Chapter 1 — The Marriage Pact Revisited

Lena

Alameda Grove Park was alive with its usual symphony of life. The crunch of joggers’ sneakers on the gravel paths, the cheerful bark of a golden retriever chasing a frisbee, and the distant laughter of children playing near the lake all blended with the faint aroma of coffee wafting from the kiosk by the entrance. It was one of those perfect afternoons—sunlight filtering through the oak trees with just enough warmth to make the breeze feel refreshing.

I sat cross-legged on one of the park’s weathered benches, fiddling with the chunky turquoise earrings I’d chosen this morning on a whim. They seemed like a good idea at the time—statement earrings for a statement-making day—but now they just felt heavy. My phone buzzed beside me, and I glanced at it out of habit. No new messages. No Carlos.

I adjusted the strap of my leather bag and let out a long sigh, letting my gaze drift to a pair of ducks waddling near the lake. My mind wandered back to the day Carlos and I had made that stupid pact. We were sitting on the floor of his dorm room, surrounded by a mess of textbooks and pizza boxes, both slightly buzzed from cheap beer. It started as a joke—Carlos claiming he’d make a decent husband because he could fix things, me countering that I’d make an awful wife because I’d burn toast. Somewhere in the laughter, the pact was born: if neither of us was married by 30, we’d tie the knot. A safety net. A joke.

Except now, 30 wasn’t some distant horizon. It was barely a year away, and the idea didn’t feel so funny anymore.

“Sorry, sorry! Traffic was insane.”

Carlos’s voice pulled me out of my thoughts, and I turned to find him jogging toward me, coffee cup in one hand and a paper bag in the other. His easy smile was firmly in place, softening the sharp angles of his jawline. He was wearing one of those button-ups he always rolled to his elbows, paired with dark jeans, looking effortlessly put together as usual. And here I was, hair in a messy bun that was more messy than chic after the wind had its way with it.

“You live ten minutes away,” I pointed out, raising an eyebrow.

He grinned, handing me the paper bag. “Bribery. It’s a croissant from El Camino. Forgive me?”

My stomach betrayed me with an audible growl, and I snatched the bag with mock indignation. “You’re lucky I’m starving.”

Carlos dropped onto the bench beside me, his long legs sprawled out in a way that made mine look even shorter by comparison. He took a sip of his coffee, his expression unreadable for a moment before he turned to me. “So. What’s the big emergency? Your text was kind of… ominous.”

I rolled my eyes. “It wasn’t ominous. I just said I had something important to talk about.”

“Same thing,” he teased, nudging me lightly with his elbow. “What’s up?”

I hesitated, suddenly aware of the weight of what I was about to bring up. This was Carlos. My best friend, the person I trusted most in the world. But it was also Carlos—the person who could shatter me with one wrong reaction. I looked down at the croissant, picking at the flaky edges.

“Remember that pact we made in college?” I finally asked, keeping my tone as casual as I could manage.

Carlos frowned, his head tilting slightly. “The one where we promised to boycott pineapple pizza forever? Or the one where we swore we’d fake our deaths if we ever got caught in a pyramid scheme?”

I snorted despite myself. “The other one. The… marriage one.”

His eyebrows shot up, and for a moment, I thought he might choke on his coffee. He recovered quickly, though, leaning back against the bench with a slow, knowing smile. “Ah, yes. The ‘if we’re not married by 30, we’ll marry each other’ pact. What about it?”

I shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant even as my heart hammered in my chest. “Well, we’re turning 30 soon, and I was thinking… maybe it’s time to revisit it.”

His smile faltered, just for a second—so quick I might have imagined it. Then he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his coffee cup dangling from his fingers. “Revisit it how?” he asked carefully.

Great. Now I had to actually explain myself. I gestured vaguely with one hand. “You know, just… test the waters. See if we could ever really work as a couple. Before we hit the big 3-0 and have to make good on it.”

His mouth twitched, and I couldn’t tell if he was about to laugh or say something serious. “Test the waters? Like… you want to date me?”

“No!” The word came out louder than I intended, and a nearby jogger gave us a curious glance. I lowered my voice, my cheeks burning. “Not date. Just… test. Like, we go on a few fake dates, see how it feels, and prove to ourselves that it’d never work. That way, when we turn 30, we can both move on with our lives without feeling like we’re missing out on some pact from our younger, stupider selves.”

Carlos stared at me, his expression unreadable. He rubbed the back of his neck, his fingers lingering there, as if he were stalling. “So, let me get this straight. You want to fake date me to prove we’d be terrible together so that we don’t have to keep this pact hanging over our heads?”

“Exactly,” I said, relieved that he’d summed it up so neatly.

He was quiet for a moment, his eyes focused on a spot in the distance. I followed his gaze to the lake, where a little boy was trying to skip rocks and failing miserably. When Carlos turned back to me, his grin was back, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Okay. Let’s do it.”

“Wait, really?” I hadn’t expected him to agree so quickly. I’d been bracing myself for a friendly lecture about how ridiculous I was being.

Carlos grinned wider, the teasing glint in his eyes returning. “Sure. Why not? It’ll be fun. And hey, if nothing else, I’ll get a few free dinners out of it.”

I smacked his arm lightly, laughing despite myself. “You’re paying for at least half.”

“We’ll see,” he said, his tone mock-serious. But then his expression softened slightly, and he added, “If it helps you feel better about the whole thing, I’m in.”

“Thanks, Carlos.” I meant it more than I let on.

He nodded, but there was something in his eyes—something fleeting and unreadable—that made my stomach twist. I wondered if I’d made a mistake suggesting this, if I was opening a door I wasn’t ready to walk through.

“So,” he said, breaking the silence, “where’s our first test date?”

“La Estrella?” I suggested, thinking of the rooftop bar that everyone seemed to be raving about lately. It was the kind of place that practically screamed romantic tension, the perfect setting to prove how incompatible we were.

Carlos raised an eyebrow. “Fancy. I’ll have to dig out my good jeans.”

“Oh, please,” I said, rolling my eyes. “You own like three pairs of jeans, and they all look the same.”

“Hey, I take offense to that,” he said, mock-insulted. “My jeans have character.”

“Your jeans have holes,” I shot back, grinning.

We fell into our usual banter easily, the awkwardness of the conversation fading—at least for the moment. But as I watched him laugh, his head tilting back in that carefree way that always made my chest ache just a little, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was playing with fire.

The marriage pact had always been a joke, a safety net we never truly expected to use. Turning it into something real, even temporarily, felt like stepping onto a tightrope without a safety harness.

But then again, wasn’t that part of the thrill?

“Alright,” Carlos said, standing and stretching. “La Estrella it is. Get ready, Alvarez—you’re about to see just how terrible a fake boyfriend I can be.”

I laughed, standing to follow him. “Challenge accepted, Rivera.”

As we walked back toward the park entrance, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the path, I couldn’t help but glance at him out of the corner of my eye. He looked so at ease, so confident in the face of this ridiculous plan.

I wished I could say the same for myself.