Mister Fake Fiance

by Lee, Nadia

“But some are saying he’s hot enough to win the presidency, and he’s still single. Imagine. You could be the first lady!”

  She laughs. “Let’s not get carried away. He just got elected to Congress.”

  “Yeah, but he seems really charismatic.”

  “Doesn’t matter. He isn’t into brunettes. Just look at the way he’s trying to take that blonde.”

  Blonde?

  “That was very alpha of him to not give up the woman he wants. It’s helping him trend.”

  “Trend?” I squeak, unable to stop myself. I’ve heard enough of this, and I’m getting a bad feeling about this blonde they’re discussing now.

  They turn around and freeze when they notice David standing next to me.

  “Oh. Hi, David.”

  “Hello, ladies. What were you talking about? Do share the gossip,” he says with a bit too much warmth.

  One of them coughs. I recognize her. Mandy from HR. She took my paperwork when I relocated, and we spent maybe five minutes together. The other one I’ve never met.

  “Just some news thing we saw.” Mandy lets out a tittering laugh.

  “My friend Warren Fordham is trending?” David asks.

  Mandy’s friend’s shoulders relax, but she doesn’t know him very well if she thinks that’s a friendly voice. I’ve heard him deliver cutting rebukes to marketing team members in that same tone for trashy campaigns that didn’t fit the company’s image.

  “Yeah. I know he was trying to pull the woman from you—which isn’t cool, but a lot of people think it’s assertive of him to go after what he wants,” she explains. “You know…alpha.”

  Alpha? Ha! More like pesky. Overly persistent, if you want to be kind.

  David raises an eyebrow. “A lot of people, huh?”

  Both women smile nervously.

  “Nobody thought it was rude of him to ignore what the lady wanted?”

  “Oh yeah, of course,” Mandy says quickly. “But we were just talking about the general consensus, you know.”

  “I’m sure she wanted to go with you,” Mandy’s friend adds.

  I want to bang my head against the wall. But I settle for shifting my weight. How do they know so much about what happened on Saturday? I doubt David gossiped and told everyone. He rarely updates social media these days. And it isn’t like Warren would, unless he thought it could get him votes. But he just got elected.

  And if the story came from either of them, why didn’t they say who the blonde was?

  Maybe they were too embarrassed, a voice that sounds very much like my dad intones, full of judgment. You’re too much like your mom.

  The relief from earlier this morning vanishes. And my heart feels heavy and stifled, like a huge boulder is lying on top of it.

  “Oops, gotta go,” Mandy says. “I have a meeting.”

  “Yeah. I have a new-hire orientation to prepare,” her friend says.

  They slip out of the break room. David turns to me, his face tight. “Sorry about that.”

  “It’s okay,” I say woodenly, although I’m not sure if I’m saying that to him or to myself. I’m no stranger to being the topic of gossip. It’s just that I didn’t think it’d start again out here. I’ve tried so hard to stay under the radar.

  The only silver lining is that they don’t seem to know who the blonde is. Yet. I pray it stays that way. Forever.

  David bends down until he can peer at my face better. “It’s not. I wish I’d been more aware, but I didn’t realize anyone took our picture until yesterday morning.”

  I jerk my head up to look at him, panic rolling through me like a snowball over a field of snow, growing bigger and nastier and colder. “Somebody took our picture?”

  “Some paparazzi jerk. My friends and family asked me about it.” Now it’s his turn to frown. “Didn’t you see it?”

  “No. But it isn’t important. I just didn’t know there was a picture.” I bite my lower lip. “Do I look…really obvious? Think people can figure out who I am?”

  He shakes his head. “No. They only got your back.” He pulls out his phone, taps a few things and shows me the screen.

  The picture had to have been chosen for the dramatic composition. It looks like a tug of war, with me as the rope, between David and Warren. But David’s right about it not showing my face. Unless you were at the function and saw me with David, nobody would make the connection. Unfortunately, a lot of people saw me with him. Hopefully they’ll forgot all about me because they were really there to meet David.

  “At least there’s that small blessing,” I say, relieved. People can’t identify me with that. Not even my father. “Don’t worry about it, David. It’ll blow over and nobody’s going to talk about it. They’re only interested because Warren is a newly elected congressman. And popular.” Then I realize maybe I’m making it sound like David isn’t important. So I add, “And you’re one of the most eligible bachelors in the country.”

  He gives me an inquisitive look for a moment, then nods. “Sure. It’ll blow over.”

  We grab fresh mugs of coffee and David returns to his office. I go to my desk to work. Or at least try. My mind is too busy, whirring fast despite the initial relief.

  What if there are more pictures? What if people put it together? There might be a shot of me from the front. And how many women had a dress as red as mine?

  Unable to stop myself, I Google the images from the auction and pore over them.

  But nope. That’s the only one with me in it. I sag, all the tension leaving my shoulders and neck. David’s right. Nobody’s going to know. I’m safe.

  Then, just to be sure, I check my phone for any missed calls or texts from Dad. He’s bound to contact me if he learned that I saw Warren.

