When my dream apartment turned out to be couples only, I had two choices: walk away or convince Jamie — my messy, burger-obsessed best friend — to fake a relationship. What started as a desperate move for cheap rent quickly got complicated.
I was days from being homeless. Every listing was either wildly overpriced or borderline unlivable. One had black mold; another had a carpet that stole my shoe.
Over pancakes at Benny’s Diner, I showed Jamie a perfect two-bedroom. Great price. Real floors. The catch? “Couples only.” He groaned but agreed.
The house was even more beautiful in person — sunny porch, rose vines, and a sharp-eyed landlord named Miss Helen. When she asked how long we’d been together, Jamie didn’t blink. “Three years,” he said. “Met at a poetry reading.” I played along. We got the keys.
Living together was a disaster. He left dishes everywhere; I labeled everything. He sang show tunes at dawn; I nearly snapped. Worse, Miss Helen kept dropping by with muffins and suspicious eyes. We fake-laughed, fake-snuggled, and made up inside jokes just to survive her visits.
Then one night, after a huge fight over towels and spice racks, I overheard Jamie say, “She drives me crazy. But she’s kind of great.” The next morning, I found pancakes spelling out “SORRY.”
I laughed. Then he dropped a bomb: he had a date. With someone real.
Jealousy hit me like a freight train. I stormed out but ended up having tea with Miss Helen, who saw right through me. When I admitted I missed Jamie — even when he was annoying — she just smiled. “Sounds like love.”
That’s when I ran. Back home. Breathless. Just as Jamie was about to leave.
“Don’t go,” I blurted. “I like you. The real way. You drive me nuts… but I’d rather lose my mind with you than stay sane with anyone else.”
He smiled. “I was hoping you’d say that. I only set the date to see if you’d stop me.”
We laughed, called off the date, and curled up on the couch.
This time, when Miss Helen waved through the window, we waved back.
And we weren’t pretending anymore.