The Completely Real Story of My Fake Boyfriend

1: The Only Thing in My Pants is Ice Cream

1: The Only Thing in My Pants is Ice Cream

“I need you to give me a hickey.”

Twelve years of friendship and this was by far the weirdest thing I had ever said to him. It would also start the beginning of a long lie to the girl who shared my rent. And it was all because of my fake boyfriend, a text message, and my big, fat mouth. 

***

There was a red heart over today’s date on the calendar, over which was written “Tyler comes!” It was a few weeks ago that Annabelle told me that Tyler, her boyfriend, was coming up for Valentine’s weekend. She was going to make him dinner, watch a few movies on our new couch, and then have incredibly loud sex twenty feet from my room. I’d never been a fan of Valentine’s Day, but I had a feeling this year was going to hit an all time low.

I was what my friend’s liked to call “perpetually single.” Not one species of the male gender had paid attention to me in all nineteen years of my life. And while I had grown to accept the fact, when my roommate was moaning out her boyfriend’s name I became painfully aware to the fact I needed a boy in my life.

Flipping through the channels, hoping that something that didn’t involve shirtless men or naïve women was on, a knock was heard at the door. As soon as the sound registered in my ears, Annabelle was already flying towards the door, flinging it open to attack her boyfriend. Once she had peppered every inch of his uncovered skin, she let him enter the apartment, where he began to make the mandatory conversation between boyfriend and roommate.

“Lucy, so good to see you! How have you been?” Tyler goes to school at Duke and only visits once or twice a year. He’s probably the smartest guy I know, and he’s quite the looker too. Annabelle obviously knew what she was getting into when she started dating him.

“I’m good. How are you, Tyler?” I always try to be nice to Tyler, but it’s incredibly awkward. Annabelle and I were roommates last year, which was when I met him, but it’s only been a handful of times since then that we’ve been in the same room. I know that they just want me to leave so they can make out on the couch, and I want to stay on the couch so that they won’t make out on the newly purchased leather. It had cost me three paychecks and sixteen bowls of Ramen to buy this beauty, and I didn’t want hormones ruining the leather.

The two of us made more awkward conversation until Annabelle dragged Tyler to her room to “show him the new decorations.” I settled on some mindless sitcom and wondered if Kristin would want to grab dinner now, or later. It was only nearing five now, and she always ate early. I was just bored.

The clock was nearing half past five and Annabelle and Tyler finally left their room. She went over to the stove and he joined me on the couch. During the commercial break I stretched my arm and made the mistake of catching Annabelle’s eye, which clearly read, “Leave the apartment now before I force you to.”

Shooting a quick text to Kristin, I headed to my room to pull over actual pants and grab my bag, hoping that there wasn’t a wait at my favorite burger joint on Seventh. With a polite goodbye to the two lovebirds, who were practically glowing at the idea of being alone, I headed out to what I predicted to be my most boring Valentine’s Day yet. Oh, how wrong I was.

***

My night of drowning my relationship status in burgers and fries ended with me sprawled on my friend Luke’s floor, eating cookie dough ice cream from our shared carton and discussing why he should consider a career in exotic dancing.

“I saw you dance at Carmen Mendler dad’s 50th birthday party. I know you can shake those hips. Plus, you were complaining about rent last month. Think about how much money you’ll make.” He rolled his eyes and hit me with his spoon, wet with saliva and discarded ice cream.