“Sweetie, let us help you.”
I shake my head. “Nope. I’ll make this work.”
“Summer, I want to help. We want to help,” she says, her tone upbeat. “I’m very good at helping, as you know. I’ve done it for years.”
And that, right there, is why I don’t entirely want it.
What if I take it and feel indebted? Annoyed? Resentful? She says she likes helping, but why does she always bring it up? Because she wishes she were still running her bookstore, I suspect.
“I know, Mom. But this is just a little speed bump. I’ll figure it out.” I check my watch. I need to go to Sunshine Living in two hours, so I’ve got one-hundred-and-twenty minutes to process my disappointment. I refuse to bring it to work with me. “I have to go to work in a little bit. I’m going to go for a walk. But I’ll text you later.”
“Do that. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
I hang up, walking toward the park, trying to work through these obstacles before I clock in with Travis.
The moment I hit Fifth Avenue, my phone trills again—my brother this time. I’m tempted, so damn tempted to ask him for a loan. The words are on the tip of my tongue. He has the money.
He also has a six-year-old and the scars from a painful and expensive divorce.
And if I won’t take it from anyone else, I won’t take it from him.
I sigh so heavily it’ll send the Dow Jones plummeting. I’ll just wait a little longer, save a little more. It’s all I can do.
“Hey, Logan, what’s going on?”
My brother is cackling. “Sexy. Ex. Boyfriend. Dude, that is the funniest thing you’ve ever written.”
My brow pinches. “What are you talking about?”
But when I click on Twitter, I see I’ve made so much more than a grammatical error.
12
Summer
I. Am. Trending.
Or rather, “America’s Worst Boyfriend” is.
It’s all over Twitter. The letter I wrote. The dissection of it. The whodunit. And there is little social media loves more than a good outing. How was it even published? But I don’t have time to figure that out because right now, I need to rubberneck at my own ten-car pileup.
I scroll through a river of comments hashtagged #AmericasWorstBoyfriend as I walk, head bent, face buried in a mess of my own making.
@NYer14: I bet he’s a celebrity.
@GossipLover1andOnly: A reality show star.
@SportsFan: An athlete.
@Anglophile2200: Hello? You twits. He sounds British. English breakfast tea and all.
@GossipLover1andOnly: No, she said he hated tea.
@Anglophile2200: No, she said it would be cliché if he loved it. Learn to read, dimwit.
@RoyalWatcher: Could it be one of the royals?
@BTSLover: I bet he’s in a boy band.
@HatesBoyBands: Yes, that has to be it. Guys in boy bands are royal douches.
@TheThird: Wait. I know this guy.
@SexyLady: No, I know him.
@SexierLady: No, I dated him.
I stomp like Rumpelstiltskin.
No!
My hair is on fire, my blood heats to a thousand degrees of fury. I can’t believe I did this. I can’t believe this happened. I can’t believe . . . oh shit.
I can’t believe the next comment.
@TheThird: I’m pretty sure it’s Oliver Harris the twelfth. He came with Summer to my wedding. I gave out very nice pens. I’m not surprised they split though. He seemed like a bit of a playboy, truth be told. Also, my pens were cool.
Screw one thousand degrees. I am an inferno, and I want to throw balls of fire at my very douchey ex Drew.
Because his comment is all it takes.
What started as the funniest thing I ever wrote speeds straight into an epic dumpster fire.
@ManCandyFan: Oliver! Oh, he’s hawt.
@LovesListsofMen: That British lawyer? The one who looks like Tom Ellis and Chris Hemsworth had a love child and Harry Styles donated his hair to their baby?
@GossipLover1andOnly: Yes, the one on New York’s Most Eligible Bachelors list.
@ManCandyFan: The one who dated that heiress? Chantal. And some TV actress. That dude gets around.
@CheetahNoah: I hope he gets around! I’m doing a corporate scavenger hunt, and one of the things we have to find is a picture of an internet celebrity in the wild! If I can find HIM, I’m golden.
@MenAreJerks: I bet you’ll find him being a douche.
@PeopleAreJerks: He does look like a douche too. And I mean that in the best way possible.
@ILoveJerks: Right? Jerks are sooo hot. Why are jerks so hot? I don’t even know. They just are.
@ILoveCockyJackholes: OMG, yes. So much yes. There is just something about a jackass that I love.
@DownwithDouches: And look at this picture of him. He’s posing like a freaking model, with his top button undone, his hand in his hair, like he thinks he’s the hottest thing ever.
@ILoveJerks: Well, he is. I mean, my God. That jawline. That’s, like, the kind of jawline you use to measure hottest jawlines ever.
@MenAreJerks: That’s not a thing—hottest jawline ever is so not a thing.
@ILoveCockyJackholes: Well, it should be.
@FanofNietzsche: Jerks always get the good genes. It’s the universe’s way of reminding us that nihilism is alive and well.
@QuestionEverything22: So now this is a philosophical movement?
@DownwithDouches: Let’s start a movement to stop assholes.
