The Fake Heartbreak (Searching for Love Book 3)

by Kelly Myers

  The Fake Heartbreak

  Kelly Myers

  Copyright © 2020 by Kelly Myers

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Blurb

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Excerpt: Against All Odds

  Invitation to join Kelly’s Newsletter

  Epilogue

  Blurb

  Pretend to be some pompous jerk’s girlfriend for a night or two?

  And get paid to do it?

  Sign me up.

  He’s stuck up and condescending.

  Let’s even call him arrogant.

  But he makes me an offer I cannot resist.

  Of course I want the money.

  But I also like the adventure.

  Until, it stops being so ‘fake.’

  ‘Real’ feelings come in my way,

  And I end up saying yes to a couple more nights.

  I know, I know…

  I shouldn’t have agreed.

  But it’s just one weekend. One wedding.

  How hard can it be?

  1

  I take a long sip of water while I rest my guitar against my knees. It’s my third open mic this month, and the crowd at this particular bar is pretty cold.

  I’m in the small area reserved for performers, but I’ve been peeking through the curtain to observe their lukewarm reactions all night.

  I set my bottle of water back in my bag and shake the nerves out of my hands. It’s nothing I can’t handle.

  In the four years since graduating college, I’ve performed at more open mic nights than I can count. And I used to actually count. That first year of working at a coffee shop and gigging by night was so exciting, and I was certain my big break was right around the corner. After I performed ten times or twenty times, surely it would come.

  But here I am, still waiting on the big break. I run my fingers through my hair and turn to examine my reflection in the mirror. It’s not good to get angsty before a performance; it makes your voice sound tired. I fiddle with my hair until the curls frame my face just right.

  Then I touch up my lip gloss and give myself a small smile in the mirror. I’m wearing a long floral dress with thin straps and a slit in the leg. The dress is a deep shade of burgundy that somehow makes my skin look creamy and glowing. I found it at a thrift store for $10, and it fits perfectly into my closet of flowing and flattering bohemian clothes.

  “Ogling yourself again?” Brie flops down in the chair. “I swear I’ve never met anyone so vain.”

  I grin at the fellow singer. Brie and I kept running into each other at Chicago open mics and eventually decided it would be more beneficial to the both of us if we became allies instead of rivals.

  “I’m not vain,” I say. “I’m just aesthetically-inclined.”

  Brie snorts in laughter as she shoves her guitar back into its case.

  “You sounded good out there.” I’m telling the truth. Brie has this rare raspy voice that you don’t hear every day, and her original songs always have interesting melodies.

  “This crowd is the worst,” Brie hisses. “They didn’t stop talking my entire set.”

  I chew my lip. Brie will cool off after a while. She’s been doing this even longer than I have, and since she’s only a year away from 30, she’s gotten a little panicky. I look into her dark brown eyes, and I feel a rush of fear. Am I looking at my future?

  Nope. I banish those thoughts. I can’t bring that negativity to the stage.

  I turn in my chair as I hear Lincoln, the MC of the event, start to introduce me.

  “And now, ladies and gentleman, a songstress I hold near and dear to my heart.” Lincoln’s voice echoes out over the seating, but most people appear to not be listening. “Please give a warm welcome to Marianne Gellar!”

  There’s a smattering of unenthusiastic applause as I walk out on stage. Even so, I try to strut out in my black heeled boots as if the crowd is going wild. Confidence is key. Sometimes, you have to fake it till you make it.

  Anyway, I knew better than to expect a great crowd tonight. First of all, it’s a Thursday, so not as many people are out, and not as many people are drinking. Not that my talent requires alcohol to be appreciated, but people who have had a few drinks are usually just better at clapping.

  Second, it’s Lou’s, which is kind of an out-of-the-way open mic spot tucked into Wicker Park. I come here because Lincoln runs this night, and I like Lincoln.

  And, I am a singer after all. Any chance to perform, I have to take.

  I settle atop the stool and smile out at the audience. I give this lackluster crowd the same type of bright sunny grin that I would give to a far superior crowd.

  “Good evening,” I say. “I’m gonna start with an original for you all.”

  I strum my guitar and prepare to dive right in. No one likes anecdotes or rambling chats unless you’re Adele.

  I sing “Ghost Town,” a song I wrote a few years ago. It’s a crowd-pleaser. Obviously, it’s not good enough to make me famous, but I like it.

  This crowd turns out to be worse than I thought. As soon as I start singing, they all pretty much return to their conversations. If they wanted background music, they really shouldn’t have come to an open mic.

  I feel a spark of anger bubbling up inside me. I’m an artist, don’t they realize that? I work hard at my craft. And I have to wake up at the crack of dawn to make my shift tomorrow at the coffee shop, but I’m still out here singing because that’s how much I care. That’s how passionate I am about this.

