Faking with Benefits : A Friends to Lovers Romance(103)

I lick my lips. “I can’t,” I admit. “I knew.”

Of course I knew. We all did. The whole reason we brought Layla on this little retreat was to woo her. We weren’t plying her with silk sheets and chocolate-covered strawberries out of friendship. It wasn’t a conscious plan — we’re not that cruel — but honestly, what other reason could there be? The stupid fake-boyfriend experiment doesn’t exactly extend to tying her up, or sending her to weddings with toys stuffed inside her. It’s not like we can discuss that stuff on the podcast. We don’t have the right to act surprised that poor Layla started developing real feelings. It’s what we wanted.

We tried to make her fall for us. Because all three of us want her.

Her shoulders sag. “Yes. You knew. You all knew.” She stomps back to the bed, slamming her suitcase shut and yanking the zip closed. My heart hurts. I hate this. I hate how much pain I’m causing her, but I don’t know what else to do. “You’ve played me. I can’t believe I was stupid enough to trust you.”

Red-faced, she grabs the suitcase handle and pulls it off the bed, dragging it over the thick carpet to the exit. I watch as she steps out into the corridor. Desperation bursts up inside me.

“I can’t do it again,” I blurt out. “I’m sorry. I wish I could, but I can’t.”

She turns back in the doorway, her face like a mask. “Explain.”

“I… I realised at the wedding that I can’t go through it again. I can’t let myself fall in love with someone and watch it slowly fade away. I can’t. It’ll break me.” She doesn’t move. I push on. “I didn’t just lose Amy when we divorced. I lost a whole life. I lost nieces and nephews. I lost grandparents. Godchildren. My house. My career. The future I’d built for myself.” My throat tightens. “Sweetheart, it would be so easy to jump head-first into this with you. God knows I want to. But I need to be logical about this. I can’t be with someone unless I’m really sure the relationship will work out. And the odds of this working out with you specifically… they’re too low. I’m sorry.”

Emotion flickers in her eyes. For a second, I think she understands.

Then her mouth presses into a grim line.

“You’re a coward, Mr Martins,” she says quietly. “You spend all day teaching other couples to open themselves up to love. But you’d never do it yourself. You tell other people to take risks you think are too dangerous for yourself. You’re a hypocrite and a coward. And I hate cowards.”

She leaves, slamming the door behind her.





SIXTY-FIVE





LUKE





After Layla leaves, I sit alone in the hotel room for almost two hours, watching the sky darken outside the windows. I don’t remember the last time I felt so awful.

Eventually, I muster up the energy to pack up mine and Zack’s suitcases and order a taxi. Josh needs to be at the post-wedding breakfast tomorrow morning, and after a lot of deliberation, I leave him a quick note saying Zack was struggling, so we’ve all gone home. I feel bad lying to him, but I know he won’t be able to leave before tomorrow afternoon, after everything has been cleared up. There’s no point putting extra stress on his shoulders. Layla’s gone; he may as well enjoy the time with his family.

That night, I don’t sleep. I can’t. Layla’s words keep running through my mind like a broken record.

You can’t tell me you didn’t know I was falling for you. You knew. You all knew.

I’ve been so stupid. I never should’ve even kissed her, let alone slept with her. I shouldn’t have held her in my arms at night, or invited her to a family function, or tied her to a bloody headboard. She’s absolutely right; we’ve all been treating her like our girlfriends. We can’t turn around now and say that none of it was real. It was.

We were supposed to be helping her find love. Instead, we strung her along, encouraged her to open up to us, and then broke her heart.

The only thing I can console myself with is that I nipped it in the bud when I did. If I’d caved last night, and just grabbed her and kissed her like I wanted to, it would have hurt her so much more in the long run.

I can’t be with Layla. And soon, she’ll see that. She doesn’t want to be with some forty-year-old divorcee with commitment issues and a history of bad romantic choices. We did all of this so she can find someone else; someone suited to her.

So I don’t know why I feel so bad about it.

Zack finally gets back to the flat at nine the next morning, just as I’m giving up on sleep and heading into the kitchen for a coffee. He’s a mess; his suit is crumpled and stained with dirt, and I can smell the sour scent of beer and sweat on him. He doesn’t say a word to me, heading straight to his bedroom and locking the door. I make my drink and pull out my laptop, settling in for a day of work. I need something to distract me until Josh gets home.





Almost four hours later, I’m halfway through a blog post about setting healthy boundaries when a massive clatter rocks the flat.

“IDIOT!” Zack’s muffled shout easily pierces through his bedroom wall. There’s another crash, like he’s kicked something over. “GODDAMN IDIOT! What the HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?”