@HZRedhead: Yes, I concur. I dated him once. I went to his apartment to bring him tea. Wasn’t that sweet of me? And he didn’t even have the courtesy to come downstairs and break my heart in person. I was in love with him. IN LOVE. MAD, CRAZY, BEAUTIFUL LOVE. Instead, he sent his new girlfriend to tell me. This man is the patron saint of asshole exes, and he must be stopped.
My eyes bug out when I discover Hazel’s comment. She and Oliver dated for maybe two weeks. He ended it with her in person. And she stalked him. With tea.
“You got it all wrong, crazy pants,” I mutter at the screen.
Maybe I’m the crazy one, though, since I’m talking to my phone as I march uptown. Oh, wait. That just makes me a New Yorker. But the craziest thing of all is when I see the next email.
From an editor at The Dating Pool. And it answers a big question.
Congratulations, Summer! We loved your letter so much we published it this morning, as we planned to do with the top three finalists. If yours is selected as the winner, you’ll receive $5000 in prize money. Best of luck!
13
Oliver
This is not how my day was supposed to go. This is not how any day is supposed to go, ever.
Dragging my hand through my hair—which looks nothing like Harry Styles’s, thank you very much—I pace in my office. With my work phone pressed to my ear, I do my very best to practice one of the three skills I pride myself on.
Reassuring.
“That’s not me. I swear that’s not who I am,” I tell Geneva, who’s beside herself thanks to Twitter doing what Twitter does best.
Misinterpreting literally everything.
“But all the posts say it’s you,” Geneva insists, a brand-new worry in her voice. “All the comments, all the blogs. Hashtag ‘America’s Worst Boyfriend.’ And frankly, I don’t know if I’m comfortable doing business with someone like that.”
A knot of anxiety tightens in my chest, hard and unpleasant.
I hate unhappy clients. It means I didn’t try hard enough, fight well enough. That’s not okay. I didn’t go into this field to lose. I went to law school to help those who need a lion in their corner, who want the king of the jungle fighting their battles.
For all the lawyer jokes in the world, the reality is, when you need someone to go to battle for you—and everyone needs someone to go to battle for them at some point—that usually means you need an attorney who will be fierce for you.
My sister needed it when she was young. Geneva needs it now. And I want to be that person for her. “I think there’s simply been a misunderstanding. Allow me to explain,” I say calmly, preparing to improvise the hell out of this shitshow.
A shitshow that Summer started. Unwittingly, I’m sure. But one she started, nonetheless, with a funny, sweet, heartfelt insider’s joke of a letter that’s been twisted by the thing known as the internet. I bet in ten years, computers will come with a warning label. Caution: internet use may be hazardous to your sanity. Social media, in particular, has been known to cause stupidity and bad decisions, resulting in dumpster fires and absolute fuckery.
“You see . . .” I begin.
“No, allow me to explain,” Geneva says, sharper now, her voice like a knife. “I just went through a terrible divorce. Public and horrible. My ex was a Casanova who made an utter mockery of our marriage, and frankly . . . this reminds me of it.”
What she described, what Twitter is saying, couldn’t be further from the truth. I just need to convey that to her.
“Twitter has twisted this all around. The woman who wrote that—I’ve known her my whole life. It was all . . .” I say, and then I’m about to tell her the true reason for the letter—that the woman who wrote it is, like, my best mate, that we have a long-running joke about terrible exes, that it’s a thing we do for each other, playing pretend, and that it all started way back in high school when my sister was sick. But as those words take shape in my mind, they sound ridiculous.
They sound like a bald-faced lie.
Geneva picks up where I trailed off. “If you were America’s best boyfriend, it would be one thing. But this? These things they are saying about you . . .”
My cell buzzes on my desk with a text from Summer. I lunge for it as Geneva goes on about all the brilliant comments on Twitter, including how I am the biggest twat of the internet.
Summer: I am so sorry. You are not America’s worst boyfriend. You are America’s best ex-boyfriend. That was supposed to be fun, a tongue-in-cheek way to celebrate us, and I never thought anyone would figure out it was you. I didn’t even know my essay was going to be posted online—at least not right away, not to mention go viral—and I feel like such an utter idiot. The absolute worst friend ever. You probably hate me, and if you do, I deserve it, but I will do anything to make this right for you. What can I do?
Immediately, I know the answer.
I won’t lose this client for my firm. I won’t lose this deal. And I will fight this battle for her. It’ll take me three weeks to ink the new partnership for her agency, and in the meantime, there’s only one choice.
I flash back to a few years ago when my cousin Christian faced a somewhat similar predicament. To save his company in Paris, he had to marry straightaway.
A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.
Sliding in when Geneva pauses, I go for it. Leave it all on the field. Well, not exactly marriage. But the same idea. “Here’s the thing. Summer didn’t mean the letter that way. The truth is, I am America’s best boyfriend. Because . . .” I draw on my best store of humility, such as it is. “Summer and I . . . well, we’re engaged. It happened quite recently. So, you see, what she meant with the letter is that she’s saying goodbye to me as her ex-boyfriend because now I’m going to be her forever one.”
