“The Pretend Boyfriend”
My name’s Mason, and I live in a small Oregon town where the nights smell like rain on pine bark and crickets start their music just after sunset.
I’ve never left this place. My grandfather’s old white house still stands at the edge of town, the roof a little crooked, the steps creaking like they’re talking back to me every time I walk by.
I fix bikes for a living at Gear & Grind, a small repair shop squeezed between a thrift store and a laundromat that always smells faintly of detergent and coffee.
Life is simple here. Predictable. Quiet.
Then she moved in across the fence.
Her name was Julia. Early forties. Brown hair that never quite stayed in its bun and gray-green eyes that seemed to know more than they’d ever say. Mrs. Larson, the neighborhood gossip, told me she used to be a journalist from Chicago.
Divorced. Her husband had traded her in, according to Mrs. Larson, for someone “flexible enough to do yoga and keep secrets.”
For three years, Julia and I were like weather vanes on opposite rooftops—aware of each other, but never crossing paths. Until one cloudy Thursday evening.
1. The Proposal
I saw her standing on her porch, gripping a flyer like it had just ruined her week.
“Everything okay?” I called over the fence.
She startled, looked up, and sighed. “Neighborhood block party. Saturday.” She held up the crumpled paper like it was a court summons.
I shrugged. “Free burgers, bad karaoke… sounds like paradise.”
She laughed, but it came out brittle. “My ex will be there. With her.”
The silence between us thickened, filled with the sound of sprinklers and distant thunder. I could’ve told her to skip it, to stay home and avoid the pain. But my mouth betrayed me.
“What if I came with you?” I said before I could think. “As your boyfriend. Fake, obviously.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “You’re kidding.”
“Completely serious,” I said. “I’m great at pretending. Ask my tax guy.”
She stared at me, trying to see if I was joking. “You’d really do that?”
“Why not?” I said with a grin. “You shouldn’t have to face a circus alone.”
She studied me for a long moment, weighing the idea. Then she finally said, “All right. But we’ll need to practice. No one’s going to believe it otherwise.”
“When do rehearsals start?”
“Tomorrow,” she said. “My porch. Bring coffee.”
I nodded, pretending to be calm, while inside my chest, every heartbeat felt like it was tripping over the next.
2. Rehearsal Nights
Friday evening came wrapped in the sweet smell of lilacs and the promise of trouble. I showed up at her porch at seven sharp, holding two cups.
“Black, no sugar for me,” I said. “Oat-milk latte, no foam for you.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been spying on my caffeine habits?”
“Call it research,” I said.
We sat on the porch steps, close enough that our knees almost touched.
“So,” she began, “fake boyfriend training. Where do we start?”
“Step one,” I said, offering my hand. “Handholding.”
She hesitated, then placed her hand in mine. Warm. Steady. Real.
“How’s it feel?” she asked.
“Like I’m back at my middle-school dance,” I said. “Only less terrifying.”
She laughed—an honest, unguarded sound that made her whole face light up.
We practiced smiles, practiced small touches, inside jokes, pet names. We were terrible at all of it. But by the end of the night, she was laughing so hard she had tears in her eyes. “We’re hopeless.”
“Hopelessly convincing,” I corrected, and she shook her head, still smiling.
The next night, she invited me inside. Her living room smelled of cedar and coffee. We drank wine and talked until midnight—about bikes and writing, about broken things we’d both tried to fix.
She told me about Chicago, about chasing dangerous stories and living on adrenaline. “I thought that was living,” she said softly. “Turns out it was just running.”
I told her about my grandfather teaching me to rebuild bike chains when I was ten, and how I stayed in town because leaving never felt like a real choice.
She listened like the world had stopped for it. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed being listened to.
By the third night, she fell asleep mid-sentence on the couch. I covered her with a blanket, turned off the lamp, and sat quietly, just listening to her breathe. My own house across the street suddenly felt emptier than it ever had before.
3. The Eve of the Show
Friday came again with a strange electricity in the air. She texted: “Come over. Made pasta. Out of fake excuses.”
Her kitchen glowed gold from a single hanging light. Garlic, basil, and jazz filled the room. She moved barefoot, hair pinned up with a pencil, apron dusted with flour.
“Don’t just stand there,” she said, grinning. “Open the wine.”
We ate slowly, laughing over lumpy noodles and sauce that was somehow too salty and perfect at the same time.
At one point, I reached out to wipe a dot of sauce off her cheek. She froze—then smiled.
“Thanks,” she murmured.
“No problem,” I said, but my pulse said otherwise.
After dinner, we washed dishes side by side. Our shoulders brushed, our breaths fell into rhythm.
