Chapter Text
Jasmine comes through the apartment like a storm, dropping her dance bag next to the door and tossing her keys on top of it, not even flinching when they fall to the hardwood. She huffs like she’ll be able to exhale the irritation, but it proves useless.
“I don’t know about you, but I don’t feel like cooking tonight,” Bosco calls from the couch, stretched out like a lazy cat, their feet up on the coffee table.
They don’t even have to turn to face Jasmine to know that she agrees, that she too is not in the mood for much. Jasmine flops down on the couch, throwing her legs over Bosco’s, her head tipped back like she’s too weary for this world.
Bosco mutes Cutthroat Kitchen and pulls Jasmine’s legs closer. “So it’s been a day?”
“A whole day,” Jasmine says to the ceiling, kicking her shoes off, letting them fall from the couch.
“Is it her again?” Bosco asks, like they already know the answer. And to be fair, they probably do. Every time Jasmine comes home like this, exhausted but unenthused for another day of rehearsals, missing her trademark excess of energy, they know something’s happened, and it always comes back to some annoying girl in the same production as Jasmine.
She sits up, shifting her feet into Bosco’s lap. “Yeah, it’s like the fifth time she’s asked me out.” Jasmine grimaces like she’s pulled something. “It’s super annoying. Like, I can’t think of any more ways to say I’m not interested without looking like an asshole.”
“Well what’s wrong with looking like an asshole?” Bosco chuckles. “I do it all the time at my job and it’s a lot of fun.”
Jasmine shakes her head. “And I’m not sure how you get away with it—”
“My natural charm.”
“But if I just started acting like an asshole, I’d get fired. I really like this job and I already feel like I’m on the edge with my inability to shut up, so I don’t think I can just be an asshole and get away with it,” Jasmine replies. She wiggles her toes and throws Bosco a glance.
They roll their eyes, feigning annoyance, but nonetheless dig their thumb into the ball of her foot, causing Jasmine to throw her head back over the arm of the couch, boneless.
“Have you tried telling her you have a girlfriend already?” Bosco asks. “If you’re taken, she probably wouldn’t have much of a choice besides giving up, no?”
“I could try that, but then it’d spread around the whole company and then everyone would want to meet my girlfriend and want me to bring them around to cocktail hour and performances and all that…” Jasmine pauses to pull her hair out of it’s tight bun. “And everyone would find out real quick that I don’t actually have a girlfriend.”
“Ok, so you’d need to find a girlfriend then.” Bosco’s hand moves up to grasp her ankle.
“That’s always been the problem, hasn’t it?” Jasmine sighs, unsure if it’s from Bosco massaging her aching ankle or from another reminder that Jasmine hasn’t had a relationship in what feels like forever and has no genuine prospects on the horizon—except for that girl, who is far too pushy and oblivious, even for Jasmine. “Where am I going to find a girlfriend? It’s not like they sell them at Target or whatever,” she tries to joke, but it comes out a touch more sad than intended.
“Well you are at Target a lot…” Bosco says, earned a little smack on the arm from Jasmine.
“What? I didn’t say I didn’t appreciate the fact that you come home with plant food, a hair mask, a set of mugs, and four back up phone chargers every Saturday afternoon.” They hold their hands still for a moment, their tone turning serious. “But if that’s what’s holding you back, I could play the role.”
“No, no, I couldn’t make you do that.” Jasmine holds their gaze. It’d be too big of an ask, especially with what Bosco already does for her. The way they take care of her, come to her performances, share a home with her. “And also, we’ve been friends forever. Who would believe we just decided to start dating one day?”
Bosco glances between Jasmine’s feet in their lap and their sweater spilling out of Jasmine’s dance bag, before turning back Jasmine, brown eyes wide. “You’re kidding, right?”
Jasmine scrunches her nose, like she’s thinking deeply.
“We’re like, suspiciously close all the time,” Bosco says. “And I don’t know about you, but “I’ve fallen in love with my roommate, who also happens to be my best friend, who also happens to be very hot,” is absolutely believable.”
