I’m acutely aware that Andrew didn’t answer my question about what he wants, but after everything that’s happened in the past six hours, I’m too emotionally drained to push it.

“My parents… they don’t have the best marriage,” Andrew offers with the same level of trust his sister always showed me. “I’ve watched my dad hurt my mom my entire life. I don’t want to hurt Dylan like that, okay?”

And there it is. The legacy of shitty parents, the looming specter of morally questionable genetics. I know that fear in my bones, and I didn’t expect to see it so clearly etched into Andrew’s handsome face.

“You’re nothing like your father,” I tell him.

Andrew snorts. “You don’t know that. You haven’t even met him.”

“You’re here,” I say. “You aren’t at the office. You’re here for your mom, for your grandmas. You showed up, and your dad didn’t.”

He smiles wickedly. “I knew you wanted me, Oliver,” he teases, and the funny thing is, a few hours ago, I really did want him. Or, at the very least, I wanted to want him.

Andrew eyes the one bed, and his smile turns downright lascivious. “Are we going to do this thing or what?”

I reach out for his hand and lace our fingers together instead. “You don’t have to be that guy with me, you know.”

He does another scrunched confused face. “What guy?”

“The guy who’s only a fun time at parties.” I pull him down on the bed so we’re sitting side by side. Andrew is quiet for a moment as he fiddles with our joined hands.

“You know,” Andrew says thickly. “You’re kind of a great fake fiancée so far.”

I give his hand a squeeze. “You’re mediocre, if I’m being honest,” I say, and Andrew smiles again. “But tomorrow is a new day.”

Unfortunately for Andrew, I don’t plan to be here tomorrow.

A Webcomic

By Oliverartssometimes

Episode 2: The Honesty Game
(Christmas Eve, 11:07 a.m.)

Uploaded: December 31, 2021

I think I’m about to have a heart attack in the coffee shop at Powell’s.

This is—I press my hand against my chest—yep. This is definitely a heart attack.

I’m too aware of my heart thrashing against my ribs, and it feels like there’s something lodged in my chest, a too-crowded, overwhelmed feeling. Every time I attempt to breathe, there’s a sharp, stabbing pain. I clutch my rib cage and try to inhale slowly, but nope—it hurts too much.

This is probably it. I’m probably dying.

Except. Well. It’s statistically unlikely that I’m actually going to die from a heart attack while standing in line for coffee at eleven in the morning.