that close?”
“Close enough,” he said, beaming.
I told myself I was only doing it for the plot.
A fake date? That was peak rom-com material. Think of the banter. The awkward introductions. The inevitable “oh no, there’s only one seat left” moments.
This was research. For edits. For science. For… reasons.
Still, I couldn’t ignore the way my heart wouldn’t calm down as I changed outfits six times Saturday evening before settling on jeans, a navy wrap blouse, and clean white sneakers.
I wasn’t trying to impress him. Obviously.
He texted at 5:30:
Chase: I’ll pick you up.
No turning back.
Also—Tita Vi is not allowed to join.
I saw her i********: story and I’m scared.
He wasn’t wrong. My aunt had recently discovered i********: filters and was now posting daily “Max’s Love Horoscope” reels.
“Gemini rising means you’ll kiss a man with questionable punctuation this weekend,” she’d declared in her last video.
I didn’t need that kind of foreshadowing.
When Chase showed up, he looked annoyingly good.
Simple charcoal shirt. Rolled sleeves. That stupid smile that made me want to highlight it in red and still keep it.
“You ready, fake girlfriend?”
I grabbed my tote. “If anyone asks, we met at a bookstore and bonded over bad coffee and a shared hatred of overused metaphors.”
“Sold,” he said, leading me to his car.
It was an old white Jeep with character, a slight rattle, and a tiny figurine of a wizard glued to the dashboard.
“Is that Gandalf?”
“He’s our emotional support wizard.”
Of course.
The reunion was held in a large garden patio strung with fairy lights and the scent of grilled food and drama.
I was introduced to so many cousins, titas, titos, and dogs that I briefly forgot my own name.
“This is Max,” Chase would say. “She’s an editor, loves coffee, and corrects my grammar when I flirt.”
Laughter. Curiosity. Thinly veiled judgment.
At one point, a tita asked me when we were getting married.
Another asked how many children we wanted.
I smiled politely and said, “Let’s edit one manuscript at a time, Tita.”
They loved me.
They also loved teasing Chase. I learned he was the “baby cousin,” the “flirt,” and once accidentally set fire to a tablecloth at a family party trying to impress a girl with a magic trick.
“She dumped me the next day,” he whispered.
“Smart girl.”
“You’re so mean to me.”
“I’m your editor. It’s in the contract.”
We sat at the dinner table, shoulder to shoulder, passing food and faking affection—except, every time our hands brushed, I forgot it was fake.
And I wasn’t sure he remembered either.
After dessert (which included a suspiciously delicious purple yam cake that I’m still dreaming about), we snuck away from the table and found a quiet spot near the garden fountain.
Chase sighed and looked up at the stars.
“I hate lying to them,” he said quietly.
“Then why do it?”
“Because I wanted to believe I was capable of something stable. Something real. And… maybe having you here made me believe it for a second.”
My chest tightened.
“Chase…”
He turned to face me. “I know this is pretend. I do. But it hasn’t felt pretend since you smiled at my Tita and called her Ma’am.”
“She scared me! She had a machete in her garden.”
“Her name is May. It’s decorative.”
He laughed, then caught himself. His expression softened.
“You’re different,” he said.
“Different how?”
“You call me out. You don’t let me get away with being charming. You make me want to actually be better.”
I froze.
Because for a second, I forgot what the script said.
And all I wanted was for this fake date to turn real.
He stepped closer.
“Max?”
“Yeah?”
“Tell me the truth. If this wasn’t pretend… would you still have come with me?”
I looked at him, this man who wrote fantasy but felt real in a way I wasn’t ready for.
And I whispered, “Yeah. I think I would have.”
His eyes searched mine like he was waiting for permission.
Then someone called his name across the patio—and just like that, the moment passed.
He gave me a soft smile.
“Come on, fake girlfriend. Let’s go say goodbye to Tita Machete.”
I laughed, breathless.
And maybe a little in love.
- Writer
