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“Let me get it this time, okay?” I switch tactics by asking nicely.

“No, I invited you out. It’s on me,” he says.

I go for the big guns. “But I’m older,” I say.

“No, you’re not,” he argues.

“Yes, I am. My birthday is March and yours is May,” I remind him.

He stares at me, eyes wide. “How do you know that?”

“You told me that one time we were filling out waiver forms for broom hockey,” I remind him.

“You remembered,” he says. His smile is small, almost shy. I feel especially thankful and proud that I listened and remembered this piece of information just to get this reaction from Aiden.

“Well, since you’re older, you can pay this time. But only if I can get it next time,” he says.

I agree. And since I feel especially good about winning the who’s-gonna-pay battle, I let Aiden hold my hand as we walk home without any resistance.

We want to be convincing, after all.

Over the course of the next three days, it becomes clear to me exactly what Aiden is doing. He’s taking me back to places where I’ve had all my failed dates and giving me new experiences at each of them.

On each of our dates, Aiden is attentive and kind, funny and a great listener. We talk about romance books and we discuss TV shows we like, and, in what probably comes as a surprise to no one, our fake dating is feeling all too real to me at this point.

I was beginning to think I was doomed to never really know romance. But with Aiden, I don’t feel the icks when he holds my hand or when he always stands super close or places his hand on my lower back as he’s letting me walk through a doorway before he does. I don’t get bored with our conversations or feel like I have to fill awkward silences. I can look at him and find all kinds of new and fascinating things about his facial expressions. He even winked at me when we shared an inside joke, and I found it charming.

I like him. I think about him a lot. I feel safe with him. I enjoy his company. But he’s only ever asked me to be his fakegirlfriend. And I’m too terrified of rejection to broach the subject of how he’s feeling about it all now that we’ve spent some time together.

“Hey, I have to stop by the health center to pick up my meds. Wanna come with me, or I can just text you later,” Aiden asks.

“I’ll come with you,” I say.

We walk in comfortable silence. I glance down at our feet to find that, yet again, our strides are matching.

“Hey, I like your new shoes,” I comment.

“Thanks, they’re comfortable,” he says.

“What size are you?” I don’t know why this question comes up, but it’s easy to ask and I like knowing random things about Aiden.

“I’m an eleven. You know what they say about big feet, right?”

“Don’t do that,” I say.

“Okay,” he says back.

We both crack up.

See? Easy.

We turn the corner to the health center and a bike comes barreling down the sidewalk at breakneck speed. Aiden turns and shields me with his body, getting thrown off-balance by the runaway biker. We both tumble to the ground, but Aiden wraps his hand around the back of my head, trying to turnour bodies so he takes the brunt of the landing.

We’re sprawled out on the grass, half of my body covering his. There’s a slight twinge in my ankle, but otherwise, I’m unhurt.

“Are you okay?” he quickly asks, looking me over. I notice his elbow is scraped.

“Aiden, you’re bleeding,” I say, panicked.