How to Play Pretend (Chapter Two)

The boy is tall, strong, and honestly looks like the solution to every one of my problems. The second I see him, I start falling for him.
Hard.
International Fiction is the one class where I’m normally super focused—mainly because the seats are so spaced apart that I can’t hear anyone else—but today, a concentrated Fey mindset has gone out the window.
I steal another glance his way before Mr. Sterbou starts the next part of his lecture and I’m supposed to take notes. Every time I look at the boy, he seems to grow more beautiful. His ice-blue eyes match perfectly to his wooly pullover, one of the fashionable things I can’t seem to wrap my head around—and he’s pulling it off very nicely, not yanking at it or looking uncomfortable like I did yesterday. Well, I guess he doesn’t have a mental disorder that messes with his brain, so he can do normal-people-stuff like that.
I wish, God, I do.


After everyone leaves and I’ve learned nothing about anything whatsoever, I’m stuck in my seat, stare glued to him. He’s also still there, staring intensely at his computer. Then he looks my way. I jump a little in my seat, his gaze icy and chilling like the blue of his eyes. But I can tell there’s something else there, so I stay.
“Well, hello,” he says, smiling at me in a way that makes my heart flutter.
“Hi,” I mutter. My cheeks bloom pink.
“You look pretty,” the boy comments. “My name is James. What’s your name?”
“I’m Fey,” I say, braver this time. I force myself to make eye contact with him. His eyes are that same perfect blue.
“Fey,” James repeats, giving me another chance to hear his low, smoky voice. My name sounds curved and perfect.
“Yeah, Fey.”
“It’s a nice name.” I don’t know what to say, but he doesn’t let silence marinate for long. We talk for while, and after what seems like minutes but surely has been hours, James asks, “Would you like to go out?”
My heart starts beating double time. This is it, my chance at normal. And he really is hot. James gives a crooked smile that is so absolutely adorable that I want to kiss him. Sensing my thoughts, he leans in and doesn’t hesitate before touching his lips to mine.
God. James is going to be my endgame. He’s unafraid and he’s okay with leading this relationship.
I kiss him again and we decide to walk somewhere to get dinner. “Come on,” he teases as we walk. “Your legs are so short.” I feel my face flush. I’m tall! I’m five six, five seven on a good day! How dare he!
Then I realize he’s just kidding.
“Shut up,” I say back, half wanting to die because saying that is like flirting and I don’t flirt, but he rewards me with a quick peck and a, “Never.” I love him already.
Is this the butterflies that the movies always talk about?


Later that night, in his dorm, we’re talking about school and stuff when he randomly grabs me, gives me a long kiss, and whispers, “I love you.” It’s the first time a boy has ever said that to me, not including my dad, so I obviously tear up a little and say it back.
He walks me home.
Life is finally coming together.



James dropped me off at my dorm two hours ago, and my heart’s still racing. Beat that, my stomach’s still got butterflies. I feel like I could die while I lay in my bed, fidgeting, unable to sit still. But for the first time, I don’t want to die of depression, but instead, happiness. It’s a good feeling that I haven’t had since before I left for college, the feeling that you have too much happiness to even bottle it up and get calm again.
Tonight’s going to be a four pill night.


An hour later, even after four pills, I’m still not asleep. I toss and turn, even with a melatonin overdose-overdose. I debate opening my phone, because what if, maybe, he texted me? We exchanged numbers while walking back, and he said we could “keep in touch,” and I don’t know if the same night is too keep-in-touchy. But I open it anyway. My phone’s been on silent because it’s always next to me, so it could be anything. But what I see is a very rare sight. Twenty two unread messages.
Twenty two? How could he have that much to say in three hours? I check them all, one by one, confused. After I’m done reading and finished quadruple-checking it, I finally understand what he meant. He’s spelled out the entire message “have a good night, I love you.” Darn. I thought he would have more to say than that. But what can I expect from someone I literally just met? Well, I don’t know. I’ve never had a real boyfriend before. Wait, does that mean James is my boyfriend? That raises a million more questions from my brain.
What if he finds out about your problems and turns on you? What if he wants to out you and all your weirdnesses to the whole school? What if you’re a bad girlfriend? What if he secretly is laughing at you right now? What if he’s sad you haven't responded to his text? What if he dies? What if…
I shake my head, trying to lose the next thought, because I know what’s coming next. I have this spiral when I have too many pills. It’s too much for me and my brain to handle, and I’m overthinking every aspect of my life before bam, the pills kick in and I’m out.
My body is going to feel the effects of all the drugging I’m doing to it now this weekend, but if I don’t get to sleep, I’ll be a mess tomorrow and I don’t want James to hate me. So I take three more pills and wait it out until I fall into the darkness of sleep.