  I scroll fast, and oddly enough, he hasn’t tried to get in touch with me. He has to have seen the photo too, since he keeps track of news that involves politicians and donors that matter to his plans. Maybe he didn’t realize the blonde was me, which would be fantastic. He never will, if I’m lucky. On the other hand…if he does call, I should tell him that I can’t possibly entertain the idea of being with a man who thinks nothing of making a public spectacle with another woman. Voters don’t like men who do things of that nature, do they?

  And—think of the devil—I have a few texts from Warren.

  –Warren: Sorry about the publicity. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.

  More like he didn’t mean to embarrass himself. Wonder what his people think about the picture. Nothing good, I imagine.

  –Warren: I didn’t realize there was a photographer around. But don’t worry. If anyone tries to slander you, I’ll take care of it.

  How? By blocking everyone from the Internet?

  –Warren: By the way, don’t you think it’s time we think more seriously about our future? We’re older and more mature now.

  I shake my head. He hasn’t changed. There’s no “our” future. Just his future. I still haven’t forgotten the way he spent an hour talking about his vision on our first date. It was worse than a pop quiz in algebra. At least those are short.

  The door to David’s office opens, and he walks out with a gold and silver box in his hand. “By the way, Erin. This is for you.”

  I take the box. It’s chocolate from a fancy chocolatier whose commercials I’ve seen a few times on TV. Surprised, I flip through my mental calendar, wondering if it’s some special date I forgot about, but nope. Today’s just an ordinary Monday.

  “What’s this for?” I ask.

  David hesitates for a second. “For helping out on Saturday.”

  He’s so sweet. I smile. “Thank you, but you didn’t have to. It was my pleasure.”

  He nods and starts to turn.

  Then he pauses, turning his head. I crane my neck in the direction he’s looking. A uniformed man is carrying a truly gigantic bouquet of red roses in a vase. It’s so big that half the people in the office are staring with speculation and envy.

  “Somebody’s going to
be happy today,” I say neutrally. The sender could’ve done better than red roses, though. They’re just so clichéd, the first thing people think of when they buy flowers for someone. Dad used to get them for Mom when he needed to portray himself as a caring, loving husband without involving much thought or effort.

  “Yeah, I guess…”

  David trails off as the delivery guy stops in front of us and looks down at the small plaque on my desk.

  “So you’re Erin Clare?” the man says.

  Uh-oh. “Yes.”

  “For you.” He places the vase on my desk.

  “Me?”

  David’s eyebrows go up.

  “Can you sign?” The delivery guy hands me a mini tablet. I scribble my name with the tip of my index finger without making a face. It isn’t his fault that I don’t like red roses.

  He rushes out. Probably has other flowers to dispense around the city.

  I stare at the crystal vase. There have to be at least a hundred blossoms, spreading out like a deep red oak tree. They’re talking up more than half my workspace, and everyone around me is staring. Some are even half up from their seats to get a better look. Who could ignore a floral arrangement this large and obnoxious?

  Damn Warren. He’s the only one who could’ve sent these—red roses are his signature. He likes things classic and inoffensive, but seemingly thoughtful at the same time. He seems to have forgotten that flowers are a thoughtless and wasteful gift to send to someone who can’t appreciate their fragrance. Plus, I hate red roses with a passion because they remind me of how Dad treated Mom.

  Besides, the size of the bouquet says so much. This isn’t an overflowing cornucopia of contrite friendliness. It’s Warren whipping his dick out to show everyone how impressive it is. Given that he could’ve easily gotten my address from Dad, I’m certain he sent the flowers to me here at work on purpose. To taunt David.

  Bastard. Again, all about what he wants, nothing about what I want. I would’ve preferred cash so I could treat myself to a nice pedicure.

  “You aren’t going to read the card?” David asks.

  “Nope. No need.” My cheeks grow warm and a sudden urge to squirm crawls over my skin like little ants. I know it’s ridiculous, but I feel like I’ve been caught cheating on David or something. Except that the very idea is ludicrous because he and I aren’t like that. Must remember that the kiss from Saturday meant nothing.

  I steal a glance at him. Nothing shows on his face.

  “I think I’m going to throw them away.” That should banish this weird, uncomfortable sensation. Or so I hope.

  “Nah, don’t do that. They look nice.” David says it like he means it as he turns to go into his office, but somehow I have a feeling he doesn’t. Not really.

  Chapter Twelve

  Erin

  For the rest of the day, I try to work. It isn’t easy. The flowers are in the way. And my coworkers keep stopping by, ostensibly to drop something off or ask about the latest marketing campaign or offer candy from their stash. But what they’re really after is—who sent the roses?

  “I mean, I didn’t even know you were seeing anybody,” Bev says. “No wonder you turned me down when I asked you to hang out. I would too if I had a man who was thoughtful enough to send me flowers like these.”

  She forgets I have to carry my laptop bag, purse and now this giant travesty of a bouquet to my car and to my apartment. A thoughtful person would’ve sent them to my home address. I swallow the sarcastic words, though. They’ll only engage her in more gossip, and she’ll tell everyone what I said, sprinkling it with her own spice to liven it up at the water cooler.

