For the Love of Donuts

5. I Jinxed Us

Tatum

Fifteen minutes. That’s how long I’ve been waiting here in the parking lot of Skye’s apartment building. What the heck is this girl doing?

Me: Yo, Carson! Where you at?

No reply. Again .

I messaged her when I first pulled up so she’d know I was here, but it doesn’t even show that she read the text. The next step will be calling her. I know she didn’t oversleep, because Skye doesn’t oversleep, but maybe she’s not feeling well.

Five more minutes go by.

Nothing.

That’s it, I’m calling her.

I choose her number from my recent calls list, then wait as the phone rings, and rings, and rings . My thumb taps against the steering wheel like it has a mind of its own. If something were wrong, Skye would make sure I knew. Even if Anna had to be the one to call me.

So, help me, if she doesn’t answer the phone—

“Hey,” Skye’s voice finally comes through, “I’m on my way down now.”

I find myself letting out a sigh of relief. “Okay, I’m in the row off to the side.”

That’s good, Tate, pretend like you weren’t just mentally freaking out a few seconds ago .

“All right, see ya in a sec.”

She hangs up and I frown at my phone before setting it on the console. Maybe something isn’t wrong, but something definitely isn’t right . She sounded anxious. Why is she anxious?

Soon, I see her coming toward my car through the rearview mirror, and I curse myself for staring at the way her long legs look in those blue gym shorts. Back in high school, she went through a time period where she was worried about her lankier frame. She was almost her current 5’9”, and there were only a handful of taller guys in our grade, but it never bothered me for a second. I’m 6’1” and I’ve always liked that Skye isn’t super short.

For the record, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with shorter girls, I just think Skye would be a good height for—

No, no . We’re not doing this.

I can’t do this.

“Morning,” Skye says after opening the passenger door and getting into the car. She tosses her donut-printed drawstring bag to the back seat where my own bag is, and then she closes her door.

“Morning,” I drawl, reaching out to tug on one of her two French braids. “Should I assume that Anna’s handiwork is why you’re tardy ?”

I’m no longer annoyed by that, though, because I honestly love when she does different styles with her hair. They always show off the various layers of pink in the best way, and it just adds to Skye’s already vibrant personality. I remember the one time I tried to braid her hair, but she complained that it was “too puffy,” and she hasn’t let me try again since then.

“Kind of,” she mumbles as she puts her seatbelt on. “I mean, it did take a while, but that’s not the only reason.”

I knew it!

“What’s up? You okay?”

Oof. Maybe it’s that time of month again.

If that’s the case, we’re canceling the rock climbing we had planned for today. No way am I going to put Skye through that. I’ve seen her when the cramps are really bad, and it scared the frick out of me. We’ll just stay in and binge-watch one of her comfort TV shows. Besides, I love hearing her quote the most obscure lines at random times, it’s freaking adorable.

“There’s something I have to tell you.” Her left knee starts to bounce. “But…I don’t want to tell you.”

I resist the urge to place my hand over her bare knee to ease her nerves. Instead, I grip the side of her chair near her shoulder and look at her intently. “Skye, you can tell me anything. You know that.”

“But—”

“ Anything ,” I repeat myself, more firmly now. “I mean it.”

“I know you do.” She nods, avoiding my gaze. “I also know that you’re not going to like this though.”

My jaw tightens. “Is it actually Mr. Muscle Man this time? He sliding into your DMs again?”

If that guy is harassing her, I swear I’ll end up messaging him myself, and I won’t have anything nice to say.

“No…” she trails off before cursing. “It has to do with us, Tate.”

Us. What’s wrong with us?

There’s nothing wrong with us.

“ Us ?” I echo as my eyebrows crease. “What about us?”

“Zoya called me last night,” she says, finally looking at me. “She wants me to bring my fiancé to the office appreciation brunch tomorrow, and I told her that he would love to come.”

Oh my freaking gosh. I jinxed us. Why did I keep thinking about Zoya calling like that? Maybe if I hadn’t, this wouldn’t have happened.

Way to go, Tatum .

“You don’t look mad,” Skye observes, eyeing me curiously. “Aren’t you mad? I was trying to think of a way to get you out of it…like maybe you got sun poisoning? Or got hit by a bus like Regina George?”

I blink at her, twice . “Are you trying to get me out of it? Or get me killed? Because it’s sounding a lot like the latter.”

“Tatum,” she huffs, turning her whole body to face me better. That one, simple action causes her crop top to raise for a brief second—flashing a slight glimpse of her smooth, tanned stomach. I squash the “what if?” possibility before it can even resurface for the hundredth time. “I’m not going to drag you to the brunch and expect you to pretend that you’re my fiancé.”

