My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

by Lauren Landish

  She shoves me inside the apartment, taking my suitcase from me. It disappears, and I can’t care to see if she puts it in my bedroom or the bathroom or . . . hell, the kitchen, for all I know. As long as she’s not destroying more walls, it’s probably for the best that she manages it instead of me.

  Archie and Courtney are poised in the living room, cards in front of them, pennies in one hand and wine glasses in the other.

  “Let’s go, girl! I have faith that I’ve got the winning card!” Archie says with a jerk of his chin toward the glitter-accented paper in front of him.

  Glitter is the herpes of crafting materials. Once you’ve got it, there’s no un-getting it. My apartment’s done for. It’ll be perpetually covered in gold glitter for the rest of the time I live here no matter how many times I vacuum. I should move out now and forfeit my security deposit.

  I flop to the couch, half falling on Courtney who lets out a whoop of surprise and almost spills her filled-to-the-brim wineglass, which would be a double tragedy because she’s wearing cute jeans and sitting on my white couch. “Hey! Watch it!”

  I steal her wine glass, upend it, and chug it down in one go like I’m a sorority girl with a curfew and a crush on the quarterback of the football team. I hold it up, barely a spot of red in the bottom. “Again.”

  Courtney and Archie meet eyes over my head, worry and shock in both, I imagine. Violet swoops in from wherever she took my suitcase.

  “One more, and then you’re cut off,” Violet declares as she grabs my glass, refills it, and then gives it back. I look at her wryly as she gets Courtney a fresh glass too.

  “Okay, hit us with it,” Courtney demands, “so we know what we’re dealing with.” She’s a planner, always has been and always will be. By the time I get this story out, she’ll have it analyzed from every angle, thought of at least three different ways to handle it, mentally argued the pros and cons of each with herself, and then . . . she’ll tell me what I need to do. Usually, it drives me nuts. Right now, I would love for someone to tell me what the fuck just happened and why I feel like I left something vital in Aruba.

  Like a foot. Or a hand. Or . . . my heart?

  “Dream gig in paradise, you know that part. But the wedding planner was a total pain in the ass. Nothing was good enough and she kept calling me ‘flower girl’ and ‘Miss Andrews’.” I imitate Meredith’s snooty manner.

  Courtney’s brows raise when she hears the tone, probably having gotten enough of that in her own life. Violet, being Violet, spits out, “Bitch.”

  “Yeah. But despite her, the wedding was beautiful and the flowers were some of the best work I’ve ever done, which says something considering we lost all our flowers early in the week when the cooler broke.”

  “The cooler broke?” Archie says in horror. “What about the flowers?”

  I shake my head sadly. “Casualties of war.”

  He tracks a finger down his cheek from his eye, mimicking a tear.

  “Yeah, but the resort got it fixed and we got flower replacements from every resort and flower shop on the island, and we even had a boat bring us some special ones. It was stressful and not what Janey and I had spent months planning, but the arrangements were gorgeous in the end, and that’s what matters.” I lift my wine glass in a silent toast and then drink again. This time, truly a sip, at least.

  Violet leans forward and tilts the glass up, spilling another healthy swallow into my mouth. “You’re gonna need it.”

  I choke a bit at the unexpected mouthful and Archie laughs. “Girl, you are too old to be gagging like that. Get it together.”

  I sputter, but he’s moved on to his glitter-infested bingo card. “Ooh, I’m one away from a bingo! Look! I’ve got paradise, dream, flower, and bitch.”

  His excitement instantly changes as he hums and shakes his head sadly, “Does it count if Violet said bitch, not Abi? Hmm.” He ponders to himself and then says, “I admit I thought the bitch square was going to be about Claire Johnson, though.”

  He ducks his chin behind his ring- and tattoo-covered hand to stage-whisper, “She’s not really all feel-good, do-gooder, is she? It’s a social media front to cover her bridezilla, bitcherella true self. Gotta be.” He nods sagely, certain in his assessment.

  “No, she’s actually that nice, from what I could tell. And gorgeous, even out of makeup and hair. And adorably in love. Cole got N’Sync to sing for her as a wedding surprise. They were as cute as puppies—Claire and Cole, C2K, not N’Sync—all googly-eyed and all over each other while they sang off-key. It was . . .”

