One
Harlow
Poor Drake is useless in the kitchen, and for a man with such a lean body type, he’s got the appetite of a boar. So every Wednesday and Sunday night, I come over to cook for him. That is, unless one of us has a “real” date. A rarity for me. Typical, for him.
I’m headed to his house now. I love to cook, and he’s my best guy friend who loves to eat. We’re a match made in platonic heaven. It helps that he keeps the wine in stock, and lets me use his credit card for the grocery run.
I knock once and Drake opens the door for me.
Even as he cheerfully says, “Hey, you,” there’s some kind of sadness on his face.
“Hey, stud. Hungry?”
“Always.”
“I brought ingredients to make your favorite, lasagna Bolognese.”
“You spoil me,” he says. He gives my cheek a quick peck. “You’re the best.”
“Aw.” I tilt my head, examining his gloomy expression. “That’s the sweetest thing someone’s ever said to me while looking like they want to slit their wrists.”
“Eh.” He shrugs. “I do mean it though.”
I get set up in the kitchen while Drake pours wine. He sits at the island, keeping me company while I cook.
“So, why the long face? You’re usually only this grumpy when you’re cutting weight. If you are, you didn’t tell me, and I should probably make something else for dinner.”
“I’m not cutting weight. I just got this stupid invitation.”
“Not an ex-girlfriend’s wedding?”
“That’d be more fun than this.”
“Eeshk. What’s it for?”
“MMA awards ceremony. But might as well call it a Fit to Fight sanctioned event because most of the nominees are Fit to Fighters. It’s always so…hoity-toity,” Drake laments. “Black tie, open bar—”
“Sounds miserable,” I add sarcastically.
“I got nominated.”
“Dread-ful!”
“Pfft.” He shakes his head. “I got nominated for Luckiest #1-Ranked Fighter.”
“Really? That’s a weird category to get nominated for.”
“Because they made it up, Har. For me. It’s a joke.”
Yikes. I try to be positive anyway. “How do you know that, though?”
“Cuz I’m the only nominee.” Yeah I’d say that’s pretty conclusive evidence. He rakes his fingers through his buzzcut and says through gritted teeth, “I’ve won that same belt twice! I’m still the number-one guy in my weight class! But I’m a laughing stock. God I could kill Chico for throwing that kick. And Pais, for jerkin’ off during the fight.”
That’s one reason they call him lucky. Or rather, two reasons. Drake won his first championship belt after his opponent, Chico, threw a low kick and Drake checked it, injuring Chico’s ankle and foot. Not a satisfying way to win. It was his first belt and Drake didn’t keep it for long—he lost his very next bout, to Pais. His first title defense, and he lost.
Later that year Drake and Pais had a rematch and Pais was so confident that he started acting a fool, making comical faces and big goofy gestures, trying to get in Drake’s head. The whole thing reminded me of fifth grade kickball, when it was my turn to kick and all the outfielders came up really close thinking I wouldn’t kick far. One time I did though, I kicked that big-ass half-deflated ball way the hell over them, and I made a homerun.
That was Drake when he beat Pais—knocked him clean in the chin while Pais was joking around and had his guard down. Pais tumbled down, bone over bone like Jenga blocks. Lights out. Drake had won back his belt, but like that time I kicked a homerun during recess, he didn’t feel good about how he’d won.
Apparently no one else did either. Lucky shot, right? Especially since Drake lost the title again a few months later to an undefeated Jujutsu fighter.
“I wish I’d never won that belt,” he bellyaches into his glass of wine.
“You’re only twenty-nine, not like you don’t have time to still prove yourself. Like on those Reddit clips?” That’s another thing—guys’ll come up to Drake and pick fights all the time, often none the wiser that Drake is an actual professional mixed martial artist. He tries to talk them out of sparring with him, for their sake, but some people are just so relentlessly stupid.
“Twenty-nine is close to retirement age already, you know that.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Well I’m not gonna go, that’s for damn sure.”
“Cop-out,” I accuse.
“What would you do, babe?”
“Personally? I’d find some hunky arm candy to go with me and be like, ‘Laugh all you want, suckas! Look who I’m going home with tonight!’”
“Hmf.” Drake pairs that little sound of interest with a thoughtful expression. “That ain’t a bad idea.”
“Better whip out your little black book.”
Drake descends into deep, quiet contemplation the whole rest of the time I cook the lasagna. He sets the table and busts out his cheaper wine.
At dinner he says, “Come with me,” totally out of left field. “Be my plus-one.”
“Um…no?” I snark.
“Why the fuck not?”
“Because. You cuss too fucking much.”
“I mean it,” he says.
“Drake, first of all, I’m not arm candy.” With my four-cheese-lasagna-coated-fork I point to my voluptuous body. “My skinny jeans are a size 14.”
“I love your curves.” He grins as if he could actually mean it. “And your tits are huge.” There it is.
I shove the forkful into my mouth and make a face. “No. This needs to be someone you can get all…touchy-feely with”—I pause, then add—Sexually.”
“I knew what you meant.”
“You’d have to kiss.”
“We’ve kissed before.”
I feel my cheeks instantly warm. “That doesn’t count. You were drunk.”
“You weren’t.” He fires off that smirk again. It’s so charming and sexy and teasing that my fingers itch to slap it off his pretty-boy face.
“Thank you for that reminder. Are we done harassing me now?”
He throws his hands up in surrender. “We can be done. Just say you’ll come with me. Be my fake girlfriend.”
On one hand, does he realize what the actual fuck he’s asking of me?
On the other hand, we’ve been friends for twenty years. What’s one night of faking something more?
I admit the idea excites me as much as it makes me squirm a little.
“Wouldn’t it be weird?”
“No,” Drake says around a mouthful of food. “This is incredible by the way. D’you do something different?”
“Thank you. Can we focus?”
“It’s actually genius, Har. Paparazzi love to get pictures of me dating around, labeling hookups and short-term relationships as here-and-gone. I guess that’s not a total misrepresentation,” he admits. “But you’ve always been in my life, babe. You always will be.”