Jasmine ponders a bit more, drawing her legs in and wrapping her arms around them. “Ok, I’m not saying you’re totally wrong but do you really think we could really pull it off? And it’d work?”
They nod. “I think if we make a plan and stick to it we can.”
“Well…” Jasmine tries to think of an excuse, a good reason to not rope Bosco into her production drama, but she’s drawing a blank. “What’s the harm in trying it?” Jasmine gives Bosco a once over. “I’m sure you’re not the worst fake girlfriend in existence.”
“Yes of course,” Bosco says, smile slick. “And as my first act as not the worst fake girlfriend in existence, I won’t even try to convince you we should order sushi for dinner.” Bosco pushes the menu to the side, handing her the Italian and Chinese takeout menus instead.
Jasmine snatches the Italian menu. “Save your fake girlfriend performance for our audience, babe.”
They share some pasta and bread, watch a few episodes of Chopped, and end the night with Bosco slumped on the couch and a plan to subtly introduce the relationship with a couple-y photo of Jasmine and Bosco particularly placed in her dance locker and as her phone lock screen. It’s small enough to not be overbearing, but big enough to hopefully send a message.
And for once, Jasmine’s prepared for her coworker’s advances.
***
When Jasmine strolled into work early that morning—about 5 a.m., picture of her and Bosco decorated with little stickers and glitter hearts in hand, Jasmine thought it’d be quite convincing. Hanging in her locker, squarely in the center, she really thought it’d be quite convincing. She was proud of her handiwork.
It was one from last summer, when they’d gone to the carnival with some friends from college. In the picture, the two were on the ferris wheel, and Jasmine could remember the fear of being up so high swallowing her up. The two were shoulder to shoulder, Jasmine gripping into the lap bar, Bosco tentatively holding their phone out to document Jasmine finally getting over her fear of heights. She remembered turning to face Bosco, ready to tell them off for making her get on this death contraption, right as Bosco took the photo, grinning wickedly.
But looking at the photo now, it only looked like Bosco was happy and Jasmine was taking them in, looking at them with admiration. It was Bosco’s choice, an admittedly good choice at that.
Even though Jasmine definitely cried once she looked down, which meant Bosco had to pull her out of the seat once they’ve come back down, wiping her tears between laughter.
But seeing the girl stop by Jasmine’s locker, prop her hand atop it, and ask Jasmine once more if she’d like to get coffee after rehearsal, before commenting that Jasmine’s locker was “cute,” she thought that maybe her pick of her and Bosco at Camden’s last house party would have worked better.
“No, sorry, I think I have something after rehearsal. Let me see…” Jasmine trails off, pulling out her phone, purposefully laying it flat in her palm so the girl could see the lock screen as Jasmine checks it. “Hair appointment. Sorry.”
The girl walks away with a promise to catch her some time, and once out of sight, Jasmine buries her head in her—probably Bosco’s—sweater and lets out a soundless scream.
She then retrieves her phone and pulls up her messages with “Bos 🖤 ,” typing out “didn’t work 🙃.”
Bosco replies quickly, “let’s go bigger,” followed by “💐”
Jasmine comes home that night, only to find Bosco leaning against the counter, water boiling on the stove, thumbs flying across their phone.
She comes up beside them, shoulder to shoulder, as though Bosco’s warmth will eliminate Jasmine’s disappointment.
“Who’re you textin’” Jasmine mutters against Bosco’s shoulder, glancing down at the screen. “Better not be some girl who isn’t your fake girlfriend.”
“Excuse you, Bosco says, layering the faux irritation thick. “You accuse me when I’m implementing the next phase of our plan.”
Bosco shows her the phone. A florist’s website with pictures of gorgeous seasonal arrangements. “It’s a little hard because it has to look more romantic than like a post-performance bouquet and it should be something you’d like, but you also have terrible taste in plants, so…”
“Shut up.” Jasmine gives them a shove. “If you had it your way, you’d hand me an aloe vera plant as a profession of affection.”