  “Shit, shit, shit,” Archie hisses as I start to break down, tears spilling silently down my cheeks. “My bad! I thought she was gonna say Claire was awful and I could get my ‘divorce waiting to happen’ square.” To Violet and Courtney, he apologizes by waving his hands around. “I didn’t think she was gonna go all hormonal about the Social Media Darling and Mr. Khaki Pants. I mean, who’d think that?”

  Violet growls. “Yeah, why in the world would someone else getting their happily ever after with the wedding of the year bother Abs? Oh, not to mention, she was reduced to faking a honeymoon to keep our childhood nemesis from gloating about her own honeymoon. Literally everyone around Abi is married but her . . . why would that possibly bother her, Archie?”

  Time freezes as Violet’s blurted words sink into us all. Me especially.

  The tears aren’t quiet this time. Nope, ugly sobs wreck me and I bury my head in my hands.

  “Ah, fuck!” she snaps. “I’m sorry, honey! I’m so sleep-deprived my mouth-brain filter isn’t firing on all cylinders. Sorry!”

  Archie whispers, “You have a filter? Ever?” He shrugs and examines his black-polished nails. “Huh, news to me.”

  Courtney stands up and claps her hands. Boss Bitch is taking over this party. “You . . . get her tissues. You . . . another refill. She’s earned it. Abi . . . tell us everything about this fake honeymoon thing and Lorenzo. All of it.” She takes my chin in her hand, lifting my eyes to hers. “All. Of. It, understood?”

  She’s my younger sister, and we spent a lot of years in the same family without being as close as we should be. The few years’ age difference had seemed massive when she was playing with dolls and I was playing in the dirt with the gardener, learning the Latin names of the plants and how to propagate species, or off with Violet, my sister from another mother. And later, she’d been the straight-and-narrow to my twisted, devil-may-care ways, and I’d kept her as far out of my business as I could so Mom and Dad didn’t find out about the crazy shit Vi and I got up to. Not that it was that crazy, but it’d seemed like it was at the time.

  But as adults, Courtney and I have found our way to each other as sisters and as friends. She would do anything for me and always has my best interests at heart. Even when I fight her on it or don’t want her to get involved, she’s got my back and will do what’s needed.

  I sigh. “Yeah, let’s do this. Might as well get it over with so you can tell me ‘I told you so’ and we can move on.”

  My whole body feels tingly, full of jangly nerves and jittery confusion, so I get up, needing to pace for this. “I get there, and literally at check-in, I see Emily Jones.”

  Violet makes a spitting noise, aiming toward the floor. I’m assuming it was spitless because she bought me this rug and loves it as much as I do.

  “And there’s your ‘divorce waiting to happen’, Archie. She was whining about having to wait in line and wanted to cut in front of me. She realized it was me and was all fake ‘Abi!’ like we’re buds,” I say, going full Mean Girls dramatic.

  I pause in my tracks as I see Archie trying to sneak a penny on his bingo card and doing a tiny, silent shout out, “Bingo!” When he sees that I’ve caught him, he doesn’t miss a beat, waving his hand expectantly. “Well, go on. Maybe I’ll get a blackout bingo by the end.”

  I sigh, annoyed, but fuck, I love him. The entire world could be falling to shambles in fiery flames of destruction, and
he’d be the one roasting marshmallows and hot dogs while singing anarchy limericks.

  “So, Emily was being Emily and made a comment about my being alone. And out of nowhere, Lorenzo showed up.”

  “We know this part. Violet told us everything. Get to the later stuff and the good stuff,” Archie directs.

  “And the bad stuff,” Courtney adds levelly.

  Somehow, I do. I tell them about yoga and boat cruises, dinners, and breakfasts in bed, and though it’s hard, I follow Courtney’s orders and tell them about how I’d fallen for Lorenzo bit by bit, day by day, poetic word by poetic word.

  “Yep, I’m going to kill him,” Violet declares.

  Archie puts a staying hand on her arm, not to stop her but because he’s a great assistant and an even better friend. “Let me know the bare bones of when and I’ll make sure you have an iron-clad alibi with witnesses. And this conversation . . . it never happened.” He looks to Courtney and me pointedly, thinking we’re the weak links in the room.

