Page 2 of The Stuffing Situation

Josie raised her glass in mock solemnity. “To fiction.”

“If he existed, he’s already married,” Rae said, dropping off two shots sent by men old enough to be their dads. “And you’re definitely not finding him in here.”

The cider was finally working its way into her spine. Her shoulders, tight since the Trader Joe’s fiasco, started to uncoil.

Then the door jingled, and in walked her ex with his fiancée, straight out of a Vermont-themed engagement calendar, matching pea coats, coordinated scarves, and that smug, well-rested glow of couples who do yoga together and always vote early.

Maya’s gut twisted, literally.

“Oh wow,” Josie whispered. “He actually brought her.”

Maya turned back to her drink, practically inhaling the foam.

Ofcourse, he brought her. He’s the kind of guy who shows up to funerals with a date and a crypto pitch.

“Remember his promposal?” Maya said.

“He misspelled your name. It’s four letters.” Josie added.

“Hestillblamed the pilot.”

They were closing in. Maya tried for casual disinterest, but probably landed somewhere around “lactose intolerance.”

“Maya,” her ex said, offering a weird half-hug that smelled of lavender detergent and subtle condescension. “You look great.”

“Thanks,” she said, stabbing a jalapeño popper as though it had insulted her mom.

His fiancée smiled, with a perfect waist, glowing, and probably thought oat milk came from a cow. “We saw your mom’s Facebook post. You’re seeing someone now?”

“Yeah!” Maya said too loudly. Her voice cracked. “He’s amazing. Just has to work a lot.”

“Do you have a picture?”

Ice water was in her veins.

Abort mission. Mayday.MAYDAY.

“Um, yeah. One sec. Bathroom. Broke the seal, you know how it is.”

In the stall, fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like a judgmental fly. She balanced her phone on the toilet paper dispenser, thumbs flying.

She stumbled upon the AI boyfriend video generator on TikTok, which all the girls were using to create fake videos of men and make their exes jealous.

“Six-four,” she whispered, voice tinged with the weight of a wish. “Dark hair, tattoos, wears Henleys, Fixes stuff, Protective but soft, Name: uh, Felix.”

The screen flickered, just once. A glitch, static behind glass.

Maya blinked.

It’s probably a bad signal, or she’d had too much to drink.

Then, he was there, Felix, ruggedly handsome, too hot and almosttooreal, like he’d just built a deck and then written a brooding song about it.

“Hey, babe,” he said, voice low and warm. “Just thinking about you. Hope you’re having fun with your friends.”

Maya stared. Oh my god. I’munwell.

She sent the video to herself, strutted back out as if she hadn’t just summoned a man in a public restroom, and showed it to her ex and his fiancée.