Page 4 of You Started It

CHAPTER FOUR

The house is dark when I pull into the driveway. My heart continues to race above its regular rhythm, and it feels as if my intestines are twisting into themselves. This night was an epic disaster. This is why having a plan is so important.

The front door is unlocked. Jazz music streams inside from the back deck along with laughter from Eli and Eric. I guess they’ve returned from their clambake date. I lock the door and kick off my shoes before tiptoeing up to my room. I don’t want to interrupt, but mostly I don’t want to be on the receiving end of another lecture.

I’ve had enough of people talking at me for the day. There’s only so much one person can take.

I plop down on my bed and open Instagram, typing Olivia’s name into the search bar. There’s nothing quite like the high of looking someone up and finding their profile set to public. Her feed is perfectly curated. Each photo uses the same dreamy filter. There’s a healthy mix of nature and food photos—to balance out how shallow she is, no doubt. Speaking of, the obligatory bikini shots that show off her even proportions and perfect skin are also present. So, she’s attractive. So what? I am too. I don’t need to post pictures of myself in a tiny bikini to prove it.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that , I remind myself. The path to living a life free of internalized misogyny is a bit more challenging when the broken-hearted version of you feels justified in hating the girl who stole your boyfriend.

Stick to the facts . Follower count: 1,579. Makes my seventeen followers look pathetic. She definitely goes hard on hashtags and the very millennial phrase “Nevertheless, she persisted,” which she’s used for a photo of her posing in front of a butterfly mural, laughing with friends on a boat, and drinking an iced coffee amid fall foliage. Gee. Talk about persistence in the eye of the storm.

I scroll back up to the top and see a link in place of her bio.

vsco.co/livvychen

I click on it and it sends to me to a separate photo-sharing site. God. How many photos does one person need to post of themselves online? I continue to scroll (and roll my eyes), trying to figure out what about this person drew Ben to her, and that’s when I see it: a picture from July 28 of the two of them. He has his arm over her shoulders. There’s no caption, just one hashtag: #bolivia

Bolivia?

Like the country in South America or…wait. Ben + Olivia = Bolivia.

I think I’m going to be sick.

I bolt out of bed and pace around my room as anger pulses through my veins. In all the calls and texts we exchanged throughout the summer, Ben never once mentioned Olivia or gave me any indication that something had shifted between us. Okay, the distance made our calls sometimes a little awkward, but we’d eventually find our groove. However, our calls did get shorter as time went on. July 28 would have been about four weeks into his job, enough time for him to meet and get to know Olivia on a “deeper level.” I stop in my tracks, my racing heart causing a burning in my chest. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

This isn’t a matter of our relationship just fizzling out. Nor is it about Ben wanting to branch out. It should have been obvious by how quickly he coupled up with Olivia, but this photo cements it. Ben betrayed me.

And I’m sorry, #bolivia?

Before I know it, I’m back in bed typing the letters A-X-E-L into my Instagram search bar, trying to find curly top. I left immediately after backing off his curb and releasing his precious Betty White from underneath my car. Driving him to and from school will definitely make Ben believe something is going on between us, but I’m not sure what Axel and I are going to talk about on these rides. We seemingly have nothing in common. And what if he suggests we eat lunch together? All I know is, I wasn’t in the headspace to discuss (or agree) to anything else in that moment.

Someone like Axel definitely has his Insta set to public. He should be easy enough to find, but as I scroll through the multiple profiles with the same name, I’m proven wrong, once again. Just as I’m about to give up on finding “my” Axel, a profile picture of a guy on his bike with the username AX catches my eye. I click on the name and, lo and behold, there he is, wild curls and a smirk that rivals King Tut’s.

Yikes. Pretty much every third picture is of him and Betty White. If his bike was so important, why did he just leave it on his front lawn? At night? If I didn’t run over it, someone else may have stolen it.

Look at this guy. He’s shirtless in half his posts. Dancing in the other half. I didn’t realize I’d agreed to fake-date Baryshnikov (or someone my generation actually knows).

Axel has a few reels of himself dancing, and while I know nothing about dancing, I can’t deny this kid knows how to move. It’s a bit hypnotic watching his body flow in one continuous motion, his hips gyrating way more freely than most guys my age. Okay, so he has a nice body. But I’m not that easily impressed by a six-pack. I zoom in. Correction: eight-pack. Brains. Brains turn me on. Not slick dance moves.