  I relish in the thought for point-oh-three seconds and then shake my head. “No, no. I don’t want you to kill him. He didn’t make any promises other than the crazy scheme I got him mixed up in, and he held up that bargain and then some. And let’s be real, that was a big ask. I can understand why he’d want to skip out on dealing with someone . . . like me.”

  I’m a lot. I know this. I’ve been told that by more than one boyfriend in the past, and I always soothe that sting by reminding myself that I don’t have to be for everyone. I only have to be right for one person.

  No, not a guy.

  Myself!

  And if I’m good, then Mr. Right will come around, see how amazing I am, and want to join the ‘Abigail Andrews is Awesome’ party. Even with the mess of glitter, fireworks, and midnight runs for Chinese food that pretty make up my existence.

  I just got a little carried away and thought Lorenzo was RSVPing to more than this week. But that’s on me, not him. He never said otherwise. I just hoped, and wanted, and wished.

  “Someone like you? You mean the best thing that could ever happen to him?” Violet summarizes, ever my cheerleader. She’s got a lifetime membership to my crazy, weird parties, and I love her for it.

  “What happened today?” Courtney asks, still gathering data.

  I look at my hands, twisting them as I walk another lap around my living room. “He booked us couple’s massages this morning, we had sex, took showers, and packed. And then I left for the airport. His flight was a few hours after mine, so he was going to say goodbye to Esmar, the restaurant chef who offered him a job.”

  “What?” Violet screeches. “I didn’t know that part! I thought this was just getting you two idiots transitioned back to the real world. Is he really going to cook in Aruba?”

  I shrug. “That’s what Meredith said.”

  Archie’s perfectly micro-bladed brows lift and he presses a hand to his chest as he clarifies, “The bitchy wedding planner?”

  “Yeah,” I say glumly.

  “Well, what did Lorenzo say about it when you asked him?” Courtney asks.

  “I didn’t ask. It’s not my place. I know who he is, what he is, and that living here is temporary for him. He even told me how much he hates working at Avanti, so why wouldn’t he go somewhere he loved the crew, the cuisine, and the weather?”

  “The weather,” Archie says dryly. “Girl, are you so bad in the sack that you think this man is going to trade an all-access pass to the Abi-Promised-land for ninety-degree sunshine? If so, we have bigger problems than I thought. Let’s start with blowjob techniques. You’re not a spitter, are you? Spitters are quitters.”

  Blinking in confusion, my feet stop of their own volition. “What? No, I don’t spit,” I answer before I realize what I’m saying. I shake my head, trying to clear up the swirling haze of bewilderment at Archie’s train of thought. “What do you mean? Why wouldn’t Lorenzo go to Aruba?”

  I hate to admit it, even to myself, but hope, tiny and struggling, tries to bloom. Like a good plant mom, I give it light and encouragement, feeding it to life. “You think there’s a chance he wouldn’t?”

  The three of them look at each other, leaving me outside to watch their silent conversation.

  Archie is somehow elected spokesperson, or he nominates himself. Either is possible. He gets up, stomps over in his black combat boots, plum joggers, and grey off-the-shoulder shredded designer T-shirt. He puts his hands on my shoulders and looks deep into my eyes. His are dark brown and warm but filled with worry.

  “We don’t know. Here’s the plan, though . . . you are going to get on with your fabulous life, doing and being exactly who and what you are. If he hasn’t pulled his head out of his ass within the next few days and come crawling back with promises of multiple daily orgasms and planning on forever, we’re going to assist with a forceful head-ass-ectomy.”

  “Oh! Violet, I’ve got your salad tongs,” Courtney blurts out.

  “Uh, salad tongs? Is that for the head removal?” I ask, only partially concerned. If it’d been Violet mentioning torture devices, I would’ve reminded her about the need for an alibi, but Courtney’s not rash that way. If she were going to do something illegal, she’d definitely plan an airtight alibi, probably somehow managing video proof of her being miles away from the crime. She’s good like that.

  “For the dinner party,” Violet corrects. “Lorenzo has until Friday, and then I’m calling a mandatory dinner party and we’ll get his shit straight.”

  Chapter 22

  Lorenzo

  My return to Avanti is loud and boisterous for all of five seconds.