And the response from my client is all I could ever want.
It’s one word.
Oh.
Her tone is surprise mixed with delight, and then it finishes on a happy squeal.
“That’s so lovely, Ollie.” She laughs, sounding almost embarrassed, and I don’t even care that she called me Ollie. “I got it all wrong. I am so sorry I got it so completely inside out.”
“Everyone did, obviously.” I push out a chuckle. “We weren’t going to announce it yet, but Summer? Well, she’s Summer. She likes to present things in unconventional ways, which is one of the things I love about her. You’ll see when you meet her. We should all have dinner this Saturday.”
“Perhaps Jane can come along too. I wanted to invite her to my wine tasting tomorrow night. Why don’t we all go to that, and then we can have dinner with some of the other partners in the firm this weekend? It’s important to me to fully know and trust the people I work with.”
“I’m sure she’d love that—the wine and the dinner.” I breathe a lifetime’s worth of sighs of relief, even though Summer hates wine.
But I bet she can fake it for me.
Geneva seems relieved too. “I can’t wait to meet her, and of course, I won’t back out of our deal. I’m so glad that it was a misunderstanding. Thank you for setting things straight.”
I wave a hand airily. “Everything gets out of hand on the internet, doesn’t it?”
“Indeed it does. I should have known better,” she says with so much contrition that I almost feel bad for my fib.
Almost.
When I hang up, I call Summer and tell her to meet me straightaway. Then I leave, telling Jane I’ll be back soon.
“Don’t forget you have a one o’clock with Hanover Media,” she tells me. “Prospective new client. Helen Williams Designs referred them, since she loved your work so much on the last deal.”
“And I love word of mouth.” Word of mouth is exactly why I need to stop this shitshow from snowballing.
Loosening my tie as I go, I head to Fifth Avenue, walk up a few blocks, texting my cousin in Paris as I go.
Oliver: Remember that time you engineered a marriage of convenience to save your company?
Christian: Hmm. Sounds a bit familiar. Care to elaborate?
Oliver: It worked brilliantly, right?
Christian: What sort of hot water have you gotten yourself into, cuz?
I stare at the text thread. Yeah, this might not be helpful right now.
Oliver: I’ll update you later.
Christian: Spare no details. I need a good laugh.
Yes, a laugh. This is funny. This is something we’ll all look back on and laugh. Putting my phone away, I find Summer outside the entrance to the park, waiting at a bench and wringing her hands.
She looks devastated, her big brown eyes brimming with worry. “I am so sorry. I am the worst friend ever. I never thought that would happen. Those people are dickheads.”
“Yes, and Twitter is the biggest dickhead of all.” I’m not in the business of holding grudges or staying pissed. There’s no point. Besides, I’m about to call in a big favor now. “But I knew what you meant. I know what you were trying to say.”
“You do?” she asks, and her voice is small, fearful. “You’re not pissed at me?”
I hold up my thumb and forefinger, showing a sliver of space. “Maybe a little at first. But not for long.”
“Oh, Oliver. I feel terrible,” she says, her brow knit with worry. “I thought it was a nice little way of saying thank you, but in a way where only you would know it was you.” She presses her palms together as if in prayer. “Tell me how I can help. I meant it when I said I’d do anything.”
I shoot her a wry grin, take a beat, then call in a your-turn-to-scratch-my-back. “Here’s what I need for the next three weeks.”
“Anything. Please. I’m dying to make this right.” The look in those puppy-dog eyes is a desperate plea. I sort of hate that she feels that way, but sort of not.
Because it’s going to make my outlandish request much easier.
“Good,” I say, with what I’m sure is a slightly evil grin. “Because I’m cashing in on the prom promise. Your sexy ex-boyfriend is about to become your fake fiancé.”
14
Summer
Thirteen years ago
We huddled in the teen cave, the sprawling basement of Oliver’s home, music blasting, hands dipping into the popcorn bowl as the four of us plotted—Logan, Oliver, Phoebe, and me.
The mission? Prom-posals for my twin brother and the guy next door.
We’d already mapped out a plan for Logan to ask the forei
gn exchange student in his history class.
Now it was time to assist Oliver in asking Emily.
As for me? I planned to go with my friends, a big group of girls in pretty dresses and sparkly shoes, dancing with each other.
“How about I ask Emily when she goes for her run in the morning?” Oliver suggested, grabbing a handful of popcorn and munching.
Logan pointed his finger approvingly as he grabbed some kernels then headed to the Ping-Pong table. “Dude. Yes. You just get some Sharpies, write it on a sign, and boom. In like Flynn.”
I scoff-laughed. “I don’t think it’s that easy.”
From her spot in the corner of the couch, Phoebe shot her younger brother a look that said he was a dolt. It was a look she’d perfected with him. “Promise me you’re not going to do that, Ollie. Just promise me.”
Oliver turned to his sister, now nineteen. It was one of her good days. They were fewer and farther between, but she tried to embrace them when they came.
Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend (The Guys Who Got Away Book 1) Page 7