Writing the Rules: A Fake Dating Standalone Mariah Dietz (best novels to read .txt) 📖

go and things you want to do. You work all the time. You need to sprinkle in some fun.”

She winces. “Speaking of fun, your dad messaged me.” She never calls him by name anymore, only ever refers to him as ‘our dad.’ It’s more appropriate than the alternatives, but it still delivers a reminder of how different things are. “He said Coach Harris reached out to him, concerned about your place on the team.”

I pull in a deep breath and let it sit in my chest for several seconds before releasing it. “I don’t know how much harder I can work to show them I’m dedicated.”

Maybe she hears the edge in my voice or sees the tremble of my hand. Or possibly she just understands the weight that comes with loss and the ramifications it sometimes drives us toward because, unlike so many others, she doesn’t remind me of what I might lose or how I’ve fucked up. She simply leans against me like I used to lean against her when I was the shorter one in our pair. “You want to stick around for dinner? We could make some spaghetti and garlic bread.”

“Have I ever said no to garlic bread?”

Mom laughs, and I absorb the sound as she reaches for the remote and passes it to me, silently offering me a safe place just to be.

The next day, I’m finishing the second load of laundry when my phone starts to blow up again.

Candace: Can we please talk?

Candace: I’m worried about you. Why aren’t you responding?

Candace: If you don’t reply, I’m coming over.

 I lean against the doorframe and consider my options.

Me: I’m fine. I just don’t have anything to say.

Candace: Why do you get to be the one who’s mad?

Me: I’m not mad.

Candace: Then why are you ignoring me? I need to talk to you. I’m coming over.

I know there’s no use in telling her not to. She’s likely already on her way. Instead of avoiding her and the conversation, I stalk downstairs, where the living room seems cleaner than it’s ever been. The wood floors have a shine after the cleaning crew that came by and rid the remains of the party, so now the only signs of Halloween lie on our dining room table in the form of decorations.

Caleb’s in the kitchen, scrounging through our mostly empty fridge. We need to go grocery shopping. I need a fucking beer.

“Do we know what we’re doing with all this shit?” I ask, nodding in the direction of the table.

Caleb opens a Tupperware container and sniffs at it before frowning and setting it on the counter. “That entire container needs to be dumped. No way that thing is salvageable.” He turns back to the fridge. “And Poppy said she’s coming over to pick up the decorations after her class.”

“Bottom right, there’s some spaghetti I brought home from my Mom’s,” I tell him.

“You sure?”

“Absolutely. What’s mine is yours.”

He grabs for it. “Thanks. I don’t think I’ve eaten anything but cupcakes since Friday morning.”

“Candace is on her way over,” I tell him.

He spins to face me, the glass bowl with leftovers gripped tightly in his hands. “You invited her?”

“She wants to talk.”

“You should see if you have any more of her shit here and send it home with her. The symbolism might make her finally understand since she doesn’t seem to be catching on to what you’re saying.” He reaches for a plate and empties a large portion of pasta onto it.

There’s a knock on the door that makes my stomach sour. We’ve already volleyed hurtful words and accusations at each other, blaming the other for our circumstance, and I don’t have the energy or patience to go another round.

I consider the facts that I’ve gone over in my head for months, reasons we have to get off this damn merry-go-round. I pull open the door, prepared to suggest we stay on the porch, but instead, discover Poppy, her long red hair pulled back in a ponytail, lips painted a muted red.

“Hey,” she says, her green eyes straying from mine. “I just came by to grab the decorations. I have no idea what we’re going to do with them, but we’re struggling to part with them. Although, if we keep them, Rae may want to host another Halloween party next year.” She frowns at the idea.

“Want me to throw them in the trash and blame it on the cleaning company?”

“The trash doesn’t come until Wednesday.”

“I can put them in my trunk until then.”

“I’m not hearing this,” Caleb yells from the kitchen.

Poppy smiles. “Don’t worry. I’m taking them.” She looks at me. “Maybe not all of them,” she whispers.

A car stops in the driveaway that pulls both of our gazes to the source: Candace.

Poppy turns her wide eyes to me. “On that note, maybe I’ll come back for them…”

“Caleb’s in the kitchen. Go hide. I’m going to talk with Candace, and then I’ll help you load them into your car.”

“I’m sorry to ditch you,” she says before slipping inside the house.

I pull the door shut behind her and take a couple of steps down to the short walk that leads to the driveway to meet my ex. Candace is beautiful in a way that often turns me stupid. Long, dark hair, light blue eyes, swollen lips, and a turned-up nose, she could likely model or go into acting, not necessarily because she’d be good at it but because it’s difficult not to stare at her. As if her looks alone weren’t enough, she has confidence in her step and her stare that is ridiculously sexy.

“Hey,” her voice is like melted butter, so damn familiar and comforting. But it ends as quickly as it began when she looks past me at the house with a deep scowl. “Why’s Poppy here?” The tinge of jealousy and resentment that has her staring at the house for too long is a quick reminder of why things need to be over between us.

“Why are you here?” I ask,