  “Chef! You’re back!”

  “Good to see ya, man!”

  “Thank God you’re here to do the fettuccine tonight. Sergio’s been all up my ass about it being too spicy because I paired it with blackened salmon one night. Hasn’t shut up about how no one does it like you.”

  Roberta’s lament makes me laugh, but it’s enough that everyone has returned to their stations and their work. It’s as if I was never gone.

  It was only a week, but somehow, it seems like the longest and most important week of my life. How is life the same for everyone else when mine feels so different?

  “Thanks, Chef. I’ll get on making the pasta and the sauce for tonight,” I tell Roberta as I wash my hands and slip on my jacket and apron.

  “Heard. Might as well go ahead and make Sergio the first plate so he can ooh and ahh over it,” she advises sarcastically. She’s not bitter about my compliments, but I’m sure Sergio wasn’t exactly kind in his comparison, and chefs tend to be more than a bit prickly about coming up short when we’ve put our heart and soul into our food.

  I get to work, the routine of prep mindless and automatic. Take out a ball of dough, knead and roll it, and then start the process of feeding it though the pasta machine while I ready the next batch. Next, I let a mixture of butter, heavy cream, garlic, parmesan, pepper, and a shake of Aunt Sofia’s special spices bubble on the stove.

  The first plate complete, I call out to the line, “Chef, off line.” Eyes pop up, and Roberta nods as I hold the plate up. “For Sergio.”

  “Good. Don’t let him hold you hostage. Service is already starting.” She pulls an order from the machine and yells out to the crew. “Table eleven, app vegetable misto, entrée one boar Bolognese, entrée two wagyu bavette with beet and apple puree.”

  Milo and Alesandro are already in motion, and I watch for a moment as they rally together to begin tonight’s service. They’re a good team. I know I bring a lot to the table, but they’ll be okay without me.

  The thought hits me harder than I expected. It’s what I do . . . arrive, work, and leave when the mood suits me. It’s what I’ve done time and time again, so why does this time feel different? Like there’s a black void in the pit of my stomach when I think of not being here?

  Is it Roberta, Milo, and Alesandro I’ll miss? Perhaps.

  Or maybe it’s that I already mi
ss the island, with Esmar and his crew.

  I sigh, knowing the truth. It’s none of those people I miss, though they are good friends. It’s Abigail. She might be right here in the city, but she’s never been this far away.

  I swallow down the sour pain and head to Sergio’s office where I knock once and then open the door.

  I should’ve waited for him to call out ‘come in’ or something, because the sight that greets me is atrociously obscene. I’ll need a gallon-sized bottle of eye bleach to even have a hope of erasing it from my memory.

  Valentina is bent over Sergio’s desk, looking bored as she chants, “Oh, yeah, baby. So good,” in a dull voice. I swear she’s checking her manicure.

  Sergio is behind her, grunting and railing into Valentina with everything he’s got judging by the red tint of his cheeks and the sweat at his brow.

  “Sorry!” I exclaim, moving to shut the door.

  “Lorenzo! My boy!” Sergio calls out. Though my eyes are on the floor, I can hear him pull out of his wife and zip up. “Come in, come in. Is that alfredo for me?”

  “Uh, yeah,” I say hesitatingly. Risking a glance up, I see that Valentina hasn’t moved but the boredom in her eyes has been replaced by sharp hunger. She wants me to see her this way, is getting off on being half-naked and folded over the nearest piece of furniture. Not for her husband but for me in some sordid pretend fantasy in her mind.

  Sergio has come around his desk, his shirt messily untucked in the front and his belt undone, but at least I can’t see his dick. His extends his hand to shake mine. My lip curls. “No offense, Sergio, but I know where your hands have been.”

  Valentina lets out of squeak of anger as she stands upright. “What’s that supposed to mean?" Her skirt won’t fall over her hips, it’s too tight for that, but she shimmies and wiggles it down into place.

  Sergio’s eyes narrow at me.

  “I’m on the line,” I remind him, as if I’m going to walk directly back into the kitchen and start touching food and don’t want his sex juices—gag!—to contaminate anything. No worries about that, though, because I’ll definitely be washing my hands and doing a look around to see if I really can get ahold of some eye bleach.