“The Pretend Boyfriend”
My name’s Mason, and I live in a small Oregon town that smells like rain and pine every night. When the sun goes down, the crickets start singing like it’s their big show.
I’ve never left this place. I still live in my grandpa’s old white house—the one with the slanted roof and squeaky floorboards. I fix bikes at a little repair shop called Gear & Grind, squeezed between a thrift store and a laundromat. Life here is simple, calm, and predictable.
At least, it was.
Until she moved in across the fence.
Her name’s Julia. Early forties. Brown hair that always escapes from her messy bun. Eyes the color of stormy water—gray-green, deep, secretive. Mrs. Larson, the neighborhood gossip, said she used to be a journalist from Chicago. Divorced. Apparently, her ex traded her in for a younger woman who could “do yoga and keep secrets.”
For three years, Julia and I were just quiet neighbors—two people living across from each other, like stars in the same sky but too far to touch.
Then one Thursday, everything changed.
1. The Proposal
I saw her standing on her porch, holding a crumpled flyer like it had personally offended her.
“Everything okay?” I asked, leaning over the fence.
She looked startled, then showed me the paper. “Neighborhood block party. Saturday.”
I grinned. “Free burgers, bad karaoke. Sounds like paradise.”
Her laugh was dry and nervous. “My ex will be there. With her.”
The sound of sprinklers filled the silence. I should’ve told her not to go. But instead, my mouth went rogue.
“What if I went with you—as your boyfriend? You know, pretend boyfriend.”
Her eyes widened. Then she laughed—really laughed. “You’re kidding.”
“Dead serious. I’m great at pretending. Ask my tax guy.”
Her smile softened. “You’d really do that?”
“Why not? No one should face that circus alone.”
She studied me like she was trying to see through the joke. Finally, she nodded. “All right. But we’ll need practice. No one’s going to believe it otherwise.”
“When do rehearsals start?”
“Tomorrow. My porch. Bring coffee.”
I nodded, pretending to play it cool. But my heart was already pounding like a drum.
2. Rehearsal Nights
Friday evening smelled like lilac and possibility. I showed up at seven sharp with two steaming cups.
“Black, no sugar for me,” I said. “Oat-milk latte, no foam for you.”
Her eyebrow arched. “You’ve been spying on my coffee habits.”
“Call it research,” I said with a grin.
We sat on her porch steps, knees almost touching.
“So, fake boyfriend,” she said, crossing her legs. “Where do we begin?”
“Handholding, level one.” I offered my hand.
She hesitated, then slipped hers into mine—warm and sure.
“How’s that feel?” she asked.
“Like an awkward middle-school dance,” I said, and she burst out laughing.
We practiced smiles, pet names, how to look comfortable together. We failed miserably at all of it, laughing so hard she nearly spilled her coffee.
By the end of the night, she wiped away tears from laughing. “We’re hopeless.”
“Hopelessly convincing,” I said.
The next night, she invited me inside. Her living room smelled like cedar and coffee. We shared wine, talked about work, about things we fix when we don’t want to think too hard.
She told me about her old life in Chicago—investigating dog-fighting rings, chasing stories, living on adrenaline. “I thought that was living,” she said softly. “Turns out it was just running.”
I told her about my grandpa, the man who taught me to fix bike chains and stay put. “Leaving never felt urgent,” I admitted.
She listened quietly, and for someone used to asking questions, that meant a lot.
By the third night, she fell asleep mid-sentence on the couch. I covered her with a blanket and sat nearby, listening to her breathing. For the first time in years, my house across the street felt empty.
3. The Eve of the Show
Friday night, she texted: Come over. Made pasta. Out of fake excuses.
Her kitchen glowed golden under one hanging bulb. The smell of garlic and basil filled the air. She moved barefoot, hair pinned up with a pencil, apron stained with sauce.
“Don’t just stand there,” she said. “Open the wine.”
We ate slowly. The noodles were slightly overcooked, but neither of us cared.
When I reached out to wipe a bit of sauce from her cheek, she froze—then smiled.
“Thanks.”
“Anytime.”
As we washed dishes together, our shoulders brushed. The silence between us changed—heavier, sweeter.
She broke it first. “After tomorrow… when this is over… what happens then?”
I dried my hands, trying to sound calm. “Then we decide if we want to keep pretending.”
She looked at me for a long moment. “Okay.”
When I left that night, the air smelled like rain—and something else I couldn’t name.
4. The Party
Saturday evening painted the sky in shades of peach and gold. I crossed the street wearing my best shirt—clean, at least.
Julia stood on her porch, stunning in a pale green dress that made her eyes glow.
“You look incredible,” I said.
She smiled shyly. “So do you.”
She slipped her hand into the crook of my arm, and we walked to the park together. The place buzzed with chatter and laughter under strings of twinkling lights.
