Page 34 of A Follow-Through in Faking

As soon as he’s on his feet, he wraps his arms around me and drags me against him. I feel his tears streaming down the side of my head, but I hold him close because I know he needs me. He probably needs me more than he ever has before.

“I’m sorry. I just really needed a hug from you,” he says, attempting to step away when I hold him even tighter.

“Don’t be sorry. As a matter of fact, you’re not allowed to say those two words to me anymore today. You’ve reached the limit,” I say, stepping back to look up at him and give him a scolding look. He brings his forehead to mine, but I see the tiniest hint of a smile before he does so.

“I’m so happy you’re here. Thank you for coming to me,” he replies, and I tilt my head only enough to press my lips to his cheek.

“There is nowhere I’d rather be, mi corazón .” It was supposed to be a fake pet name, something to sell our fake relationship, but it sounds too right for me to use anything else. Santi seems to agree because his shoulders relax even more.

I lead Santi into his bathroom, grabbing his toothbrush and applying a layer of toothpaste to it.

Santi’s exhausted eyes focus on the thing in my hand, and I guide him to the rim of his bathtub to sit him down.

He spreads his legs so I can step between them, opening his mouth for me when I bring the toothbrush to his lips.

His hands lift to my thighs, gripping the backs of them while I brush his teeth.

“You know, Ori called me this morning and told me Sami won another award for best project at another science fair from his school, and Hernanda received her tenth golf trophy. Ori is also nearing a breakthrough in her research, according to her, so I’m pretty sure my siblings are going to take over the world soon. ”

Santi’s eyes sparkle at my words while I continue using circular motions to clean his teeth.

There is something incredibly intimate about doing such a normal task for someone else, but from the way Santi is looking at me right now, I can tell he’s enjoying this as much as I am.

Being close to one another. Having each other’s back no matter what.

Being taken care of during a very hard time.

“My back has been feeling much better, by the way. I think taking it slow has been helping a lot, and I’ll be able to participate in the Stuttgart Open as a singles player again. I’ll be able to start catching Layla again,” I keep going, knowing he prefers conversation when he’s feeling this way.

It’s when he gets lost in his head and loses his firm grip on reality that he spirals into darkness.

Santi spits out his toothpaste and rinses his mouth.

“Didn’t you want to go visit your family today?” he says when I wash off the toothpaste from his toothbrush, placing it back in the holder.

The bathroom is a mess. The rest of his house is clean because he clearly didn’t do more than lie in his bed since he came back, but his bathroom has clothes everywhere, his suitcase half-opened in the corner along with tennis balls, rackets, and bottles of electrolytes. It’s not dirty, but it’s messy.

“I was going to, but—” I cut off, biting down on my bottom lip.

“I sent you that message,” Santi finishes, and I meet his gaze to see the sadness in his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Catalina. I didn’t mean for you to have to change your plans. I’m sorry.” Tears return, but I grab his face in my hands and force him to look at me as I shake my head.

“My day trip to see my family can wait. You’re mental well-being is more important to me right now,” I say, but tears drop down his cheeks.

“It shouldn’t be. I’ll be fine. You should go, Cata. I know you miss them. I don’t want to be the one to—” I kiss him to cut him off. It’s barely more than a press of my lips to his, barely anything at all, but Santi melts against me and the tension finally leaves his body again.

“Don’t make me say it out loud, Santi. I’m not ready to,” I whisper, even though I know that my actions speak louder than any words.

I may not want to say it out loud, but that doesn’t make it less true.

I care so much about Santi. He’s one of the most important people in my life and if he doesn’t feel well, then I’m going to do everything in my power to make him feel better.

“Then kiss me again. Please. Kiss me so I can feel what you feel.”

I press my mouth to his.

Kissing isn’t necessarily linked to vulnerability. Being naked is. Having sex is. But kissing? Kissing isn’t considered as meaningful, but I think that’s wrong because kissing Santiago makes me feel more vulnerable than I’ve ever felt in my life.

It feels as if I’m baring myself to him. As if he can look into the deepest parts of me and study them, analyze them, determine if they’re something he likes or doesn’t like. As if he’s tying his soul to mine and there is nothing I can do to stop it.

If I’m being honest, I don’t want to stop it. I want him tied to me in every way possible. I want him to feel everything I do as deeply.

So as my mouth glides over his, I’m ensuring I’ll never leave his mind. I’m ensuring he’ll never want to kiss anyone else but me. I’m ensuring he knows kissing him is addictive for me.

He tastes like his toothpaste, which only makes me deepen the kiss.

Santi’s hands roam upward, stopping at my hips to squeeze them once.

I think if he had energy, he’d be lifting me onto his lap, but this kiss isn’t meant to lead anywhere.

He’s finding comfort in it, comfort he very desperately needs at the moment.

Comfort he will also get by showering. So, I kiss him once more before leaning back and urging him to wash.

“Will you shower with me?” he asks, the tiniest of smirks covering his mouth.

“Do you need me to because you don’t have energy or because you want to have me naked in your shower?” I ask, and he places his forehead against my stomach.

“Can’t it be both?” he replies, and I let out a small laugh.

“Is that really how you want to see me without any clothes on for the first time?” His head snaps up again before he shakes it.

“Well, then there you go,” I say, running my hands through his hair.