(Even if the tingles pulsing through my body beg to differ.)

I boldly hit Follow so I can message him. We need to sort things out. We need to talk. We need— AX requested to follow you . That was fast. My finger hovers over the Accept button. If I do this, it’s like I’m agreeing to keep up with this charade, and I’m not sure if that’s what I want to do, but also, I kind of feel like I have no other choice. I accept his request. Almost instantly, a DM from “AX” comes through.

Axel: I see you found me.

Me: Took a minute. Why AX?

Axel: Axel. Ax. You don’t get it?

Me: Are you American?

Axel: No. Y?

Me: Technically speaking, ax and axe are both correct, but usually British-English-speaking countries, like Canada, prefer to spell it a-x-e.

The three dots appear and disappear, on and off, for a few minutes.

Axel: Sorry. Your last message put me to sleep.

Me: Just be happy I didn’t use this as an opportunity to school you on all the axe idioms.

Axel: Maybe another time. So when do you want to meet up?

Me: Meet up?

Axel: If we want to make this thing believable, there should be a picture on the gram of the both of us. A couple selfie. And a hashtag.

Me: I have a question.

Axel: Yaaaas?

Me: Why are you so down to do this for me? For all you know, I could be a miscreant.

The three dots appear and disappear again.

Me: Corrupt. Evil.

Axel: A low-down dirty scoundrel?

Me: Yes. Wait. Are you mocking me? It’s hard to tell over text. I also don’t know you well enough to know if this is how you tell jokes or if maybe you’re just being oppugnant.

Axel: ???

Me: It means combative or antagonistic.

Axel: I’m sorry. When did this become an English lesson?

Me: Words are kind of my thing. Especially homographs. They’re words that are spelled the same but have multiple meanings.

Axel: Is this how you won Ben over?

Me: No. My dad and I used to quiz each other on them. I guess it’s just a habit I’ve picked up and haven’t let go of yet.

Axel: Your dad doesn’t play along anymore?

Me: Kind of hard to since he’s not in the picture.

Axel: Sorry.

Me: It’s fine. Are you going to answer my question now?

Axel: I’m new. I don’t know anyone. But I don’t see how it could hurt to show up hand in hand with a senior babe on the first day of school.

Babe? I should be offended, but I’m kind of flattered in a way that feels like I’m betraying the feminist sisterhood. Again.

Me: I didn’t agree to holding hands.

Axel: Do you want this to be believable? What’s the end goal here? Get Benji back?

Me: Ben. And yeah.

Axel: #jAX

Me: ???

Axel: It’s our couple name.

Me: Why is the j lower case? It makes the eye go right to the AX.

Axel: Fine. #Jax. Is that better?

It’s definitely better than #bolivia.

Axel: Come by tomorrow. We’ll discuss the terms and conditions of this “relationship.”

Me: I can’t. Working at my uncle’s restaurant.

Axel: What’s his restaurant?

Me: Shawarma Sitty.

Axel: Let me guess: Sitty is a play on City and Grandmother in Arabic.

Me: How did you know that?

Axel: I’m Lebanese.

Me: Oh. That’s cool. I’m half Arab.

Axel: I don’t believe in that.

Me: In what?

Axel: Being half of something. It trivializes your identity.

Me: I never thought of it that way.

But maybe subconsciously I have, since my mother pretty much likes to pretend our Arab heritage doesn’t exist.

Axel: So is it your mom or dad who’s Arab?

Me: Mom. She was also born here but her parents, my grandparents, are Palestinian.

Axel: #freepalestine

Well that just earned him a couple points.

Me: Why’s your bike named Betty White?

Axel: This is classified information.

Me: Meaning?

Axel: Meaning you’ll have to work a little harder to earn that bit of Axel trivia.

I let out a heavy exhale. Before I can think of a response, another message from Axel pops up.

Axel: When’s your shift over?

Me: Four.

Axel: I’ll see you then!

But I didn’t even agree…This guy is full of something. The polar opposite of Ben. How can I expect anything to go smoothly with such a loose cannon? Is it too soon to regret this decision? It feels too late to back out of it. Just as I’m about to put my phone down, a text comes in from Ben.