When people saw us, they whispered. Julia’s shoulders tensed. I squeezed her hand. “Relax,” I whispered. “We’ve got this.”
Then I saw him—Mark, her ex. He looked exactly how you’d picture a man who thought he’d never be replaced—expensive watch, fake charm, smug grin. Beside him stood a young blonde, Tiffany, who looked barely old enough to rent a car.
“Julia!” Mark called, smiling like a shark. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
She stood tall. “Mark.”
He gestured to the blonde. “This is Tiffany. Tiffany, my ex-wife.”
His gaze turned to me. “And you are…?”
“Her boyfriend,” I said smoothly, wrapping my arm around Julia’s waist. “Mason.”
Tiffany giggled. “Didn’t know you liked mechanics, Jules.”
I smiled, but my voice was calm steel. “Careful. That’s my girlfriend you’re talking to.”
Her laugh died instantly. Mark’s grin faded. Julia straightened and said coolly, “Enjoy the party.”
Before he could answer, a slow song came on—Can’t Help Falling in Love.
I leaned close. “Dance with me.”
Her eyes widened, but she nodded.
We moved together under the lights. My hand rested at her back, her head against my chest.
“You okay?” I whispered.
“No,” she murmured. “But keep going.”
We swayed quietly as the town disappeared around us. Mark watched, his jaw tight.
“He doesn’t win anything tonight,” I said.
She looked up at me. “Prove it.”
So I did. I kissed her.
Not for show. Not for revenge. For her.
The world went still. When she pulled away, breath shaking, she whispered, “That wasn’t part of the plan.”
“Guess we’re off-script.”
5. Silence
She left the party with her head high, her hand still in mine. On her porch, she stopped. “That kiss… it wasn’t fake.”
“No,” I said quietly. “It wasn’t.”
“I need time to figure out what this is.”
“Take all the time you need.”
Days passed. Every morning, I left coffee at her door. Sometimes she drank it. Sometimes she didn’t.
I saw her once, typing on her porch, sunlight in her hair. Our eyes met for a second. She gave a small nod—not quite a smile. Then she went inside.
Neighbors gossiped about our “performance.” I didn’t correct them. Mark and Tiffany stopped showing up around town.
Life went quiet again. But not the same kind of quiet.
6. Rain on the Porch
Late August. Thunder rolled across the sky. When I got home, I noticed something strange—my porch light was on.
A note was taped to my door:
Meet me on my porch. Bring your appetite. — J
My heart kicked hard in my chest as I crossed the street.
Julia was sitting at a small table, two mugs steaming, sandwiches wrapped in foil. She looked peaceful, lighter.
“Turkey and Swiss,” she said. “You like mustard, right?”
I grinned. “You remembered.”
“I pay attention,” she said softly.
We ate in silence, listening to the rain and the distant hum of crickets.
Then she pulled a folder from under the table and slid it to me.
“I sent it,” she said.
Inside was her essay: ‘The Day I Found Myself Again.’ At the top corner: Pacific Northwest Quarterly — Accepted.
I read the first line out loud:
“I used to think love was a deadline. Turns out, it’s a porch light left on.”
My throat tightened. “Julia…”
She smiled, eyes shining. “They want more. Maybe a whole series.”
At the bottom, a handwritten note:
For the boy who left coffee and never asked for anything back.
I looked up, speechless.
“You didn’t have to thank me,” I said.
“I wanted to,” she whispered. “I was scared, Mason. Scared of what people would think. Scared of needing someone again. But I’m tired of being scared.”
She reached across the table, covering my hand. “I don’t know what this is yet. But I don’t want to figure it out alone.”
I turned my palm and held her hand tight. “Then don’t.”
Rain began to fall harder, drumming softly on the porch roof.
“Come inside,” she said, standing and offering her hand. “It’s getting cold.”
I followed her, leaving the mugs and her published dream behind.
The porch light burned bright through the storm.
7. After
People like to think love stories end with kisses and thunder. But real endings are quieter—they settle in the heart like a song that keeps playing.
Julia kept writing. Her essays became a series about loss, courage, and finding love again. One piece mentioned “a mechanic who taught her that not everything broken needs fixing.”
That winter, I opened Haven Cycles, a bike-and-coffee shop downtown. Julia wrote the article that helped us get our first rush of customers.
Now, every morning, she sits by the window with her laptop and her coffee, smiling at me over the counter. No pretending. No rehearsals.
When the sun sets behind the mountains, we close up and walk home together. Sometimes we stop at the fence where it all began.
“Remember when this was fake?” she teases.
“Best rehearsal ever,” I say.
And under the soft smell of rain and pine, our quiet little town finally feels like home—for both of us.
Because what started as pretending became the most real thing either of us ever dared to believe in.