Fake Date Number Three [Short Story]

Date Number Three

***

Wait a freaking second. He couldn't be mad at her, could he? Sebastian Saldua, hottest coolest guy she knew. One time she had lost her shit when materials they'd sent over to a conference had gotten wet in transit, and she was yelling about incompetent people who weren't even there, but he didn't lose his cool the entire time, and in fact talked her through it until she felt so much better.

Was this his style of angry? If yes then it was quiet angry. He was holding her hand but in the most lifeless way possible, like a Ken doll had slotted its cold stuck-together fingers into hers. The weather was perfect. It was a great night. They were planning to have sex at some point. At this beautiful beach resort.

Not if he was being distant and cold and couldn't wait to get back home.

They still acted like boyfriend and girlfriend at the dinner, but with the air of boyfriend being quietly secretly angry. This was not effective at all.

After dinner, the walk back to their cabana was short; theirs was one of the closest to the beach itself. It wasn't even that late, but Frances wanted to give him the chance to explain himself...and maybe go back out to the party by herself if he was going to be that much of a jerk.

She went right for the bathroom, brushed her teeth. When she stepped back into the room, he was looking at her. Unbuttoning his shirt. Still looking like a boy right before a tantrum.

"So I wanted to ask how you want it," Sebastian said.

"Sex?"

"Yeah."

"Like, now?"

"Now is a good time."

"Not if you're being obnoxious."

"I'm not—" Oh but he was, and even Sebastian had to stop and take a breath and assess his position on the jerk scale. "I just don't appreciate being brought all the way here just to get fucked."

"What are you talking about?"

"Or be fucked. What exactly is this weekend you have planned for me, Fran?"

Oh my God. This really was a tantrum. "What are you talking about? This is exactly what it is. It's the beach. It's a wedding. It's two nights in this lovely room. It can be whatever we want it to be. And the people here think you and I are together and already do it, so what does it matter if we do? Or not—if you don't want to. Oh my God."

"And then what happens after?"

"After? After, I don't know. Did you want to go diving? Or sightseeing?"

"I meant me. What happens to me, after this?"

Frances really truly did not understand what he was talking about. Did she promise him something in her sleep? What was it that she'd done that was so horrible?

"It's our third date." He nearly spit the words out. "The one that you're so proud to say is always the last one, when you date people. This is all-out, Fran. The best third date we could ever come up with. You seem to be making it count. What do you do with me after this?"

Oh my God. Exactly the words that formed in her head, and right when their entire friendship flashed before her eyes. He was wrong, so wrong, about this being anything close to the last. She'd fake-date him everywhere, every time, if he'd let her.

Fran, that would be real dating.

Fran, that would be an actual relationship.

"Sebastian," she said.