She laughs, then her laughter fades. “But in this case, I do think the end justifies the means. Maybe I’m Machiavellian.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because I think it’s stupid that you were judged for what I said. I think it’s stupid, too, that I judged you for being”—she waves her hand at me—“for being pretty.”
I flutter my hand across my chest. “I’ve always wanted to be pretty.”
“You know what I mean. It’s ridiculous. Society judges women based on looks, and, frankly, on a million other things too. And then we turn around and judge other people. The internet judged you. Your client judged you for a letter I wrote about how awesome you are.” She’s winding herself up, building a head of steam. “It’s insane. I mean, so what if you had truly broken my heart. Does that mean you’re a bad lawyer?”
“Probably means I’m a good lawyer.”
“But see, that’s the thing—the letter was supposed to be a thank you,” she says, turning to me, touching my arm. “It was supposed to be between us.”
I take a breath, thinking carefully before I say the next thing. “Then why didn’t you just tell me?”
She’s quiet, the cogs in her brain whirring. “Because I don’t think I realized what it was at the time. I wrote it from the heart, and it felt like a secret, something only we would know.”
Her confession feels like the true secret. She’s telling me something private, something meaningful.
I stroke her hair, tucking some strands behind her ear. “Then next time, just tell me.”
She raises her hand to clutch my wrist, but not like she’s stopping me—more like she’s clinging to me. “I’ll do that. I promise. And I’m glad you’re not mad at me.”
I lean in closer, press my forehead to hers. “Do you want me to pretend I am? To fake being mad?”
She laughs. “Don’t fake that. I’m sorry you have to play this game because of me.”
But maybe I don’t mind the game after all. I slide my hand down her hair, savoring the softness, and consider saying fuck the world and kissing her.
Instead, I let go.
“Don’t be sorry. I’m having a blast with you. Let’s go inside and fake it—and give her this infernal cookie-batter hostess gift.”
Once inside, we give Geneva the batter, which delights her.
“I’ve never had someone bring me cookie batter,” she says, her eyes shifting from Summer to me. “I suspect this is your fiancée’s doing.”
“It absolutely is.”
We mingle with her guests, as well as Jane, and I feel nothing but honest as I take Summer’s hand, thread my fingers through hers, and introduce her as my fiancée.
She looks like she belongs to me.
She feels like she belongs to me.
And when I hold her hand during the cocktail hour, I don’t think anyone can tell otherwise.
Geneva introduces me to some of the other partners at her media firm. “This is my attorney, Oliver Harris. He’s tops at contracts and business, and he looks out for me like a tiger,” she says. “And this is his fiancée, Summer.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Summer says to a tall woman with horn-rimmed glasses.
“And you as well,” the woman answers. “How long have you two been engaged?”
“Two weeks.” Summer gives the story that we practiced after the bacon-wine almost-fiasco.
“Congrats. And when is the wedding?” the inquisitor continues.
“In ten months,” she says, squeezing my hand. “We’re getting married in Central Park. We’ve always loved it there.”
“Right.” I pitch to sell our story. “We had our first kiss there.”
“Oh, how romantic,” Geneva puts in. “Where in Central Park?”
Summer meets my gaze, her brown eyes twinkling. “By the carousel.” She touches my arm. “Do you remember what I said in high school about kissing at that spot?”
My mind is a blank—a white slate of nothing. Then, like the sun rising, the memory returns. “Right. On one of our visits there. You said you wanted your first real kiss to be there. And I just laughed.”
“Why did you laugh?” Geneva asks curiously.
I don’t look at Geneva. I look at Summer and speak the truth. “Because I knew then, on some level, I wanted her first kiss to be with me.”
“Ohh! That’s so lovely.” Geneva clasps her hands to her chest. The other woman coos.
And Summer just smiles at me, only me. “I wanted it to be you too.”
I have no choice. I step closer, sweep my lips across hers, and kiss her the way I want to now.
Well, not entirely. I’d like to kiss her with no one else around. But here in the middle of a dinner party, I’ll take this.
Nothing about it feels fake. Not the gust of breath that escapes her lips. Not the slightest murmur she gives. And not how she responds.
But because we’re not alone, I end the kiss after a few seconds, reorienting on the present moment. “And we did kiss there for real, several months ago, when we started dating.” I pick up the thread of our fake story. “Because I realized after all these years that it’d always been her.”
All the hands flutter over all their hearts.
Summer’s eyes widen, shining with what might be the threat of tears, but she, too, gets back to the story. “So, earlier this week, we recreated our kiss for fun. To celebrate, you know?”
“Yes, of course,” Geneva says.
The other woman adds, “And did you know then that you were in love with her?”
“It took me a while to figure it out,” I say, and Summer visibly trembles at the comment. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, the way it moves through her body. The way her breath ghosts across her lips.
“But you figured it out,” Geneva says.
As I meet Summer’s gaze, I speak the full truth when I say, “Yes, I did.”
We’re quiet later as we leave, heading down the stairs to the street, where Summer waits for her Lyft.
