A Murderer's Guide to Fake Dating

11. you can't even stand straight

I'm scrambling for words, but I don't know what to say. Hi Jack! I had an interesting dream last night. I dreamt you kissed me and now I can't look you in the eye! 

I say none of that, instead keeping my gaze focused on the wall behind Jack. It is navy blue, carpeted, and my newfound interest at the moment. "Is that so?" I murmur. "Maybe it's because of how hot it is today." 

Jack checks his phone. "Isla, it's sixty degrees right now." He presses his hand against my forehead and I flinch. "You have a fever." 

I jerk away. "I do not. Anyway, I should get going. Thanks for the drink." Then I practically run away. 

He must be questioning my odd behavior, but I couldn't care less. As I dash down the corridor, my mind races. I must find a way to hate Jack again, so much that my hate overwhelms the reality that I dreamt of Jack. 

It isn't until evening, after work has ended and the sun has melted into the horizon, that I finally come up with a solution. I see Jack's departing figure and hurry after him. "Jack!" I call out, despite people's heads turning towards me. "Jack, wait—" 

Jack turns, a flicker of surprise on his face. He stands by the revolving doors and waits patiently, as I catch my breath. After a few seconds pass, I'm able to speak without sounding like a dying fish gasping for its last breath. "So, um," I start. 

My heart pounds and I nervously intertwine my fingers together. Jack watches me closely and I cannot breathe. "So, like," I stutter, growing increasingly nervous. I force the words out. "I think your routinely date idea is a wonderful idea." 

Jack stares at me like I've been possessed. "In fact," I continue brightly, "we should have dates every other day." 

Jack is starting to look concerned and honestly, rightfully so. I myself am starting to doubt this date idea. "For example—"oh dear, I'm beginning to ramble—"we can have our dates Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday so that we can get to know each other. Get to know each other's flaws, weaknesses, the whole shebang." 

"Isla," says Jack. "You have a fever." 

"No, I don't," I say. "What makes you think I have a fever?" 

"You're acting strange." 

"I was merely agreeing with your wonderful date idea. What's so strange about that?" 

Jack gives me a skeptical look. He looks like he's going through an internal battle before he finally steels himself. "I'm taking you home." 

I jerk back. "Pardon? I'm fine, though. I don't need anyone to take me home, lest of all you." 

"You're clearly not fine." Jack shakes his head. "You've been acting strange since this morning. Now, I'm taking you home." 

"No," I say stubbornly. "I'm fine and I'm not sick—" 

All of a sudden, I see a cockroach skittering across the floor. I scream and nearly trip, falling into Jack. He looks irritated, as he steadies me. "See?" he says expectantly. "You can't even stand straight." 

"That was because of the cockroach!" I insist, pointing at the ground, where unsurprisingly, the cockroach has gone to scare some other poor person.

"Sure," Jack says, clearly not believing me. "Now let's go." 

I stay where I am. "Before I grab your hand," adds Jack, and I reluctantly follow him. On the way to the garage, I continuously proclaim that I'm not sick, but Jack doesn't listen. 

Before I know it, I'm inside Jack's black Audi and we're speeding through the city, to my apartment. I sneak a peek at Jack, who's focused on the road ahead. Jack runs his fingers through his soft black hair and I gape. Suddenly, Jack turns at me and my heart leaps. "What?" he snaps, scowling.