I have never had a problem with crowds or being claustrophobic, but airports manage to get to me every time. Although I will admit, this is only the third time in my life I have ever ridden an aeroplane.

It's not just the impending terror of the ride ahead, but also the airport itself. There are too many people, both customers and workers, the noise never stops, and the whole process of acquiring your boarding passes, going through security, and then finding the gate you're meant to be at is maddening.

Those are several concepts I try not think about as I stand helplessly beside Warren, watching as he makes the older lady working at the check-in desk laugh with his disgustingly attractive charm.

A sliver of me had been hoping that an extraordinary, dramatic scenario, such as a summer snowstorm or an arresting virus, would have prevented me from joining in on this trip and flying to New Brunswick with Warren. They're all perfectly good reasons as to why he wouldn't be able to use me as his fake girlfriend. Today, however, is a different story; it's the clearest day I have ever seen in Vancouver, and my body feels excellent after today's early morning spin class.

The fact that no direct flights to Halifax were available this weekend makes me think the world is trying to test me, see how long I can handle Warren Ashford and his immature shenanigans before I crack. I have to give him props, though, because he did try to convince Hazel that missing the annual Canada Day barbeque wouldn't be a big deal. But Hazel was adamant about us joining, so she scheduled us a flight to New Brunswick and was quick to make sure a rental car was available for us upon arrival. After Warren caved and agreed, there was no going back.

So here we are, standing at the check-in desk of Vancouver International Airport and getting ready to head to the gate where our aeroplane to Saint John, New Brunswick is located on the opposite end of the terminal.

We'll also have to go through security, but the airport doesn't seem all that busy today, so it shouldn't be a problem. Even so, it would be the last thing on my mind. The real problem is the fact that I have to spend seven hours and twenty minutes sitting beside Warren on a stuffy aeroplane. God knows what we're going to talk about while we sit there, defying gravity and careening through the air.

"Where are you off to?" the lady asks.

"Halifax," Warren replies, handing me the passports. I stuff them in my bag. "My hometown."

The lady is now working on the keyboard of her computer with a lazy intensity, tapping the keys one-by-one and chewing on her bottom lip. "Oh, I love Halifax," she says, retrieving the printed boarding passes. "The seafood there is to die for."

"That," Warren says, taking the boarding passes. "Is what I miss most about my hometown. Other than my family, of course." He wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me close, my hip bumping against his, and plants a kiss on my cheek. I do my best not to flinch away in antipathy, but it's a reflexive move and I can't stop myself. "My girlfriend and I are heading back to attend my sister's wedding. It's going to be fantastic. What better way to introduce my baby girl to the family?"

I blink slowly and mentally picture the delicate, black inscription on the thick cream-coloured wedding invitation. I picture the elegant beauty of it in order to distract myself from his repulsively sweet voice. Watching him lie and act with ease makes me sick, so I need the distraction.

It was his idea to test the waters with our fake relationship and see if we could pull it off with random strangers, and I know for a fact that I am failing. No matter how hard I try, I can't seem to fake a smile with him. In the beginning, I thought I'd get used to him over time, but all he's done is prove me wrong. I can't stand his arrogance, cockiness, and the philosophy he lives by.

If Hazel hadn't called on Monday, I would have backed out. But her call made everything nonnegotiable because she specifically asked for me. I don't think I've ever heard someone sound so excited about meeting their little brother's girlfriend. Her call was a despondent twist of fate that made me feel like crying after I hung up because I knew my options were nullified. Ruining her happiness and excitement was something I couldn't do.

That's why I am truly stuck with Warren for the summer.

Eventually, we're waved through to place our suitcase on the conveyor belt behind the check-in desk. Warren hands me the backpack he's using as a carry-on and then lifts the large suitcase we're sharing onto the moving connexion of rubber. The whole scene is saturated with nothing but silence, and going through security isn't much different, save for the questions the security staff asks us.

Warren breaks the silence when we arrive at gate nineteen. "Boarding starts at eleven forty-five," he says, handing me my boarding pass, which is slightly crinkled from him stuffing it in the pocket of his jean shorts. He checks his silver Rolex watch. "You've got twenty minutes to do whatever you want." He makes a lazy gesture to the abundant amount of souvenir stores and food shops. I see a Starbucks and impulsively begin to reach for my wallet. A latté would be nice – I'm going to need something to get me through this flight. Though I do have to admit, I would much rather find pills that are laced with a copious amount of codeine.

I edge my way toward Starbucks, surveying the view of the tarmac and different-sized planes that reside upon it; the workers; the different machinery. It's still sunny outside, but I can see fog surrounding the mountains. I mentally sigh. Maybe it's a good thing we're leaving Vancouver – I have missed the sunshine.