We don’t say a word. It’s strange for us. But she breaks the silence eventually, gesturing to my client’s home. “Are you going to feel as bad as I will when you tell her we broke up?”
“Yes.” But not for the reasons she thinks. Not because I feel guilty. I don’t fucking care about appearances anymore.
I say yes because I feel like it’s already happening—the breaking up—and it does feel bad.
The feeling is magnified when the Honda pulls up to the curb and I open the door and say good night.
She waves faintly from the car, the look in her eyes a little sad.
It probably mirrors mine.
Last night really was just one night.
Once she leaves, I don’t call a cab or a Lyft.
I start down the block, but I’m not alone for long. A familiar voice calls out, “Care to walk a woman home, love?”
I turn around and wait for Jane, coming from the party. “If I must.”
We turn uptown. “Seems like your little ruse is going well.”
“Is it though?”
“You had everyone eating out of the palm of your hand,” she remarks. “Maybe you missed your calling as an actor.”
“Maybe I did.”
She pats my arm. “Or maybe you should just let Summer know you actually have feelings for her, like ManCandyFan thinks you do.” She takes a breath, showing me her phone.
* * *
@ManCandyFan: He’s so in love with her.
* * *
@TheThird: Is he though?
* * *
@GossipLover1andOnly: Yes. It’s beyond obvious.
* * *
For a second, I close my eyes, letting the comments sink in. By and large, the internet is pretty stupid. But Jane isn’t. So, I open my eyes and meet her gaze, asking her opinion, since she knows me well.
“You think I have feelings for her?”
“Yes. And that perhaps you have for a long time now.�
�� Then she hails a cab. “Time for me to go.”
“Thanks for leaving on that note.”
“What better note to leave on than giving you something to think about? Especially when I need to get home to feed Daisy. She’s quite demanding when she’s hungry. Cats. What can you do?”
“Feed them, I suppose.”
When she’s gone, I walk up the street, trying to remind myself why I never pursued anything with Summer in the first place. Why I never let myself examine all those things I felt for her but couldn’t name.
It’s because she’s practically family.
Because she’s part of my life.
Because I know what it’s like to lose someone you love.
Only, none of those reasons hold as much weight as they did a week ago.
The next morning, I meet up with Logan and Fitz to play paintball in Central Park.
“I had an epiphany last night,” Logan announces.
“You’re joining a monastery?” Fitz asks.
“You’re dying your hair all the colors of the rainbow?” I put in.
“You’re going to Vegas and betting everything on red?” Fitz says.
Logan rolls his eyes. “No, dickheads. It’s about the strategy. I had it all wrong. It’s not about crushing the other team. It’s about how fucking awesome we are.”
I shoot him a skeptical look. “Is this an empowerment moment?”
“Yeah, because I don’t know if I’m ready to sing ‘Let the River Run’ with you cats,” Fitz says.
Logan gives him the side-eye. “Did you just reference Working Girl?”
“Yes, does this surprise you?” Fitz asks. “One, Harrison Ford is in it. Two, I grew up with three sisters and a single mom. We watched it together.”
I snap my gaze to Logan. “More to the point, did you just recognize a Working Girl reference?”
Logan ignores me and proceeds with “As I was saying—Amelia and I were talking last night, and she said I was going at it all wrong.” Amelia is his daughter, and I appreciate the image of her telling him he was all wrong. “She said the point of the game is not to crush the enemy but to have fun. And I realized I’ve been focused on the wrong thing—on some stupid revenge on the guy at Lehman. But you know what? He can have my ex. I am done being angry, and I am letting it go. I just want to have a blast and move the hell on.”
Is he serious? I pull back to study him, and yes, he absolutely means what he’s saying. This is a huge step for my friend, and I smile, happy for and proud of him.
“That is big of you.”
Logan simply shrugs. “Time to move on. Also, my daughter is brilliant, so I should listen to her.”
“Sometimes kids have the best advice,” I agree. I wonder what Amelia would tell me to do about all these feelings I have for her Aunt Summer.
The advice she gave Logan is kind of all-purpose, and maybe I should apply it broadly. So I decide to follow the kid’s wisdom for the moment.
Just have fun.
Right now, though, we play, and Logan doesn’t obsess on crushing the competition to settle a pointless score. He seems happy, and like that—playing as a team, playing as friends—we win.
Afterward, as he packs up his gear, I tell Fitz, “Bet he meets someone new and is arse-over-elbow in love before we know it.”
Fitz claps me on the back. “My bet is you’re next.”
I scoff, dismissing that with a wave, then tell them I’ll take them out for breakfast. But over eggs and toast, I’m still thinking about Summer and the story of how we fell in love in Central Park.
Then I shove it out of my head because it’s time to play pretend with her again.
31
Summer
“Thrifting?” Oliver arches a brow as we walk to A Taste of Champagne, a consignment shop on the Upper West Side, then he shakes his head like a dog shaking off water. “You’re really taking me thrifting?”
“It’s apparently a very popular thing to do on a date.”
“For who? Teenage girls?”
“Well, the cookie-dough class seemed tailor-made for teenage girls, and women who were once teenage girls do most of the date planning these days, so I suppose, yes, dating trends are driven by teenagers.”