“Go shower. I’ll be outside with more things to do for us,” I promise, kissing his forehead once and then leaving his bathroom.

It takes him a while to shower and get dressed, but I don’t rush him. It’s clear that when a depressive episode hits Santi, he needs more time to do things other people consider small tasks, so I’d never, ever stress him. Instead, I set up our food and game, then start playing with Tornado.

“This is the most beautiful sight I’ve ever laid my eyes on,” Santi says right as I scratch Tornado’s big, fluffy ears.

Santi is leaning against the doorframe leading into his living room, his head tilted to rest against it.

He takes in the image in front of him, all of his favorite foods spread out on the table, as well as a new board game, and a bunch of candles I found because I didn’t want to open the curtains or turn on the light if he wants to have it a bit darker in here.

It gives it an awfully romantic vibe, but I don’t mind it as much as I thought I would.

For my ex-girlfriend, I used to do something like this every week.

I just never saw myself doing it for Santi.

Tornado hops to Santi as soon as he sees him, but I don’t quite manage to break eye contact with my fake boyfriend as he studies me.

There is a new look on his face, one I haven’t seen in years, and I welcome it back with open arms because this is how he used to look at me.

Without our past hanging between us. Without a filter.

Without trying to hide that it’s always been me.

He’s said he wants me, but it’s another thing entirely to see how desperately in his eyes.

“Come, sit. I thought we could eat and play this game that I found,” I say and gesture toward the board. Santi pushes off the doorframe and picks up Tornado, sitting down with him across from me a second later.

“I wanted to be the one to take you on our first real date, but I have to admit, this is really nice,” he says once we start eating.

“Of course it is. I’m amazing at this,” I say with a small smile that has Santi’s tired face lighting up.

“You are.” He takes a sip of his iced tea, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re amazing at everything. It’s annoying.” I snort, but he seems to truly mean those words, so I clear my throat as a cover-up.

“I’m sorry?” Santi’s still smirking, and it’s my turn to shake my head at him.

Silence engulfs the room as we eat and drink, but as soon as we get to the game, we can’t stop talking.

About the game. About life. About everything.

We talk and talk and talk until hours pass, and we play several rounds of Mensch ?rgere Dich Nicht .

It’s a brutal game, and every time we kick each other out, we start yelling at each other—not seriously, but in a teasing kind of way that leads to us bursting into laughter.

Afterward, we go for a walk because Santi told me it helps his mind a lot. I don’t even mind him taking my hand as we take step by step as a couple. And not a fake couple. No, this feels very real.

Monaco is very beautiful by day. It has that old-money kind of feeling to it.

I find it even more beautiful at night. When the lights all around us illuminate this tiny country.

When the people are strolling down the streets, talking about nothing and everything.

When I get to admire all the fancy cars that drive by.

Most of all, I love the way the night paints Santi in a very specific light, dark, yes, but light enough to see his bright eyes and chiseled face.

“Santi, can I ask you something about your depression?” I ask, and he tilts his head down to bring his attention back to me.

“Of course.” I chew on my bottom lip while I think about how to phrase my question.

“Do you know when your depression started?” I ask, and he squeezes my fingers, telling me he’s surprised by my question.

“Not entirely. I…I don’t know. I think I realized I had depression when I stopped enjoying things in life that I used to love.

For example, when I went to Christmas markets as a kid, I was always so excited, but then all of a sudden, I didn’t enjoy it anymore.

I didn’t enjoy anything. I wasn’t sure what was wrong with me.

I didn’t understand why I wasn’t enjoying life, and then my anxiety started because I also didn’t want to die.

I never wanted to die, but my depression made me think I couldn’t enjoy anything in life anymore.

It was a vicious cycle that I spiraled through over and over,” he explains, holding onto me a little tighter as he shares his story with me.

“Manu helped me figure out what was happening. We found things I enjoyed. Actually, there is something I can show you that made me realize there were still things I loved doing.”

As soon as he’s finished speaking, he pulls me back toward his apartment.

He’s so excited about whatever he wants to show me.

Santi brings me all the way into his bedroom, where he gently guides me to sit.

He rummages around in his closet before pulling out a box and carrying it to me.

He settles down on the bed beside me, the box between us.

“Don’t laugh,” he says, a shy laugh of his own escaping him.

Then he lifts a notebook-looking thing out of the box, handing it over to me.

On the front, in letters clearly cut out of a magazine of some sort, the words “Santi’s Private Thoughts” are spelled out.

There are pages and pages covered with his, well, private thoughts.

A page covered by his dream house. A page filled with his dream car—mine.

A page dedicated to all the places in the world he has traveled to and another for all the places he still wants to go.

A page for all of his victories in tennis.

A page for… me.

“Santi—” I start but cut off because I’m not entirely sure what to say.

He doesn’t force me to finish my sentence, simply places his fingers on my chin, lifting it to bring my mouth to his. He kisses my lips, my cheek, my temple, and then smiles down at the page covered with pictures of me and us together.

“That’s my favorite one,” he says, but I don’t manage to reply. All I can do is lean my head against his shoulder and snake my arm around his as he explains more pages of his scrapbook to me.

And it’s the first time I feel it deep inside of me.

Deep in my chest as a wave of emotion hits me.

I’m falling in love with Santiago Castillo.

Again.