I've just taken my place in the long line when I feel a hand clamp down on my shoulder. I jerk in reaction, my heart quickening as I spin around and come face-to-chest with Warren. I frown, hating that I am the only one in my family that was gifted with short genes. Looking up, I lock eyes with Warren and raise my eyebrows.

"What?" I ask, exercising the clipped tone I've developed specially for him.

He shoots me his signature smug grin. "I told you I would pay for everything," he replies. I watch him pull his wallet out. As he does this, I can hear the girls behind us whispering about him. I catch different words that involve his name, the university's volleyball team, and something about the club he has a taste for.

Something flares up inside me, a quick rise of anger, I suppose. Despite the fact that Warren and I are nothing but two people that have mutual hatred toward each other, I don't like them checking him out. I don't like it because I fear girls giving him attention will only feed his egotistical persona.

I shoot a glare over my shoulder and shuffle a little closer to him. Close enough that my shoulder is touching his bicep.

"Fine," I mutter. "Get me a venti latté."

"Sure thing, Scotia."

We don't speak again until after we've gotten our drinks and are sitting at the edge of the seating area in front of our gate. I pull out my phone to check my text messages. There are several from Julia, wondering how things are going. I scoff and begin to wonder how I'm going to respond to her. It's complicated. I ignore her text messages for now, deciding I'll reply to her once we land in Montréal. It will give me something to do during layover time.

The next couple of messages are from family members: my mom and Jordan. Jordan is my brother, the next youngest Elliot kid after me. I tap his name and read the text, smiling to myself. He's the only person, other than Julia, that knows what's going on behind the scenes. Call me a hypocrite for judging Warren on lying to his parents, but my situation is different. If my parents knew I was going on summer vacation with the campus's man-whore, they would lose their minds. That's why I've only told Jordan. He's the jokester of the family and the easiest to talk to; he's a good listener and always supports my decisions. I reply to him, explaining how everything has gone so far.

"Who are you texting?" Warren asks, leaning in so he can get a better look at my phone.

I lean away, catching a whiff of his cologne – sandalwood with a hint of smoke. "None of your business," I retort.

"Y'know," he says, leaning back and resting his arms behind his head. He crosses his legs at the ankles. "If you don't start acting like my girlfriend, this whole plan is going to dive-bomb the instant we step through the door."

"This whole plan," I say, "was not my idea, Warren."

"Accurate. But you did agree to it. So start contributing."

We glare at each other, pure hatred radiating between us. Clearly, we were both insane to have even thought we'd get through this – it's only been a few hours and we're already butting heads. But, sadly, Warren has a point. I haven't put in nearly as much effort as he has.

"You're right," I sigh, hating the words. I hate how much power they give him. "I'm sorry."

He grins and shrugs. "You've got that bitchy, anti-boyfriend act down just fine, Scotia. If you can hold that persona up just like I can hold my reputation up, we're going to be fine. We're both good at acting."

His words hit me hard. I don't understand why he thinks my attitude toward men is a façade. I push them away for a valid reason. After Carter...I don't want to risk losing another person in my life. The very thought of falling in love again, only to have it abruptly taken from me, makes panic bud in my chest. But it also makes me crave the feel of someone gathering me in their arms and holding me close. The situation I'm in contradicts itself in many ways. Sometimes I feel as though I'm drowning.

I'm mad at Warren for saying that, but I can't blame him because he doesn't know anything about my past. All he knows is that I am from High River and I moved to Vancouver because there were no colleges or universities in Alberta that attracted my attention. I kept any emotional experience locked away because someone like him would never have the ability to comprehend what I went through.

Sighing, I focus on my iPhone and don't look at Warren just in case he sees the sadness I know has materialized in my eyes and begins to ask questions. I will never tell him what happened to me. I don't want to deal with the aftermath of it all.

When I say aftermath, I mean the way people react to my story. Some are understanding and stick by my side, but there are people who have been too stunned and left me behind. I don't know how Warren would react, but no matter what, I can't tell someone like him.

It would be like falling in love with another man: impossible to do.

Subconsciously, I touch the zipper of the oversized leather jacket. Falling in love would mean letting go of Carter, forgetting about him. Which is something I could never do.

They say that in due time you will forget everything – everything that you went through, everything that caused the pain, the strain, the fight, everything that is worth forgetting.

They say it gets easier with time; that you'll forget about it.

But what they don't know is that you don't forget it. The pain. You get used to it. It doesn't heal – you simply find a way to deal with it. Forgetting is an illusion.

The truth is, it's too hard to forget about someone that gave you so much to remember.