The Fake Girlfriend Rules

I spent the last week training her, and as I look over my shoulder before walking out the door for the last time, it almost feels like I was never here to begin with. My spot is already filled. My presence a memory that most of these people will forget in a matter weeks.

They won't remember me, the girl with the gluten allergy. They'll see the new secretary and my face will just fade away.

Screw this place, Lyl. You're moving on.

I slam the door shut on my car and exhale a deep breath as I set the basket down on the passenger seat. My eyes stay on the basket, and all I can do is hope that this new job will be different. That people will notice me, see me as more than just the lady who answers the phones.

Goodbye Brennan Windows, I think to myself as I pull out of the parking lot and watch the building shrink in my rear view mirror as I drive away.

Time to move on to bigger and better things.

I walk inside my apartment and hang my keys on the wooden key holder beside the door. The key holder tilts to one side, so I fix it back straight.

Setting down the small box of items from my desk on the floor, I sigh loudly. “You know we really should just replace that. Yours is on its way out.”

“Hey, I made that in wood shop. It isn't going anywhere. How was your last day?” my roommate, and best friend, Doug asks.

“As good as it could be I guess,” I call back to him as I kick my heels off my feet and walk down the small hall barefoot.

Our apartment isn't huge, but it's perfect for two people. A two bedroom in this part of the city is hard to find. We lucked out four years ago when he came across it in the paper.

There's a galley kitchen with a small dining room area that's attached to the living room. Our bedrooms are across from each other, and the bathroom is in the middle between us. We're on the third floor, and as much as I hate the stairs, we'd never be able to find anything better than this for what we can afford.

Doug is sitting at the kitchen table, looking handsome as always. His hair is a little messy like he just woke up from a nap. His thick black locks fall into his face, slightly blocking his eyes. He jerks his head, tossing them away with one quick flip.

He always looks so damn good, but I'll never tell him that to his face. One, he'll probably freak out. And two, he's my best friend. That's as far as it's ever gone between us, just friends. Nothing more.

Has the thought crossed my mind? Absolutely. Have there been temptations in the past? Yes. Have there been moments where I almost crossed over that line and did something I would regret? Also yes.

But thoughts and actions are two totally different things. I'm not a risk taker in any capacity, and that includes pushing the boundaries with Doug. We've been friends since we were seven. It doesn't matter how hot he is, or how tall, dark, and handsome he is, our friendship is way more important to me. I would never do anything to ruin it.

The thought of losing him as a friend is too hard to even think about. He's been there for me more than anyone else I know. When my first serious boyfriend at thirteen broke up with me, Doug was there with a pint of ice cream, and let me cry on his shoulder until I fell asleep. When his dog got hit by a car and died, I was the first person he ran to. Parties, road trips, family cookouts and school events, we were always together.

Our past is intertwined so tightly that the idea of ever doing anything to rip apart the fabric we've weaved together is out of the question.

He runs his fingers through his hair, then grabs a bottle of wine and lifts it up. “Thirsty?” he asks.

“Very. I'll take two, bartender.” I place the basket on the table in front of him. “Here's my parting gift, help yourself.”

“Gluten free?”

“Try gluten full.” I open my eyes wide and stick my tongue out making a gagging noise. “I'm sick just smelling them.”

“Really? Even after all this time, they still got you regular muffins?”

I drop down into the chair across from him and relax back. “It's the thought that counts, or at least that's what my mom says.”

“Your mom also spells taco with an r. Soooo. . .” He drags out the word and squints his eyes. “Tarco, we never did find tarcos that day at the store.”

I chuckle and smirk. “Mr. Brennan meant well.”