  I finish my original and fight to keep my emotions off my face. I don’t know why I’m being like this. This industry takes thick skin, and I used to get sensitive about indifferent audiences when I was young, but I thought I had outgrown it.

  Twenty-six is definitely too old to cry backstage after a bad performance.

  I sigh, push a smile to my face, and cover a popular song from the radio. They still don’t care, but some of them nod along their heads.

  I hate that I’m giving them what they want: boring, flat, one-dimensional. But, I also strongly feel that they don’t deserve any better.

  My friends would say I’m being dramatic. There goes Marianne, acting so over-the-top and passionate. They would be right. That’s just who I am. At least, I know who I am. The problem is that the rest of the world doesn’t. I’ve worked for years, and still these people in this bar just see me as a coffee shop barista who sometimes sings.

  I finish my set, thank the audience (because I can be classy if I want) and stalk off stage.

  I shove my guitar back in its case. “That was b
rutal.”

  Brie nods in commiseration. “You sounded nice though.”

  I twist my mouth into a wry grin. I want to be better than “nice.”

  I know it wasn’t my best performance though. I hit all the right notes, and my old vocal teachers would be happy with it, but it lacked spice and verve. And I’m feeling angsty about that. When did Marianne Gellar lose all her vivaciousness?

  “Mark just texted me,” Brie says. “Wanna grab drinks? He’s only a few blocks away, and he says he wants to go dancing later.”

  I shouldn’t. I have to be up at 5 in the morning for my shift at Lucy’s Coffee shop.

  Then again, I’m young and free-spirited. And I don’t want to feel washed-up and boring anymore. This open-mic has put me in a bad mood, and if I just go home, that bad mood will continue. I need a distraction. Something to banish my self-pitying inner monologue.

  “I’m in.” I snap my guitar case closed. “This outfit needs to be seen by more people than this lame crowd.”

  “Hell yes,” Brie says.

  We gather our stuff and head out into the Wicker Park neighborhood.

  When I first moved into the apartment I found on Craigslist a few years ago, Wicker Park was just turning into the hip and trendy area it is now. My friend Elena, who is a schoolteacher, wanted to be my roommate, but I didn’t want to live near her school. Lakeview is nice, but it’s boring and cute and perfect for young professionals and families. I wanted art and excitement.

  So I found a group of three girls looking for a fourth roommate, and we all live crammed into one of those Chicago apartments that is super long and skinny. It felt right at the time, and it still does. But it was always supposed to be temporary. The fly-by-your-seat-of-your-pants lifestyle all young artists live before their career blows up. Lately, it hasn’t felt so temporary.

  Brie grabs my hand and pulls me along to the bar our friend Mark is at. Mark is a poet who does a lot of slam poetry in the city, and I met him my first year in Chicago.

  We see him as soon as we enter the bar. Mark is tall and thin. He’s covered with tattoos and wears dark eyeliner. When I first saw Mark at an open mic, I fell hard into an instant crush. We had a fling for a few months, but it didn’t last, and we’ve stayed good friends. It’s a common occurrence. Elena and my other friends from college don’t get it, but almost everyone in the artist community has flings, not relationships.

  “Hey, good to see you.” Mark squeezes my shoulder and gives Brie a peck on the cheek.

  I see a faint blush spread across her face, and I wonder if there’s anything going on between them. I wouldn’t be surprised. That’s the other thing about the artist community: everyone dates everyone, you can’t be too sensitive about a friend dating an ex. It’s just how it is.

  I pull myself onto the bar stool and cross my legs. The bartender gives me a grin and a wink. The humidity of the summer air has made my hair bigger and more curly, and I can tell the bartender is into it. I toss him a flirty smile back and order a cranberry vodka.

  “Going basic tonight,” Mark teases.

  I roll my eyes but Brie jumps to my defense. “Don’t mock us, we need some comfort. The open mic at Lou’s was rough.”

  “You gotta stop going to open mics every other night.” Mark gestures with his hand holding a beer and points at me. “You kicked ass in that play last winter, you should do more acting.”

  I shrug. Acting in plays and musicals was always just a side project. A way to sing and perform. Yes, I enjoy the occasional play, especially if it pays, but it’s not my passion.

  “I’m a singer and songwriter, not an actress.” My drink arrives and I take a healthy sip. “And, I need to go to open mics to get my original songs out there if I ever want to be picked up by an agency.”

  “Nope!” Mark shakes his head. “No shop talk or career talk or corporate talk tonight. I’m vetoing it all.”

  Brie bounces on her toes and laughs at Mark’s adamant command. The word “corporate” is the enemy of all artists. I don’t really think my comment had anything to do with the official definition of “corporate,” but pretty much anything that involves a contract, a salary, a degree of professionalism – that’s corporate, as far as Mark is concerned.