I wake up with a pain in my head that feels like the world is ending.
Oh God.
My first thought is I’m probably dying. My second thought is James. My third thought is wait a sec. I had like seven pills last night. So I decide today is a day of rest and I’ll stay in bed.
Call James, my brain whispers. He’ll feed you chicken soup and kiss you and you can be a normal sick person. But my heart stops me from picking up the phone. As much as I want to have him by me, something is off. I think my heart was in it last night not because of him but because of the promise of him. The promise of normalness. James isn’t the appeal, the idea of having someone to love is what I’m attracted to. But maybe if I try, he could be what I want.
I flop onto the bed. I’ve always been in love with romance. I’m not picky—my first crush was on a YouTuber, and a female one at that. I think the hours I spent drawing her face were the most focused ones I’ve ever had. My parents told me about the LGBTQIA+ community, and as soon as I heard the word pansexual, that was me. I don’t care about gender. I just want a pure, true love that will last as long as I live, if not longer.
James… is probably not it.
There’s no chemistry. I was so into him yesterday, sure, but I could have a few hours of butterflies over any hot boy, any kiss. That’s how I am. A romantic. When Matthew invited me over and we made out, my stomach was fluttering for a day or so, but we never spoke again.
No.
I have to believe this is real, so I can have a chance for normal.
Oh, God, I need normal.
I need to escape this disability that I trapped myself in and figure out how to have a life. I don’t want to be relying on my parents, because when they die, I’ll be screwed. Oh God, I will be. I’m on the brink of a panic attack when someone comes into my dorm. I turn around, terrified, because no one has the key to my dorm.
Unless…
“You forgot this,” James says, handing me my key and giving me a kiss. “I missed you.”
“It’s been a day,” I point out.
“A whole day!” He pouts, and I laugh and start falling for him again.
“I love you,” I tell him as he gives me another kiss.
“I love you too.”
“I’m sick,” I mention to James a few minutes later after a vigorous and energizing make-out session. The butterflies are flapping full force.
“Poor baby,” he says, but ducks in for another go at kissing. I’m a little bit annoyed, though his lips on mine seem to ease the headache. Also, it’s cute that he wants me even when I’m ill.
I’m hungry for him, reaching for his face and pulling it towards me. He moans. I have a fleeting thought that he wants something more than kissing, but I push it away. I’ve lost my first kiss to a boy already, and he wasn’t meant for me. I need to make sure James is my true love before I lose my virginity too.
But there are probably loads of girls lined up for him, honestly, seeing as he’s so handsome. Maybe I should give him it, if that’s what will make me stand out?
I try not to think about it anymore and just enjoy the moment, but even for the days after, there’s always a question lurking in the back of my mind.


James takes me out most nights. It’s easy now, to find every ridge and corner of his body. His lips are memorised forever, their shape indented into my brain. After every dinner, I kiss him goodnight and he whispers a soft I love you that melts my heart every time. It’s like a dream that never stops.
Falling asleep is, ironically, the only time I have to wake up from it, when George comes and tries to convince me to take his therapy. It’s become a nightly routine: I sink into sleep and he snatches his victim. Each word he speaks is a terror.
I can help you.
Just come with me.
If you talk to me, everything will be better.
Really all that will happen if I follow him into his office is that there will be more blinding white perfectness. More ways to fix me.
Every time I try to explain, I don’t need fixing. And George answers, Of course not. It’s worse than if he had screamed at me, pulled my arm, forced me to come with him. This way… it’s like he believes I need therapy. Like he’ll do anything.
I lie awake in fear of sleep and pray for the morning.


Two weeks after the first kiss, James invites me over to his dorm after one of my classes and we make love for the first time. It’s not as amazing as I thought it would be, but James seems to like it immensely. So we have it once or twice a week from that point on.
I give him my body and he gives me his attention. That’s how love works.
I make him happy because he’s what matters. That’s how love works.
As long as he’s happy, I’m happy. That’s how love works.


Right?