The Pretend Boyfriend
My name’s Mason, and I live in a small Oregon town where the nights always smell like rain on pine bark, and the crickets begin their concert the moment the sun dips below the hills.
I’ve never left this place. I still live in my grandfather’s creaky white house—the roof a little uneven, the porch a little crooked, but it’s home. I fix bikes for a living at a small repair shop called Gear & Grind, tucked between a thrift store and a laundromat. My days are simple. Predictable. Clean.
And then, Julia moved in across the fence.
She was in her early forties, with brown hair that never quite stayed in place and gray-green eyes that looked like they’d seen too much and weren’t in the mood to explain.
The neighborhood gossip, Mrs. Larson, told me she used to be a journalist from Chicago. Divorced. Her ex-husband left her for someone “young, flexible enough for yoga, and apparently allergic to loyalty.”
For three years, Julia and I existed like two weather vanes across the street—aware of each other, but never crossing paths. Until that Thursday.
1. The Proposal
I saw her standing on her porch, gripping a flyer like it had just delivered bad news.
“Everything okay?” I called over the fence.
She blinked, startled, then held it up. “Neighborhood block party. Saturday.”
I chuckled. “Free burgers and bad karaoke? Sounds like paradise.”
Her laugh was thin. “My ex will be there. With her.”
The air went still except for the hiss of sprinklers down the street. I should’ve told her not to go. Instead, words slipped out before I could stop them.
“What if I came with you—as your boyfriend? You know, fake one.”
She blinked in surprise, then laughed—a real laugh this time, warm and sharp. “You’re joking.”
“Nope,” I said. “Completely serious. I’m great at pretending. Ask my tax guy.”
Her smile softened. “You’d really do that?”
“Why not? Nobody should face that circus alone.”
She studied me for a long second, eyes searching for the joke. Then, finally: “All right. But we’ll need to practice. No one will believe it otherwise.”
“When do rehearsals start?” I asked.
“Tomorrow. My porch. Bring coffee.”
I nodded, trying to act calm while my pulse thumped like a drum.
2. Rehearsal Nights
Friday evening came sweet with lilac and the buzz of summer air. I showed up at her porch at seven sharp, carrying 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 caffeine habits?”
“Research,” I said.
We sat on the porch steps, knees almost touching.
“So, fake boyfriend,” she said, folding one leg over the other. “Where do we start?”
“Step one: handholding.” I held out my palm.
She hesitated, then placed hers in mine. Warm. Sure.
“How’s it feel?” she asked.
“Like a middle-school dance, minus the sweaty palms.”
She laughed, a real, easy sound that cut through the tension. From there, we practiced smiles, pet names, the way couples look at each other when they think no one’s watching. Each attempt ended with laughter until she wiped tears from her eyes.
“We’re hopeless,” she said, still laughing.
“Hopelessly convincing,” I corrected.
The next night, she invited me inside. Her living room smelled like cedar and old books. We drank wine, talked about bikes and broken deadlines, about all the things we fix to avoid fixing ourselves.
She told me about Chicago—long nights chasing stories, the thrill of exposés, how she thought adrenaline meant living. “Turns out,” she said softly, “I was just running away.”
I told her about my grandpa teaching me to rebuild a bike chain at ten, how I stayed here because leaving never felt urgent enough.
She listened the way only a journalist can—quietly, fully. And I found myself talking more than I had in years.
By the third night, she fell asleep mid-sentence on the couch. I covered her with a blanket and sat on the floor, listening to her steady breathing. My own house suddenly felt lonelier than ever.
3. The Eve of the Show
Friday came with thunderclouds and nerves. My phone buzzed: Come over. Made pasta. Running out of fake excuses.
Her kitchen glowed under a single golden bulb. Jazz played on an old radio, and the smell of garlic filled the air. She moved barefoot, hair pinned with a pencil, apron streaked with tomato sauce.
“Don’t just stand there,” she said with a smile. “Open the wine.”
Dinner was imperfect—overcooked noodles, a bit too much salt—but perfect all the same.
When I reached out to wipe sauce from her cheek, she froze for a second, then smiled softly. “Thanks.”
Afterward, we washed dishes shoulder to shoulder. The space between us felt charged, full of unspoken things.
“After tomorrow,” she asked, “when this is all over… what then?”
I looked at her, my voice low. “Then we decide if we keep pretending.”
Her gaze didn’t waver. “Okay.”
When I left, the smell of rain and something hopeful followed me home.
4. The Party
Saturday painted the sky in peach and orange. I crossed the street wearing my only decent shirt.
Julia stood waiting on her porch, glowing in a pale green dress that made her eyes shine. For a moment, she looked twenty again.