“Of course I would. They’re useful, low maintenance, and every one I’ve owned has grown beautifully. Look at Helene number 2 over there-”
“I’m looking,” Jasmine said, rolling her eyes.
“She’s so tall and lovely now.” Bosco wrapped an arm around Jasmine’s waist, pulling her in as they pointed at the plant in the blue striped pot, sitting among the whole plant-family. “And how long does a bouquet last?”
“The thought lasts a life-”
“Two weeks,” Bosco interrupted, holding two fingers right in front of Jasmine’s face. “Two.”
Jasmine sighs, leaning over to check the water. She peels Bosco’s hand from her waist so she can pour the pasta into the pot.
“But whatever, I won’t get you a practical potted plant,” Bosco mutters, grabbing their phone again. “Could you finish dinner? I’ve gotta do fake-girlfriend shit.”
***
The delivery stops rehearsal, which Jasmine can’t believe wasn’t done on purpose, especially given how often she rants to Bosco about the long, breakless hours. It’s possible that Bosco’s true fake-girfriend shit was integrating a well-needed break into Jasmine’s morning practice.
But the flowers, the richly coloured bouquet, were show-stopping in of themselves. Jasmine should have expected their perfection, especially given Bosco’s affinity for plants. While the bouquets Jasmine typically received after performances were about as bright and colorful as her, this one was much more passionate; it definitely took Bosco’s influence. The roses were a moody red and dusty pink; the lilies, which were Jasmine’s favorite, a deep purple. It was all offset by lush greens, wrapped up in a cream ribbon.
Right as it was handed off to her, the rest of her castmates broke from their formation to surround her, closing in, questions thrown rabidly.
“Who’s it from?”
“Jas, when did you-”
“Is it-”
“Hush you all,” Camden, Jasmine’s truest friend and fellow cast dancer, broke through the noise. “Let her read the note.” She folded her hands together, trying to hide her impatience.
The note was written in Bosco’s sloppy handwriting, but Jasmine, having known Bosco for years, had grown quick to decipher it. She cleared her throat, glancing over the crowd first. It was almost nice, having all eyes on her for a reason besides being scolded for not shutting up during rehearsals. She drank it in before reading.
“If you’re going to interrupt my rehearsal, you have to read the note,” Alyssa called from the front of the room, her tone impatient, but her expression playful.
Jasmine flattened the card. “Princess, I can’t wait for tonight. All my love, B.”
The room erupted in chatter, the sound practically shaking Jasmine as she stuck the card back into the bouquet. At this rate, the rumor of Jasmine’s new girlfriend would spread like wildfire, reaching the ears of every dancer in the company.
She had to admit, though she knew it’d only inflate Bosco’s ego further, that they were quite good at building the intrigue in this scheme. It was a simple, yet convincing display, even though Jasmine knew Bosco only called her “princess” when she was grossed out by something totally normal, like spiders and weird animals in nature documentaries, and “I can’t wait for tonight” meant watching one of said nature documentaries and drinking a bottle of wine each, and “all my love,” was simply part of being friends who lived together, shared a life together, and genuinely loved each other’s presence. Nonetheless, this girl would have no choice but to accept that Jasmine couldn’t be interested. They’d be finished with this charade, back to normalcy, before the end of the year, for sure.
“Back in formation in one minute!” Alyssa broke through the din once again. “We’re starting at the fourth bar!”
Jasmine ran off to set the flowers next to her bag, making sure they were out of the way and wouldn’t be stepped on at the end of practice.
As she jogged back to her place, a hand wrapped around her wrist. She turned on her heel and came face to face with her.
“It’s really cute how your mom sends you flowers sometimes,” she said, trailing into a giggle at the end before breaking away, leaving Jasmine standing there, biting her tongue.
That night, Bosco came home to Jasmine stabbing at a slab of ground turkey in a skillet, lip pulled tight in frustration.
