So About These Rules

Five rules for pretending to date my best friend. I wrote them at 1 AM on a Tuesday, sitting on my kitchen floor with a glass of wine and the particular clarity that comes from making a terrible decision and needing to feel like you've planned it.

Rule one: No PDA unless family is watching. Rule two: No sharing the bed (same room, separate sides, pillow barrier). Rule three: No saying "I love you," even as a joke. Rule four: No real kissing. Rule five: Debrief every night so we stay on the same page.

Noa read the list back to me from her phone, one hand on the steering wheel, Cape May forty minutes away. She scrolled with her thumb while also driving, which I chose not to comment on.

"Rule six," she said. "No improvising. Stick to the backstory."

"Yoga class."

"You don't do yoga."

"I do sometimes."

"You went once. You pulled something."

"It was a spiritual experience."

She glanced at me. Almost smiled. Not the full thing, just the corner of her mouth, the version that meant she was pleased with herself but would never say so. I'd been cataloging Noa Sato's almost-smiles for four years. This one was amused but holding it back.

"The bed situation," she said. "You said pillow barrier."

"Correct."

"You realize pillows don't have structural integrity."

"They have symbolic integrity."

"I'm a designer. Symbolic integrity isn't load-bearing."

I laughed. She did the thing where the almost-smile deepened for half a second before resetting. Four years of friendship and I'd seen her lose composure exactly twice. Once when she won the Ellison residential commission. Once when I told her Willa had texted me after eighteen months of silence.

Both times the same response: a hand pressed flat against the nearest surface, testing if it would hold. Then back to normal. I envied that. Letting something enormous move through you and coming out the other side still standing.

"What about physical stuff." Her focus stayed on the highway.

"What about it."

"If your family's watching. Hand-holding. Arm around the waist. The occasional..." A beat. "Performed affection."

"That's the point. That's literally the entire plan."

"Just confirming parameters."

Parameters. She could draft a floor plan for the week. Every room labeled, the load-bearing walls clearly marked, nothing left to chance.

The beach house appeared through the trees. Blue shingles, white trim, wraparound porch. The jetty I used to jump off before I learned to check the depth first. My mother's car was already in the driveway, which meant she'd arrived three hours early to "just set up a few things," which meant the house already had printed schedules on every flat surface and the fridge was organized by meal.

I parked. The quiet hit.

"Ready?" Noa asked.

"Absolutely not."

She unbuckled. Reached across the console. Her fingers laced through mine. Three seconds. One squeeze. Then she let go.

We were still in the car. No audience.

"For practice," she said. Got out.

I sat there for ten more seconds, feeling the warmth of her hand evaporate from mine, trying to remember which part of this was the act.

And for a second, just a second, I forgot which part was the show.