Ben: Wasn’t expecting you to move on so quickly.

Ooh. My plan seems to be working already. I sit up and grin as I type my reply.

Me: Like you did?

Ben: You seem to have landed on your feet. Kind of fast if you ask me.

Me: I didn’t ask you. But that’s what I do, Ben. One man leaves and there’s another, around the corner.

Ben: That’s not how you operate.

I’m so tempted to fire off a round of questions, starting with when he and Olivia became more than just co-workers, but resist the urge.

Me: Well, like you said, senior year and all. Can’t expect me to spend it moping around in my room. I have places to see. People to get to know.

Ben: I guess I’m just surprised not only by the speed at which you moved on but with who you chose to move on with.

Me: What’s wrong with Axel?

Ben: He isn’t exactly your type.

Me: Clearly, my type hasn’t been working for me.

Ben: That’s kind of hurtful. We spent three years together.

Me: What’s your point, Ben?

Ben: No point. I’m happy for you.

Me: I’m happy for me too. Night!

Always leave them wanting more.

My uncle’s shawarma restaurant closes early on Sundays, which means around three all the neighborhood moms come in to pick up their dinner order and repeatedly ask Eli for proper reheating instructions, giggling and fawning over how cute he is. Calling Shawarma Sitty a restaurant is kind of a stretch. It’s more like a diner, but not even really that. The food is way better than regular fast food, but there’s only eight tables and we don’t wait on patrons.

Amo Eli has been looking to hire a student for months but he can’t find anyone who will stay on longer than a few weeks. I agreed to help fill in the gaps this summer, seeing as I didn’t have anything better to do with Ben gone. Mom won’t let me accept payment for my labor since we’ve already taken so much from my uncle, but Eli pays me “under the table.” About a hundred bucks a week, which is probably less than I would have earned as an official employee. But this way there’s no taxes and no guilt trips from Mom. I also get paid in free shawarma sandwiches and indigestion.

As I’m sweeping the floors, Axel appears behind the locked glass door with a big, dopey smile on his face. He’s boyishly cute, I’ll give him that. Which is fine, but I’m about to be a twelfth grader, and Ben could easily pass for twenty-one. Ben passed boyish about halfway through tenth grade.

Axel pretends to knock on the door, then twists his foot around his other and ends up doing a spin while waddling like a penguin. What’s up with this guy?

I unlock the door and he basically glides in.

“Are you always this obnoxious?” I ask.

He swipes the broom from me and takes over sweeping, swaying his hips with it.

“Most people find me charming.” He smiles, but I don’t reciprocate. “It smells so good in here. Please tell me there are leftovers.” His eyebrows wiggle and I let out an exasperated sigh.

“Keep sweeping.” I head behind the counter and assemble a plate of leftover beef and chicken shawarma with pickled turnips, pickles, raw onions, hummus, tahini, and a pita. “Hot sauce?”

“Are the popes Catholic?”

I grit my teeth and squirt extra hot sauce over his plate before bringing it to the table. “It’s on the house,” I say, as he reaches into his back pocket. Axel actually finishes sweeping before he sits. He immediately rips the pita in half and assembles his own sandwich.

I nod to the plate. “I got you a fork.”

“Don’t need it,” he says before inhaling a gigantic bite. I pass him a napkin and lean back in my seat.

“So,” I start, not really knowing what to say next.

“So.” Axel nods before taking another bite.

“School starts Tuesday.”

“For real? I thought it was next week.”

“Right. Tuesday is next week.”

“Is it already Labor Day tomorrow?”

“Do you wear a watch? Or a fitness device? How do you keep track of dates?” I ask.

“It’s summer. Who’s keeping track of dates?”

I run my hands through my hair and sigh. “Maybe this was a mistake. How about I just pay you the money to fix Betty White and then we can pretend none of this ever happened?”

He sits up and wipes his face. “You’ve got four hundred and fifty dollars?”

“Four hundred and fifty dollars?” My eyes bug out of my head as Axel passes me a folded-up piece of paper from his back pocket. “That’s ridiculous!”

“It’s the third quote I got,” he says, taking another bite. “And the cheapest.”

“No,” I say, sliding the estimate across the table. “I don’t have that kind of money.”

“You don’t get paid working here?”