“I know you don’t like roses, but I had to use them.” Bosco tossed their keys onto the counter, being sure to avoid the discarded flowers. “Lillies are a bit too friendly on their own.”
Jasmine turned, methodically watching as Bosco carefully gathered the flowers and placed them in a vase, fluffing them out to their original beauty. Bosco then grabbed the wine from the fridge, looking for the corkscrew next.
“She thought they were from my mom,” Jasmine gritted out.
Bosco let out a forced laugh. “I guess you could call me that, but it’d be best to move slowly, no?”
Jasmine slowly turned toward them, body stiff.
“Did you read the note?” Bosco asked, noting Jasmine’s lack of amusement. So they grabbed the corkscrew and got to work digging out the cork. Having a drink before getting to work on the next phase of the plan might be best.
“I tried to make it romantic, yet vague. Also your mom’s name doesn’t start with a B.”
“It was romantic,” Jasmine sighed, loosening her grip on the spatula. “I read it and now the whole company probably knows about us, but she clearly doesn’t understand context clues if she followed the note with “I’d love to meet your mom someday.””
“That’s bold,” Bosco added, struggling to pull the cork out.
Jasmine snatched the bottle, shooting an apologetic glance their way. With a firm, likely anger fueled tug, she released the cork and took a swig, letting the sickly sweet taste of four buck chuck rush over her tongue.
“I’ve truly never met a person either so dumb or so insistant-” Jasmine cut herself off, drinking more.
“Ok, ok easy there.” Bosco grabbed the bottle by the neck, setting it on the counter before steadying Jasmine by her shoulders. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll come during your lunch break and bring you a coffee. We’ll act couple-y and she’ll see that I’m real and not your mom and it’ll have to click. Okay?” They were soothing, their voice ebbing, their thumbs washing across Jasmine’s shoulders.
“Okay.” Jasmine breathed out. “That’s our new plan. Coffee is the new plan.”
Bosco handed her the bottle back, guiding Jasmine back to the stove, hand resting on her lower back. “Finish up here and then we’ll watch the anglerfish documentary.”
***
“If your love life interrupts my rehearsal one more time—” Alyssa shot at Jasmine, watching the studio door open.
Jasmine stole a glance back, only to find Bosco slinking in with the coffee. She waved them off to the side then held up a finger, letting them know to stay toward the back for a moment, that she’d catch them when she got her first break.
But Jasmine couldn’t help but smile a bit as she crouched to re-tie her sneakers. Bosco knew her schedule as well as Jasmine knew theirs. Of course for any other purpose, Bosco would come at 10:30 a.m. on the dot, hand off whatever Jasmine texted them to bring, mock her for being wildly forgetful, suggest they get Japanese takeout as payment for bringing Jasmine’s forgotten things at this early of an hour , and be out the door by the end of Jasmine’s five minute water break.
But for the purposes of pulling attention toward their relationship , giving her castmates the chance to connect the letter to them, and giving that girl enough time to connect the dots? Bosco was brilliantly playing the fake girlfriend game.
They run through the last sixteen bars of the opening number twice before Alyssa releases them for their water break. Jasmine subtly checks that the girl was watching her before she takes off running toward Bosco. She winds her arms around their waist, drawing out the hug once they return the favor.
“I was looking for that sweater,” Jasmine says against their chest. It’s soft against her cheek. Bosco’s antisocial social club sweater was by far the softest of the bunch, likely from how often Jasmine’s worn and washed it. “It’s like 40 degrees again. I was gonna wear it today.”
“I don’t know why you’re pouting, babe.” Bosco pulls back, offering Jasmine her coffee. “I have a right to my own sweater.”
She took the cup, glancing over the markings. Sometimes Bosco went out of their way to get her to try a new type of drink, which had mixed results. But again, in believable fake girlfriend fashion, they got her usual order. She took a sip, letting the sugar and caffeine carry her through the next two hours until lunch.