“Why not?” The question slips out before I can stop it.

She raises an eyebrow at that. “What do you mean? Are you saying that you want to go tomorrow?”

Not necessarily. For crying out loud, I don’t know what I’m saying. I guess I just want to help her out though. She’s been talking about this promotion nonstop. What kind of best friend would I be if I didn’t offer to make this whole thing easier for her?

“Well, getting free food—especially some Dovell Donuts —sounds way better than sun poisoning or being bus-slammed.” I chuckle a little, hoping my joking tone will ease some of her anxiousness. “Count me in. I’ll do it.”

“You don’t have to,” she says, now gripping her seatbelt like a baby koala clings to its mother’s back. “Tate, I’m serious. This is my mess. It’s not your job to clean any of it up.”

“You’re right, it’s not my job to clean any of it up. But it is my job to be your best friend. And as your best friend, I’m not going to leave you hanging.”

Her shoulders begin to relax. “Ya know, I’m pretty sure I don’t deserve you.”

“Girl,” I tsk, letting go of her seat, “I’ve got ulterior motives. Didn’t you hear me about free food ?”

She laughs, but there’s a look of determination in her eyes. “I owe you though, okay? Because this is a huge favor, and I know free food isn’t going to cut it in my book.”

There’s no point in arguing with her—because she’s Skye, and she’s stubborn as heck—so I just offer a mmhmm instead.

“You can mmhmm all you want,” she says as I back out of the parking space, “but I’m serious.”

I shoot her an amused glance. “I know you are.”

“Good,” she chirps in approval. “So, we probably need to come up with some kind of story…for our engagement and all.”

I force myself not to squirm in my seat as I drive out of the parking lot. “Uh, yeah, you’re probably right. Do you have something in mind already?”

“Well,” she sighs, sitting up a little straighter, “I feel like we should keep it simple. Nothing too crazy. And stick to the truth as much as possible. Like, we started out as best friends but ended up falling for each other at some point, so we dated, and then you proposed.”

Forget squirming, now my body decides to go completely still. She says it like that’s what happened for real. As if it’s the most effortless thing in the world—when in fact, it’s obviously not .

“Tatum? What do you think? Does that sound okay?”

Does that sound okay ? Does my heart feel like it’s beating faster than lightning strikes? Does two plus two equal four? Does a person need oxygen to breathe? Does “y” come before “z”? Does it hurt like heck when you hit your hip on a counter edge?

The short answer would be yes .

For our fake relationship story.

Not our real relationship story, of course.

That would be crazy.

Us falling for each other? Us dating? Me proposing? Me marrying Skye? Me taking her as my wife…

In an instant, it’s too hot in here. The car feels like a freaking sauna. So, I turn the AC up and hope the cool air will keep me focused and thinking clearly.

That Florida heat, am I right?

“Tate, you okay?” Skye asks, her voice laced with concern. “Did you just like totally zone out?”

I force myself to swallow instead of clearing my throat. “Yep. I’m good. And that sounds fine, sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she verbally waves me off. “So, how long do you think we ‘dated’ before you ‘proposed’ to me?”

Is the stupid AC even working?

“I don’t know,” I manage to say, making a left. “I mean, there’s gotta be an average time span, right?”

“Hmm…” she hums, drumming her hands against her thighs. “Well, Dria and Trey dated for almost two years and then were engaged for one.”

Skye’s not one to move at a slow pace, so I honestly can’t picture her waiting that long in between dating and getting engaged— or getting engaged and getting married.

I don’t think I’d want to wait long either.

“Maybe we can cut their time span in half,” I muse, stopping at a red light. “We ‘dated’ for a year or so, and we want to get married in six or seven months…how’s that?”

“Not bad, not bad,” she agrees, playing with the ends of her braids. “We’ll need to decide on a wedding date then. Six or seven months is in what…December? January? Let’s say January. We can even tell people something cheesy like we want to start the new year as newlyweds .” She pretends to gag. “Okay, I’m thinking of a number between one and thirty-one. If you’re close, or you guess it, then you get to pick the wedding date. And if not, I’ll choose.”

The light turns green, and I start driving again. “All right, I’ll play. You got a number?”

“Yep.”

I steal a quick look at her and narrow my eyes, as if trying to read her mind. “I’m gonna go with five.”

Even with my gaze back on the road, there’s no missing her frown. “It was four, dang it! How’d you do that?”

“Lucky guess,” I reply with a shrug. “So, I say January 5th. Is that okay with you, fake fiancée?”

“A deal’s a deal. January 5th is the date. Now, how did you propose?”