“It’s complicated. Plus, I have a thing for special edition hardcovers and those are kind of pricey.” Not to mention gas money for when my tiny allowance runs out and then there’s my penchant for cheeseburgers.

“I have an idea,” Axel says. He pushes the plate aside and leans his elbows on the table. “I’ll cover half of this bill if you agree to help me out.”

“Umm…am I not already providing you with rides?”

“That deal is mutually beneficial. And since the two of us are going to be hanging out anyway…”

“I am not agreeing to sexual favors,” I say, sitting up straight.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he retorts, eyeing me up and down. “My parents, Dad in particular, aren’t really on board with my dancing. That’s where you come in.”

I nod as I try to follow along. “So, you want me to pretend I’m your girlfriend because you’re gay?”

“No. God, Jamie, stereotypical much?”

If Axel were gay, this whole fake-dating thing would probably be easier. I wouldn’t have to worry about him getting mixed messages or falling in love with me.

“Okay. Go on,” I say.

“Now that I live outside the city, I’m on my own. I used to dance with my buddies Finn and Diesel.”

Do people give their kids normal names anymore?

He continues. “I need to basically start from scratch and rebuild my platform as a solo act. Which takes time and interesting locations to serve as a backdrop for my TikToks. If I tell my parents I’m out with my girlfriend—a nice Arab girl with a car, they won’t question where I am all the time and I won’t have to get any lectures about how I’m too serious about dancing and that it won’t get me anywhere.”

“I’m sorry, I must have missed the memo that gas was free now.”

“I’ll chip in.” His lips curve up in a closed-mouth smile. It’s less of a smirk and a tiny bit more playful but genuine.

“So, if I agree to extend the fake-girlfriend farce to your family, as well as being your occasional driver, you’ll knock the repair price by half?” That’s two hundred and twenty-five dollars. It’s still going to take me at least a couple months to come up with that. Bye-bye pretty books.

“Farce? You do realize you’re not a seventy-five-year-old man, right?”

“That’s not a very nice way to speak to your girlfriend,” I say, resisting the urge to smile.

“Then you’ll pretend to be a nice Arab girl in front of my parents?”

“Hey!” I sit up and slam my hands on the table. “I am a nice Arab girl.”

Axel leans back in his seat. “We’ll see about that.” His eyes scan the restaurant. “How often do you work here?”

“I just help my uncle out when he needs it.”

“So he’s looking for help?”

Before I can respond, Amo Eli comes out of the backroom carrying a case of drinks. Axel shoots up and offers to carry the load for my uncle.

“Who’s this?” Eli asks, his eyebrow raised.

“Alexander Dahini,” Axel says. “A friend of Jamie’s.”

Alexander?

“Jamie doesn’t have any friends,” Eli says, his glance darting in my direction.

“He’s a new friend,” I say, rising from my seat as my cheeks burn. “We met yesterday.”

“Okay.” Amo Eli smirks. “I see you.” He nods his head slowly and deliberately, clearly believing his pep talk got through to me. I’ll let him believe it, for now anyway.

“Jamie says you’re looking to hire. Good news, because I’m looking to work.” Axel smiles and his brown eyes twinkle, like his plan is coming together perfectly.

I walk to where Axel and my uncle are. “Technically I never said…”

Amo Eli cuts me off. “You have any experience in the service industry?”

“I worked at Harvey’s all of last year,” Axel replies.

“Why’d you leave?”

“May I?” Axel asks, placing the case of drinks onto the floor. My uncle nods and Axel opens the fridge, lining the drinks up, one by one, making sure to put the older drinks in front. “I just moved here.”

Eli twists his mouth while apparently sizing up Axel. “If you can provide me with a résumé and two references, the job is yours.”

“I can do that. Does Jamie count as a reference?”

Both of them look at me and it’s all I can do not to scream. What is even happening here? This guy is taking over my life. First, he moves onto Ben’s street. Then he gets me to agree to fake-date him (okay, part of the onus of that is on me), and now he’s managed to weasel his way into a job with my uncle. If I’m not careful, in a few months I’ll have to slap a restraining order on…Alexander Dahini.

Who knew my savior’s last name would rhyme with tahini ? A sauce that I love but sends me straight to the toilet every time I ingest it. Just like this entire interaction is about to. With quick feet, I grab my things and disappear into the bathroom. One problem at a time.