“Hmm,” she hums against the lip of the lid. “False.”
Bosco rolls their eyes. “Also, are you aware of how much of a moron I look like ordering that thing?” Bosco pokes Jasmine in the rib, watching her double over from how much it tickled. “Have you been made aware?”
“Oh please,” Jasmine swats their fingers away. “It’s not like you order yourself a perfect black Americano like the demon of darkness you wish to be.”
“Those are fighting words, princess.” Bosco loops their arms around Jasmine’s waist, taking her by surprise.
“What are—”
“She’s finally looking,” Bosco whispers in her ear, their hot breath steeling her spine, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand at attention. “Lean toward me.”
Jasmine does, only to be met with Bosco’s lips, a softness gone so quick, pressed against her cheek.
“I’ve gotta head out,” Bosco says, louder this time, their hands slipping from around her waist to grip her right hand. “I’ll see you at home.”
Bosco exits swiftly, leaving Jasmine standing there, silent and smiling.
She can’t find the will to move, idly sipping her coffee and watching the door until Alyssa calls them back. The whole way, Jasmine’s thinking about Bosco kissing her cheek—fixating on it as she danced, as she and Camden ate lunch, as she pulled on Bosco’s second softest sweater, as she sat on the train home…
“It didn’t work,” Jasmine announces as she enters the apartment, throwing her bag down on the counter. She digs her Tupperware out and skirts around Bosco, placing it in the sink. “You would not believe how bad she was trying to eat lunch with Camden and I.”
“Maybe she wants Camden?” Bosco shrugs before opening the container to rinse it.
“She definitely doesn’t. Camden is like… beyond taken by our head seamstress, Angie. Like, ringlessly engaged.”
Bosco nods like they’re trying to pick their brain for their last interaction with the two, but decides to focus back on the dishes. “Sorry it didn’t work.”
Jasmine sighs, toeing out of her shoes before hopping up on the counter next to the sink. “It’s whatever I guess. We’ll just have to think of something else.”
The two stay like this for a few moments; Bosco washing a few stray forks, Jasmine watching their movements.
“Sorry for the kiss too.” Bosco turns off the tap. “It just seemed like I had to do it. She was finally watching.”
“No, I agree. It was smart.” Jasmine holds out her hand, accepting the towel from Bosco. She gets to work on a wine glass. “We might have to amp it up even more.” She hands off the glass.
“So you think I’m smart?” Bosco raises their brow, setting the wine glass to the side, incessant, annoying smirk spreading across their face. “Tell me more about my superior fake girlfriend intellect.”
Jasmine winds the towel and whips their shoulder with it. “If you had superior girlfriend intellect, you’d have left that sweater for me.”
***
On Tuesday, Bosco takes her to lunch. They drape their jacket around Jasmine’s shoulders, which Jasmine thinks is a sweet touch, the worn leather and flannel lining warming her as she prepares to head into the crisp November air. Bosco leads her out, a hand pressed against her lower back, traveling down to rest just above her ass.
Camden smirks at Jasmine when she returns, then ribs her for ditching their lunch date for another. Jasmine shrugs it off, pointing out that Camden’s done the same for Angie countless times—who is she to say Jasmine shouldn’t have lunch dates with her own girlfriend?
The girl stares blankly, their eyes trailing from the door Bosco just left through to Jasmine and Camden before she comes over to where they’re sitting. She glances over Jasmine, still wearing the leather jacket, still comforted by the scent of Bosco—their deodorant, perfume, fabric softener—on the jacket, before asking Jasmine for recommendations of where to buy a leather jacket of their own, claiming that she “must know because she looks so good in hers.”
Jasmine returns home, splits a bottle of wine with Bosco, and tries again.
On Wednesday, Bosco lets her wear the jacket to practice. As her and Camden get ready to head out for their afternoon coffee break, Jasmine sticks her hand in the pocket. She’s looking for her phone, cursing herself for losing it again , only to find a lighter and a carefully hidden box, tied off with a Tiffany blue bow. Camden’s eyes widen at the sight, followed by a “holy shit,” loud enough to draw an audience.
