Most of the day is consumed by spiraling indecision. Kelly now expects Sierra—my invented girlfriend—to appear at the family dinner. The simplest escape would be to claim illness on Sierra’s behalf, but the excuse would almost certainly confirm Kelly’s suspicion that the entire relationship is fabricated. She would seize the opening, press her advantage, and I cannot be certain I would withstand the pressure. The thought alone tightens my chest.

  I call my friends in desperation. Their counsel is predictably unhelpful: suggestions range from petty revenge to outright ghosting the weekend. One proposes I borrow a girlfriend for the occasion—rent-a-date style. Another half-jokingly offers his own partner. I dismiss them all; revenge holds no appeal, and deception on that scale feels even more untenable.

  Then one of them, deadpan, suggests the unthinkable: ask Sierra to pretend.

  I laugh—sharp, disbelieving. The idea is ludicrous. Sierra and I have never met. Our entire connection exists in text bubbles and late-night confessions. She has made her aversion to relationships abundantly clear. There is no conceivable universe in which she would agree.

  Yet the suggestion lodges in my mind like a splinter.

  Two more days pass. The dinner looms closer, and panic begins to edge into genuine dread. I rehearse every possible conversation with Sierra in my head, each version more awkward than the last. How does one casually confess to having named a fake girlfriend after a real person—one who has become the most consistent, intriguing presence in my life?

  Against every instinct, I finally text her.

  Me: Hello, are you awake? Me: I need your help with something. Please text when you get this.

  No reply. She usually responds quickly unless asleep or occupied. The clock reads just past 11:00 p.m.

  Me: I suppose you must be asleep.

  I collapse onto the bed, phone discarded beside me, staring at the ceiling. Kelly will see through the lie. She will interpret it as vulnerability, as an invitation. The old pull—the years of friendship, the comfort of familiarity—will resurface, and I am not certain I possess the resolve to resist.

  Fifteen agonizing minutes later, the phone vibrates.

  Sierra Acosta: Hey sorry was in the shower and left my phone on my bed. Sierra Acosta: Alex are you there?

  Relief floods me.

  Me: Yes, I am here.

  Sierra Acosta: What did you need? You finally found a guy you like and want my opinion?

  I smirk despite the knot in my stomach. Her running joke about my supposed disinterest in women has become a reliable source of levity.

  Me: Haha, no.

  I hesitate, fingers hovering. The words feel impossible.

  Me: You will probably say no, but I have a favor to ask.

  Sierra Acosta: I already told you I’m not sending you any naked pictures.

  Me: No—that is not what I want. Well… I do want those, but that is not the question.

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  I type, delete, retype. She notices the hesitation.

  Sierra Acosta: Okay, what are you so scared to ask? Sierra Acosta: Omg don’t tell me you are asking me out Sierra Acosta: Haha that would be so funny

  Me: If I did, would you say no?

  Sierra Acosta: lol No really what do you want?

  Of course she assumes jest. I have teased the possibility before—always safely, always retractable.

  Sierra Acosta: Omg is this for real? Sierra Acosta: Alex you know how I feel about relationships.

  Me: I know.

  The admission is all I can manage. She continues without hesitation.

  Sierra Acosta: Alex I like what we have. You’re a good friend. I just don’t think I could ever see you as anything else.

  The words strike cleanly, precisely. I knew them already—had braced for them—but reading them still feels like a quiet, surgical wound.

  Me: I kind of figured that. Me: It was a mistake anyway for lying to her.

  Sierra Acosta: What?

  Me: Nothing. Forget it.

  Sierra Acosta: What aren’t you telling me? Who did you lie to?

  There is no graceful retreat. I exhale and confess.

  Me: My ex texted me the other night. She wants us to get back together.

  Sierra Acosta: The ex that cheated on you?

  Me: I have only had one ex. Me: Apparently she has my parents’ support. They are having her over for dinner this weekend.

  Sierra Acosta: Wow really? Do they know she’s the slut who broke your heart?

  The blunt solidarity draws an involuntary smile. It is comforting, in a strange way, to have someone else name the betrayal so plainly.

  Me: lol Me: My parents were close with hers. We grew up next door. They always treated her like family.

  Sierra Acosta: So what does this have to do with me?

  I type slowly, bracing for rejection.

  Me: I told Kelly I had a girlfriend who would be coming to meet my parents. I hoped it would deter her. Me: I kind of said her name was Sierra.

  Sierra Acosta: Are you serious?

  Me: Yes.

  A long silence follows. Dread coils tighter.

  Sierra Acosta: Why me?

  Me: You are essentially my only female friend. Your name was the first that came to mind.

  The fuller truth—I have feelings for you that I have tried to bury—remains unspoken.

  Me: But do not worry. I will invent an excuse or admit the lie.

  More silence. Minutes stretch. I begin to type an apology.

  Me: I am sorry.

  Me: Are you still there?

  Sierra Acosta: So all you want is for me to pretend to be your girlfriend?

  Me: It was stupid to ask.

  Another pause. Then:

  Sierra Acosta: I’ll do it.

  I reread the message three times, certain I have misread.

  Me: Really?

  Me: You do not have to. I know how you feel about relationships.

  Sierra Acosta: I do not want to be in one right now. This would not be real. It is just pretending. Sierra Acosta: All we have to do is fool your ex, right?

  Me: And my parents, yes. Me: You are genuinely willing to do this?

  Sierra Acosta: I am thinking about it.

  A grin spreads across my face unbidden. Disbelief wars with sudden, irrational hope.

  Me: Why?

  Sierra Acosta: Because you are my friend, Alex. Also, I want to see the look on that bitch’s face when we show up together.

  Me: lol Thank you.

  Sierra Acosta: So what did you tell her about me and our relationship?

  Me: Not much. Just that we have been together a few months.

  Sierra Acosta: Okay. We need a consistent story. How we met. Details about you in case they ask.

  I laugh aloud at her sudden seriousness.

  Me: You are really committing to this.

  Sierra Acosta: I want it done right. No mistakes. It has to be believable.

  Sierra Acosta: First: we have never seen each other’s faces. Send me your picture.

  Me: Are you sending yours?

  Her response is immediate—a photo.

  She is breathtaking. Dark red hair falls just to her shoulders in soft waves. Emerald-green eyes catch the light with startling clarity. Full, rosy lips curve in a half-smile that feels private, knowing. The image steals breath I did not realize I was holding.

  Me: Oh wow. You are gorgeous.

  Sierra Acosta: lol Thanks. Now your turn.

  Nerves surge anew. I take several shots, discarding most. Then Luna, my kitten, leaps into my lap, demanding attention. I cradle her, smile at the camera, and send the result.

  Sierra Acosta: Wow so cute

  Me: lol Me or the cat?

  Sierra Acosta: Both actually. You look totally different than I expected. You’re actually kind of hot.

  The compliment lands like a spark. Heat rises in my face. Gorgeous. Breathtaking. And now—hot.

  We spend the next two hours constructing the fiction. The core is truth: I tutored her online; conversations drifted beyond coursework; friendship deepened into something unspoken. I finally asked her out. She embellishes with playful details—first awkward coffee, late-night movie marathons—each addition making the lie feel strangely real.

  By the end, exhaustion mingles with exhilaration. The weekend no longer feels like a trap. It feels like possibility.