  “Tonight, we are gonna dance and have fun, and live in the moment, and that is it,” Mark announces.

  I smile along, but a small voice inside me wonders if it’s enough anymore to just live in the moment. That’s all I’ve done for the last four years, and where has it gotten me?

  Well, ok, it’s gotten me a lot of good stories. And some good friends.

  But as far as in my career...maybe I need to do a little more strategizing for the future.

  The thought is heavy in my mind, so I take another sip of my drink. The alcohol flows through me and makes me feel warm and bubbly.

  I can strategize tomorrow. For now, I’m going to have a little bit of fun.

  2

  I squint up at the light blue sky and swallow. My mouth feels like it’s padded with cotton, and the bottle of water I chugged as soon as I woke up did absolutely nothing to help.

  It’s half past five in the morning, and I’m stumbling the few blocks from my apartment to Lucy’s Coffee Shop. I’m not actually drunk. Just hungover. There’s a key difference.

  I blow out my cheeks and remind myself that I’ve definitely shown up to a shift in worse condition. There was one night last summer that I went straight from the club to the coffee shop, and just threw a borrowed sweater over my tank top. I’m pretty sure everyone getting their coffee was wondering where the stench of tequila was coming from.

  I’m fine this morning.

  Ok, maybe not fine, but I’m surviving. Last night, I danced for a bit with Mark and Brie, but I left them by one and was curled up in my bed within an hour. Three hours of sleep isn’t ideal, but I can definitely make it through the day on it.

  Even so, I might be getting a little too old for this nonsense. I didn’t even have that good of a time last night. I kept feeling like a third wheel with Mark and Brie.

  Not that the two of them would ever admit that they were a couple. They would just say they’ve been “vibing” lately. I used to say similar stuff, but now I find myself rolling my eye at the stupid term. I feel like my good friend Zoe. She says if it walks like a duck, and talks like a duck, she calls it a duck. I’m never quite sure why she is obsessed with the duck analogy, but I do know that Zoe would never say two people were “vibing.” She would say they were dating, and that’s it, and anyone who can’t admit the truth to themselves has issues.

  I take a deep breath and check to make sure my white blouse is buttoned correctly. At least I remembered to put on a bra this morning. I’ll never forget the look my manager Debbie gave me when I showed up sans bra.

  For the billionth time, I wonder how I’ve managed to never get fired.

  A few minutes later, when I’ve got my bright blue apron on and I’m standing behind the bar making espresso drinks, I remember why I still have this job: I’m actually pretty good at, even when sleep-deprived and/or hungover.

  Or at least, I’m definitely better than Todd, the new barista who was hired a few weeks ago. He’s a sweet guy, but he’s slow. And he’s terrible with the customers. He has no sense of how to perform a little, give them smiles and crack jokes to make them feel like they’re not even waiting that long for a drink. A two minute wait can feel like ten seconds if you just chat a bit.

  I glance over and see Todd fumbling as he grabs a croissant from the pastry case. I look away. I’m not the manager, so I don’t have to worry about coaching him. I look at the row of cups in front of me. I just have to make these iced drinks and do it fast. Easy.

  About two years ago, Debbie asked if I was interested in taking on more responsibility at the coffee shop. She wanted me to apply to be the assistant manager. I recoiled in shock at the suggestion. Everyone at Lucy’s knows I’m a singer; working at the café is just something I
do to pay the bills. When I said as much to Debbie, she gave me a wry look.

  “Look, Marianne, I’ve heard this all before,” Debbie said. “But the face of the matter is, you’ve been here more than a year. In a job like this, that’s long-term.”

  I told Debbie in no uncertain terms that I was not interested in a promotion, and she hasn’t brought it up to me since. Even so, I can practically hear her thoughts. A year turned into two, then two years has turned into four, and I’m still here. When am I going to admit that I’m not a singer, I’m just a barista.

  I sigh and focus on making the drinks. I do love coffee, and I firmly believe that if you make a drink while feeling anxious or sad, it won’t taste as good. My co-workers say I’m crazy, but I swear espresso beans are affected by negative auras.

  As I finish an iced latte, I look up and see Leo waiting in line, his mouth pressed into a line of impatience since Todd is taking forever to ring up the current customer.

  Leo comes in every morning on his way to work, always around 7 on the dot, and I have his order memorized. I have all the orders of regulars memorized. That’s why we get so many tips when I’m on a shift.

  I grab a cup and prepare the dark roast with two splendas. Leo always gets the same thing, year-round, and personally, I think it’s one of the most boring drinks you could ever get, especially since anyone can make dark roast at home with a coffee maker.

  Then again, Leo does not look like the type to make his own coffee. He wears crisp suits to work, and I can only assume he works downtown in some posh office.