Jasmine plays up her confusion for the other dancers, flipping over the box, shaking it a bit, even though she knows Bosco had pulled something out of Jasmine’s own jewelry box, gently laid it in the box, and tied the ribbon carefully the night prior. After countless, insistent remarks to open it, even though Jasmine claimed Bosco was probably planning on giving it to her during their date later that night, she opened it. The sight of the simple chain and turquoise pendant, Jasmine’s favorite piece, forced a genuine smile through her facade. She thumbed the stone before showing Camden, who commented that the turquoise went so well with Jasmine’s eyes.
The girl agrees, offering to clasp it around Jasmine’s neck. Jasmine obliges weakly, recoiling as she moves her hair away from her neck, her hand lingering a touch too long once the necklace is secure.
Jasmine returns home, splits another bottle of wine with Bosco, gives them kudos for the necklace idea, and tries again.
Or she would if she didn’t feel like her stomach was eating itself. She wakes a couple hours before her alarm, the cramps and twisting causing her to jolt. She tries tea, Tums, Advil—nothing works. By 5:30, all she can do is force dry toast down and head to work, hoping she won’t hurl on the subway.
But before she even gets to set herself up for rehearsal, begin her stretching routine with the other dancers, Jasmine finds herself face first in the toilet, hair held back by that girl , listening to the beats of the warm-up music and Alyssa’s assistant’s instructions ricochet in her pounding head as she coughs up bile.
Camden pushes the girl aside hastily, which Jasmine appreciates endlessly, even though she can’t show it without sending her stomach further into a tailspin. She pulls Jasmine’s hair into a claw clip, long blonde locks spilling out. “Morning sickness, love?” Camden tries to tease. It’s especially cloying in her British accent, but Jasmine has none of it.
She wipes her spit on the back of her hand before resting her forehead against her palm. “We’re lesbians, Cam-”
“You should get someone to take you home,” the girl cuts her off. “You really can’t dance like this.” Jasmine wasn’t too sick to groan and roll her eyes.
She rests her head against the seat, letting the coldness wash over her. “If I leave, I’ve got no chance at the solo. We’re going over the coreo for that today.”
Camden shakes her head, fully aware of Jasmine’s bullish attitude, the way in which her competitive side rears its ugly head, but chooses not to point it out, only rubbing Jasmine’s back in calming circles as she wretches more. “She’s right. You’ve got to go home and get better. Let me call someone.”
When Camden leaves in search of a phone and the emergency binder, the girl scurries back over, resuming her spot next to Jasmine. She understands that in another world, the action would be sweet, but in this world, the girl’s closeness makes her feel like she could empty her stomach if she hadn’t already.
“So, I called your emergency contact and um…they said you two ended things a year ago, so…” Camden trails off.
Of course Jasmine’s forgetful nature, leaving her fucking ex as her emergency contact instead of remembering to change it to her mom or her roommate like a normal single person, bit her in the ass. The last thing she needs is a reminder of being dumped by her long-term girlfriend, coupled with the idiot next to her placing a damp towel over her neck, desperately vying for that position.
“Just call Bosco,” Jasmine groans, reaching back to shove the towel off. She points toward her jacket. “Give me my phone, please.”
Camden brings it over, raising a brow at the lock screen: Bosco attempting to feed a bird in Central Park, but looking like a predatory bird themself. “So things are going well with the new girlfriend?” she tries again as Jasmine puts in the passcode.
“Just call them.” She grits out, leading into another coughing fit.
Bosco arrives in no time, clearly rushing straight from work. They’re still in uniform, boundless blonde curls still held back in their customary scrunchie, the smell of beer on their clothes all the more off-putting.
As though Bosco can tell that’s what’s making Jasmine gag again, they settle down next to Jasmine, an arm wound around her waist, the damp cloth dabbing sweat from Jasmine’s forehead.