“Can we go to the mall next?”
I swat him and tell him no as we head into the vintage shop. As I comb through racks, he snaps pictures of me while I hunt for a cute jacket.
Focus on the date, I remind myself.
Focus on the article.
Don’t focus on memories of last night and the swoony words that fell from his mouth as he spun the story of how he fell in love with me.
Swoony words were part of faking it.
Who knew Oliver was such a good actor?
But he is. He’s a great actor.
I find a rack of short sequined dresses, labeled The Bridesmaid Dresses You Really Want. I sort through them, paying undue attention to the sparkles to keep my mind off all the things I can’t have.
Like him.
Because relationships suck. I don’t have time for them, and they just distract you from your goals anyway.
So there, I tell my brain.
Really, I should tell my heart, which beats too fast for him.
“Thrifting is fun,” I say as I sort through clothes, ever the cheerleader.
“Why does it need a name like thrifting? It’s just shopping,” he says.
I shoot him a look over a rack of red dresses. “See? You’re being all negative again.”
“No, I’m being honest. It’s not like this is a new thing. Is it supposed to be a fresh fad because we gave it a new name? It’s literally bargain-hunting.”
“Why do you have to be the fun police?”
“I am not the fun police. I am the fun ringmaster. And I’ll prove it to you with our next activity. Did you see the link I sent you earlier? Today is a very special day at Central Park. Once a year. Swan boats.”
“Yes. I did. I love that the park just started that,” I answer, then return my attention to the dresses, where I spot a sapphire sequined mini dress with spaghetti straps. “This is perfect. I’ll try it on, and can you take a pic?”
“Yes, of course, and then we’ll Snapchat it to all our friends, like Madison and Hannah and Taylor,” he says, imitating a teenager.
I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re having a good time even though you don’t realize it.”
He laughs, waving a hand toward the dressing room. “Let’s see the dress, Cassidy, and then we can show Grayson.”
“Fine, but don’t forget to tag Braxton, Jayden, and also Carson.” I snatch the dress and saunter into the changing room.
“I’ll get it on Instaface straightaway. And then ChatterSnap.”
“You do that.” I shrug out of my cotton sundress and pull the snug little number over my head, yanking it down to my thighs, where it ends. Glancing at my shoes, I laugh out loud. “My yellow flip-flops look so cute with this sexy number, Jarret.”
“All right. Show me, Isabella, and then we can post it for the squad.”
I swing open the door, announcing myself with a “Ta-da.”
Oliver’s jaw drops. He blinks then rubs a hand over his chin. “I love thrifting.”
“You do?”
He nods, looking mesmerized. “I’m getting it for you. Wear it all day.”
And I say yes.
A bearded man chewing on a straw unties a swan boat, pats the railing on the dock, then tells us to get in.
We step into a plastic swan paddleboat on the lake in Central Park. Normally, the park only has gondolas or rowboats, but once a year it’s Swan Boat Day.
“No rocking. No swan boat bumper cars, and no making out,” he barks at us.
“Aye-aye, captain,” Oliver says, backing the boat out of the dock, the churning of the paddles beneath the boat like a roller coaster chugging uphill.
I push hard with my yellow flip-flops as we pedal around the lake at top speed—maybe th
ree miles an hour. We cruise past other boaters, enjoying the sun and the water.
“Is this too teenager-y for you, Mr. I’m So Sophisticated?” I ask. “Are you sure it’s not your fun police duty to arrest us?”
“It’s more fun than shopping,” he says as we pedal through a sunny patch of water, past another group of boaters.
I wave to them before turning my narrow-eyed gaze on Oliver. “But you seemed to be having fun shopping. You made me get the dress.”
He eyes me from top to bottom, his green eyes shimmering with a hint of desire. He’s not trying to hide it, and that heats me up, especially when he says, “Well, it looks good on you. I had no choice.”
“No choice? Really?”
“When a woman looks this good, she can’t not wear the thing that makes her look this hot,” he says, his eyes locked on mine.
His words and his gaze make my stomach flip as tingles spread down my chest.
“See? You have your laws, and so do I.” The way he says it, all low and sexy, makes my pulse speed up.
I shouldn’t like this, but I do. God, I do.
I like knowing he’s still affected, still attracted to me, even though we laid down the rules.
We made our choices.
But it feels like the choices are making us.
And try as we might to reroute back to friendship, we keep tipping into the danger zone.
Soon we reach a quiet corner of the lake where it feels like it’s just us. He stops pedaling, and we soak in the sun.
Maybe it’s best to remember those choices. To remind ourselves of why we’re here. So I try. “We made it through last night. We survived.”
“Yes, the cookie batter. Don’t remind me.”
I set a hand on his arm. He tenses, then, after a moment, relaxes. “No, I meant we survived moving past the sex.”
“We did,” he says, pushing out a laugh. “Because I used my patented mind eraser.”
“What’s that?”
He mimes sweeping. “I just get out my broom and sweep the memory into a corner and pretend it never happened.”
Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend Page 17