“You clean up nice,” I said.
“So do you,” she replied, slipping her hand through my arm.
The park was strung with fairy lights and the sound of laughter. Country music blared from old speakers. Everyone seemed to be watching us.
Julia stiffened when she spotted him—Mark. Her ex. He looked polished, smug, holding hands with a blonde who looked barely old enough to rent a car.
“Julia!” Mark called. “Didn’t expect to see you.”
“Mark,” she said, her tone cool.
“This is Tiffany,” he said. “Tiffany, my ex-wife.”
Then his eyes slid 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 leaned in just enough to make her nervous. “Careful. That’s my girlfriend you’re talking about.”
The girl’s laugh died instantly. Mark’s smirk faltered. Julia straightened, voice steady as glass. “Enjoy the party.”
Before he could answer, the speaker switched songs—Can’t Help Falling in Love.
I whispered, “Dance with me.”
Her eyes widened. Then she nodded.
We stepped onto the grass. Her hand fit perfectly in mine, her head resting against my shoulder.
“You okay?” I whispered.
“No,” she breathed. “But keep going.”
We swayed beneath the lights, the whole town fading around us. I could feel Mark’s eyes burning holes into my back.
“He doesn’t win,” I murmured.
“Then prove it,” she whispered.
So I kissed her.
Not for show. Not for revenge. For her. For the laughter, the late-night talks, the quiet understanding we’d built.
When she finally pulled back, breath trembling, she whispered, “That wasn’t part of the plan.”
“Guess we’re off-script.”
5. Silence
We left the party hand in hand, heads high. On her porch, she stopped.
“That kiss,” she said softly. “It wasn’t fake.”
“No,” I said. “It wasn’t.”
“I need time to figure out what this is.”
“Take all the time you need.”
The porch light flickered as she went inside. I stood there until it went dark.
Days passed. Every morning, I left coffee at her door. Sometimes she drank it. Sometimes it stayed untouched until night. The distance between our houses felt wider than ever.
Once, I saw her on her porch, typing, sunlight catching her hair. Our eyes met. She gave a small nod—not quite a smile. Then she turned away.
Neighbors gossiped about “the show we put on.” I let them. Mark and Tiffany stopped showing up at town events. Life went back to quiet—but not the same kind.
6. Rain on the Porch
Late August. The first thunder rolled like a drum. When I pulled into my driveway, my porch light was on. I never leave it on.
A note was taped to the door:
Meet me on my porch. Bring your appetite. —J
I didn’t even grab an umbrella.
Julia sat at a small table, two steaming mugs, sandwiches wrapped in foil. She looked tired but peaceful.
“Turkey and Swiss,” she said. “You like mustard, right?”
“You remembered,” I said, grinning.
“I pay attention.”
We ate in quiet comfort, the rain whispering around us. When we finished, she slid a folder across the table.
“I sent it,” she said.
Inside was her essay—The Day I Found Myself Again. At the top: Accepted by Pacific Northwest Quarterly.
I read the first line aloud: ‘I used to think love was a deadline. Turns out it’s a porch light left on.’
My throat tightened. “Julia…”
She smiled, eyes shimmering. “It’s small, but they want more—a series maybe.”
At the bottom was a handwritten note: For the boy who left coffee and never asked for anything back.
“You didn’t have to thank me,” I said.
“I wanted to,” she replied. “I was scared, Mason—of needing someone again. But I’m tired of being scared.”
She reached for my hand. “I don’t know what this is yet. But I don’t want to figure it out alone.”
I turned my hand, fingers lacing through hers. “Then don’t.”
Rain pattered softly on the porch roof. The air smelled like cedar and new beginnings.
She stood, holding out her hand. “Come inside. It’s getting cold.”
I followed, leaving the mugs and her published dream behind. The porch light glowed steady through the rain.
7. After
People like to imagine endings wrapped neatly with a bow. But real endings? They hum quietly inside ordinary days.
Julia kept writing. Her series ran monthly—stories about loss, resilience, and rediscovery. One mentioned “a mechanic who taught her that some things aren’t broken, just waiting.”
That winter, I opened Haven Cycles—a bike-and-coffee shop downtown. Julia wrote the article that got us our first rush of customers.
Most mornings, she sits by the window with her laptop and coffee, smiling at me over the counter. No pretending anymore.
When the sun dips behind the Cascades, we close up and walk home together. Sometimes we stop by the old fence between our houses. She’ll nudge my arm and say, “Remember when this was fake?”
And I’ll grin. “Best rehearsal ever.”
The air smells of pine and rain, the crickets sing, and the world feels right again.
Because what started as pretending turned into the most real thing either of us had ever dared to believe in.