Faking with Benefits : Chapter 5

My first thought when I crack my eyes open the next morning is: shit, it’s bright. 

I don’t usually wake up to daylight. I’m normally up and out the door on my morning run well before the sun has risen.

I groan and roll over. I feel like crap. My eyes are sandy and gritty. My head is pounding. My mouth feels like it’s had all the spit sucked out of it by one of those saliva hoovers they use at the dentist. All I want to do is go back to sleep, but judging by the light spilling in from my half-open blinds, it’s time for me to get up. Patting around my bedside table, I yank my phone off the charger and squint at the time.

Then I blink. Rub my eyes. Squint some more.

It’s eleven forty-five.

“Shit,” I mumble, rolling out of bed. My foot gets tangled in my phone charger, and I trip, catching myself on my dresser right before I fall. I feel fuzzy and uncoordinated, but I ignore it, stumbling over to my desk and thumbing frantically through my agenda. My eyes run over the neatly colour-coded appointments, my heart pounding in my chest as I read each one. Finally, my shoulders slump with relief.

Thank God. I have the morning off. The rest of my day is packed, though. I have a call with a supplier at one; at two, I have a two-hour meeting with my manufacturers to check that everything is going to plan with my upcoming summer line. After that, I have three hours of paperwork scheduled, a quick dinner break, then a seven o’clock call with an online influencer to discuss her rates for a sponsored post.

But for now, I’m fine.

I check the time on my phone again — then frown. I have a ton of message notifications. I scroll through them with sweaty fingers. They’re all from the guys.

I stare at the messages in horror. What are they talking about? Why would I need to talk to them?

And then the memory of last night slams into me like a freight truck.

Suddenly, I remember it all. I remember the terrible date with Mike. I remember Zack finding me at the restaurant, comforting me, plying me with mojitos. I remember staggering into the guys’ apartment, eating a huge plate of cheesy pasta, and sobbing all over them.

Oh God. I told them about all the failed dates. I showed them my stupid ten-year-plan.

I think I offered them money to date me.

“Crap,” I groan, tossing my phone back onto my bed and stumbling to my little ensuite. I assess the damage in the bathroom mirror.

I’m a hot mess. My bleached-platinum hair is messy, falling down to my chin in jagged spikes, and I’m still wearing the silvery dress and fishnet tights I wore to my date last night. My pale green eyes are puffy and rimmed with smeared mascara, and there’s lipstick smudged on my cheek.

Swearing, I turn on the cold tap, scooping up two handfuls of water and splashing it onto my face, methodically scrubbing the dried tears and makeup off my skin. Embarrassment is burning through me. What the Hell is wrong with me? Why did I drink so much last night? Why didn’t I just come home, watch some TV, and go to bed, instead of wallowing in self-pity like a total loser?

And now I’m running late. Normally, by now, I’ve worked out, answered my emails, taken calls, scheduled my day, made and eaten breakfast, run a few errands —

Anxiety squeezes my insides and nausea rises in my throat. I grip the porcelain edges of the sink and force myself to take a few deep breaths.

It’s fine. I’m fine. I haven’t missed any appointments. I’m not going to be late for anything. The day isn’t going to plan, but that’s okay.

It is.

This is why I don’t like to drink. It messes with my routines too much. And without my routines, my life turns into a hot, steaming mess.

Pulling myself together, I brush my teeth, spit, and then stagger back to my bedroom and stare longingly at my rumpled bed. I just want to crawl back into the sheets, order some breakfast, and spend the rest of the day watching Project Runway reruns and nursing my hangover.

Or maybe call my landlord, cancel my lease, and find a new place to live far, far away from my neighbours.

But I do neither of these things. Instead, I strip off last night’s slept-in clothes, change into some workout gear, and grab a hair tie off my dresser, pulling my hair back into a ponytail. I need to get this morning back under control.

Twenty minutes later, I’m jogging through Hyde Park. It’s a beautiful day. The sun is hot and bright, but the big, leafy trees spreading over my head throw cool, dappled shadows over the grit-covered running paths.

I’m flagging. Usually I can run five miles no problem, but my body is slow and sluggish from dehydration and exhaustion. I hate working out when I’m tired, but I hate breaking my routine even more, so I push through, pulling my phone out of the pocket of my running shorts. I’m going to need a distraction to get through the next three miles. Not slowing my pace, I load up the newest episode of Three Single Guys and press Play.

The familiar theme tune plays, and then Josh’s low voice sounds through my headphones.

“Hello, everybody, and welcome to episode four-hundred-and-forty-two of Three Single Guys, a podcast where three single men give you dating advice. I’m Joshua, I just turned thirty, and I haven’t had a steady relationship in years.”

Luke chimes in. “I’m Luke, ex-high school teacher, and the team’s resident divorcee.” 

“And I’m Zack, rugby legend, calendar boy, and the Best Shagger in Europe.” Zack says lazily.

“No one has ever called you that.” Josh says flatly.

“Aye, they do! I get around.” 

Josh sighs. “We are Three Single Guys, and we’re completely unqualified to give you relationship advice. As always, please remember this show is for entertainment purposes only. Do not take our advice.” 

“And when you do,” Zack chips in, “send us a wedding invite.” 

Despite my shitty mood, a smile spreads over my face.

I love Three Single Guys. The concept sounds stupid. Why should three men who aren’t even in a relationship be able to dole out dating advice? But the guys are actually really helpful. They all have their own specialities: before Luke divorced his ex-wife, they got a ton of couple’s counselling, so he knows a lot about relationship psychology; Josh is so direct he’s almost rude, so he has no problems telling listeners if they need to dump their partners; and Zack answers all of the sex questions. Plus, their chemistry together is incredible. They always start off each episode with a few minutes of banter, talking about their weeks — but my favourite part is when they answer listener emails.

“Okay,” Josh’s low voice says as I hit the last stretch of my run. “Here’s an email that I think must be meant for Zack. It’s from the pseudonym ‘Moist in the Midlands’.”

“Oh, this’ll be good,” Zack answers. “Hit me.” 

Josh clears his throat. “‘The last few times me and my girlfriend have slept together’, he reads aloud, ‘she’s squirted. I think it’s great, but she’s horrifically embarrassed every time it happens, and it’s really affecting our life in the bedroom. How do I convince her that it’s normal… and that I actually really like it?’”  

“Drink that shit up,” Zack says immediately. “You gotta get in there and SWALLOW, man. You can’t just tell her you think it’s hot, you gotta show her. So get between her legs and go down like you’re at a damn watermelon eating contest. Trust me, she’s gonna know you think it’s hot when you’re licking her clean like she’s a melting ice cream cone.” 

I burst out laughing in the middle of the park. A passing woman pushing a pram gives me a nervous look and switches to the other side of the path. I try to push down my laughter, jogging over to a nearby bench to cool down. My phone has been dinging steadily through my run, so I pull it out and flick through the messages as I start stretching out my thighs.

They’re all from Zack.

I’m about to swipe the messages away, but then another text pops up.

Guilt twists me. Of course they’re worried about me. I cried all over them like a little baby. They’ve never seen me like that before. I usually try so hard to be in control.

I have to apologise.

Sighing, I start typing back a message.