“After tomorrow,” she said quietly, “when this is over… what then?”
I looked at her. “Then we decide if we keep pretending.”
She didn’t look away. “Okay.”
When I left that night, rain began to fall—soft and promising.
4. The Party
Saturday arrived painted in shades of orange and peach. I crossed the street wearing the only good shirt I owned.
Julia waited on her porch, glowing in a pale green dress that matched her eyes.
“You clean up nice,” I said.
“So do you,” she answered, linking her arm through mine.
We walked to the park, where string lights hung over picnic tables and half the town sang badly along with the DJ.
It didn’t take long before we saw him—Mark. Her ex. Tall, expensive, smug. And next to him, a blonde who looked like she’d just stepped out of a yoga ad.
“Julia!” Mark called out. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
She smiled tightly. “Mark.”
He gestured to his new girlfriend. “This is Tiffany. Tiffany, my ex-wife.”
Then his eyes landed on me. “And you are…?”
“Her boyfriend,” I said easily, sliding an arm around Julia’s waist. “Mason.”
Tiffany smirked. “Didn’t know you liked mechanics, Jules.”
“Careful,” I said with a grin that wasn’t one. “That’s my girlfriend you’re insulting.”
Her smirk faltered. Julia’s voice came out steady. “Enjoy the party, Mark.”
Then the song changed—Can’t Help Falling in Love.
“Dance with me,” I said before I could stop myself.
Her eyes widened. Then she nodded.
We stepped onto the grass, moving slowly under the string lights. Her head rested against my shoulder.
“You okay?” I whispered.
“No,” she said softly. “But keep going.”
I held her tighter. “He doesn’t win anything,” I murmured.
She looked up at me. “Prove it.”
So I did.
I kissed her.
Not for show. Not for revenge. But because I meant it. Every second of it.
When we finally pulled apart, she whispered, “That wasn’t part of the plan.”
“Guess we’re off-script,” I said.
5. Silence
She left the party hand in hand with me, head high. On her porch, she turned. “That kiss… it wasn’t fake.”
“No,” I said. “It wasn’t.”
“I need time, Mason. To figure out what this really is.”
“Take all the time you need.”
She went inside, and I stood there until the light went out.
Days turned into weeks. Every morning, I left a cup of coffee at her door. Sometimes it disappeared. Sometimes it stayed there all day.
Once, I saw her typing on her porch, sunlight in her hair. Our eyes met through my truck window. She gave me a small nod—not quite a smile, but enough.
The neighbors kept whispering about “the show” we’d put on. I didn’t care. The quiet had returned—but it didn’t feel peaceful anymore. It felt like something was missing.
6. Rain on the Porch
Late August came with thunder. When I pulled into my driveway one evening, my porch light was on. I never left it on.
A note was taped to my door:
Meet me on my porch. Bring your appetite. — J
I barely remembered to lock my truck before running across the street.
Julia sat at a small table, rain misting the air around her, two mugs steaming beside sandwiches wrapped in foil.
“Turkey and Swiss,” she said. “You like mustard, right?”
I grinned. “You remembered.”
“I pay attention.”
We ate quietly, the rain pattering softly above us. The air smelled of cedar and fresh starts.
When we finished, she pulled a thin folder from under the table and slid it toward me.
“I sent it,” she said.
Inside was her essay: The Day I Found Myself Again. Printed neatly. 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 faintly. “It’s small, but they want more. A series, maybe.”
At the bottom, a handwritten note read: 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 said. “I was scared, Mason. Of needing someone again. But I’m tired of being scared.”
She reached out and took my hand. “I don’t know what this is yet. But I don’t want to figure it out alone.”
I turned my palm over, fingers lacing with hers. “Then don’t.”
Rain fell harder, but neither of us moved. The porch light glowed bright through the downpour.
“Come inside,” she said softly. “It’s getting cold.”
And I followed her in.
7. After
People like to think love stories end with a kiss, a storm, a fade-out. But the real endings are quieter—they live in the everyday moments.
Julia’s series became a monthly column—stories of heartbreak, healing, and second chances. One of them mentioned “a mechanic who taught her that some things aren’t broken, just paused.”
That winter, I opened Haven Cycles, a bike-and-coffee shop downtown. Julia wrote the article that brought us our first rush of customers.
Most mornings, she sits by the window with her laptop, sipping coffee and stealing glances at me behind the counter. No pretending now.
When the sun dips behind the Cascades, we close up together, walk home side by side. Sometimes we stop by the fence where it all began.
“Remember when this was fake?” she teases.
“Best rehearsal ever,” I tell her.
And as the night smells like rain and pine again, I finally understand—
What started as pretending became the most real thing either of us ever dared to believe in.