“Sorry babe. We had to set up new taps before the Thanksgiving rush. Got all over me.” They continue rubbing, offering Jasmine a tissue once she’s finished.
“I’m going to miss the coreo for the solo,” Jasmine wines, sitting on her heels. Bosco pulls her close, head against their chest. It’s comfortable, Jasmine thinks. Their breathing almost steadies hers.
“I’m sure someone will help you learn it when you’re back to feeling better. You’ll be able to pick it up for sure.” They brush her hair back, hand lingering on her forehead. “You’ve definitely got a fever, princess. Probably the flu or a stomach bug.”
Jasmine nods solemnly, accepting Bosco’s assessment.
They take the tissue from Jasmine’s balled fist, tilt her face up, and dab off her mouth. “Come on, Jas, let’s go home and get you to bed.”
She lets herself be pulled up off the floor, leaning into Bosco’s grip, muttering about them watching old seasons of America’s Next Top Model with her. They respond with an “of course, love,” lips pressed against her cheek, before thanking Camden, gathering Jasmine’s things, and slowly walking her out.
The thought of missing out on the coreo washes away once she’s in bed, swallowed by an oversized t-shirt, Aveyah purring against her side.
When she’s awake and back to throwing up, Bosco doesn’t leave her side. They sit by her, waiting with a glass of water, reading out new surreal memes, waiting for Jasmine to finish so she can have a bit of water and head back to bed.
And Bosco lays with her, petting Aveyah, nodding along as Jasmine explains the brilliance of cycle 6.
And Bosco rouses her from her nap every few hours, making sure she’s taken Tylenol and gotten enough fluids.
And Bosco waits until she’s dozed off for the night before prying themself from Jasmine’s grasp. They fall asleep on the couch, waiting for Jasmine to need their help again.
The sickness subsides that morning and Jasmine feels like her normal self again, the spring back in her step as she tugs on her leggings and sports bra, ready to tackle the solo choreography.
Bosco’s not entirely convinced. They’re up early—earlier than Jasmine’s ever seen them up—as though they’re waiting for Jasmine’s stomach to turn again, waiting to lead her back to bed for another round of nursing her back to health. She insists she isn’t, but for Bosco’s sake more than hers, she lets them make her tea and toast, takes her temperature and flashes the thermometer at them, and lets them send her off to practice with a small thermos of soup and explicit instructions to text with how she’s feeling.
It’s overbearing, sure. And a bit weird for Bosco, who the last time Jasmine was sick only threw a blanket and a bottle of DayQuil at her with the explicit instructions to “not come out until she felt better because Bosco couldn’t afford to lose out on shifts.” And then she’d call her girlfriend, who’d say basically the same thing.
It was nice to have someone constantly looking out for her.
So at lunch, Jasmine honors their request, texting them a little sun emoji and a picture of the soup in the microwave.
“What are you smiling at?” Camden asks. She’s trying to be accusatory, but she’s only prodding for fun.
“Nothing…” Jasmine says, still focused on her conversation with Bosco, trying to keep her expression as nonchalant as possible when Bosco responds with a picture of a kiddie pool filled with chicken noodle soup. “Just here. Waiting for my soup.”
“Well, if I were you, I know what I’d be happy about.” Camden fixes the straw in her Diet Coke before taking a sip. “I think that new girlfriend’s a keeper.”
Now Jasmine knows she’s smiling, but she can’t help it. She tries to convince herself that she’s smiling because the plan is so clearly working, they’re so clearly convincing as fake girlfriends, but she’s not sure that’s it. Their success doesn’t keep her as warm as the thought of having someone drop everything to take care of her, the way a girlfriend would. Even her ex, the girl she was with for three years, hadn’t taken time for her like Bosco had in the past couple months. And if Jasmine dared to really think about it, half the time they didn’t even have an audience for their actions.
Jasmine pulls her soup out of the microwave and turns back to Camden. “Yeah, they’re the best.”