  It’s too bad California is so dry. In Virginia, I could just start a bonfire and burn the damn roses.

  When five o’clock rolls around, I sigh with relief. People are leaving, a tide of humanity ebbing as evening approaches. I gather my things, then glance toward David’s office. He’s still working. I should check if he needs anything before going home. When I first started I’d wait until he was done, but David explicitly told me not to do that anymore.

  I knock and stick my head in. “Hi… Just wanted to make sure you’re all set before I head out.”

  He smiles. “I’m good.” His cell phone rings, and he picks it up. He mouths, Have a good evening.

  “You too,” I whisper.

  I grab my things, stick headphones into my ears and start a podcast interview with Dr. Richard Thaler that I’ve been planning to listen to for a while. Although David hasn’t asked me to, I want to study some economics theory in my spare time. Aside from just being interesting, it’ll be helpful in my career. I’m pretty sure I’m the least qualified person working at Sweet Darlings, Inc.

  I hesitate at the sight of Warren’s roses. Carrying them home seems so daunting. On the other hand, I don’t want to leave them here and get unwanted attention from my coworkers tomorrow as well.

  Sighing, I pick up the vase, holding it carefully so it doesn’t drip. I walk over to the elevator and hit the button for the lobby as Dr. Thaler explains the basic concepts behind behavioral economics. I want to get a sandwich from a Korean deli across the street from our office for dinner. Their bulgogi sub is to die for, with the most interesting texture of crunchy veggies and thinly sliced beef that melts in your mouth. For some reason I always crave it right before I’m about to start my period, and I never deny myself that treat.

  But these damn roses. Do I want to go across the street with them? People are going to notice for sure.

  On the other hand, I don’t feel like going back to the car to drop off the flowers. Is there a trash bin big enough for me to dump them?

  But wait—there’s a homeless lady on the street corner at the crosswalk between the office and the deli. I can give her the flowers. She can keep them…or better yet, sell them. They’re nice roses; Warren was trying to make a statement. She can probably get at least a buck apiece for them.

  Feeling good about my solution, I carry the vase in front of me and go. The enormous bouquet kind of blocks my view, but I don’t worry about running into someone much. Who’s going to miss bright red roses? And I’ll be rid of them soon enough.

  The interviewer is asking Dr. Thaler why people are so irrational, even if their actions are against their self-interest. It’s a good question.

  The Nobel Prize-winning economist says it’s because life is hard. People are doing the best that they can, despite the complexity of modern society.

  Hmm. I didn’t even consider that.

  Dr. Thaler elaborates on his answer. I listen more closely, thinking deeply about what he’s saying. He’s right, though. Life is hard, and we don’t all have perfect information.

  My phone beeps, interrupting the podcast. I stick my hand into my purse to grab my phone, in case it’s David calling.

  Using my back to push the door open and exit the building, I glance at the screen. It’s a text from Dad. No. Just no. I don’t have the energy to deal with him right now.

  Somebody jostles me, and I almost fall down. The water in the vase sloshes, but doesn’t spill. I swing myself backward to maintain my balance, then peek over the bouquet to see who just bumped into me so rudely.

  Oh shit. It isn’t just one person. Or even your ordinary everyday crowd. Reporters are shouting things, shoving recorders and microphones in my face. Flashes go off, blinding me. White spots form before my eyes, and a suffocating claustrophobia clutches my neck.

  Someone pushes me hard, and the vase and my phone slip from my now-sweaty grip. My headphones tear from my ears. The phone hits the concrete with a sharp crack. Shit!

  The vase lands at the same time, shattering and splattering water and flowers everywhere. Furious and dismayed, I stare at the utterly destroyed phone. I doubt it can be salvaged. And my data…all gone. Poof.

  Ready to scream, I turn to the crowd, then catch myself. Screaming and yelling won’t accomplish anything except prove to my dad I’m already like my mom, because she used to
scream and yell, then break down into tears. It’ll be better if I just point out the destruction of my phone and wait for them to feel bad about it.

  “You broke my phone!” I say loudly.

  Almost immediately I realize I’ve made a mistake. Without the vase to shield me, they’re now closing in like a pack of hyenas, still shouting and jostling.

  My anger begins to turn to fear. These people won’t hesitate to trample me to get what they want. Except I don’t know why they’re doing this.

  “Why were you there?” one of them screams.

  There? I stare at the man’s freakishly bright and wide green eyes. He looks like a mouse lemur on its tenth shot of espresso.

  “Is it true you’re having relationship issues with your fiancé?”

  My fiancé? “What?” I don’t have a fiancé. What are they talking about? “You have the wrong person.”

  But I don’t think anybody hears me. They’re too busy screaming and jockeying for position. I try to draw in air, but I can’t seem to get enough. My heart accelerates, beating against my chest like a desperate sparrow trying to escape a trap. Blood rushes through me, hot first, then icy cold.

  More words. All garbled. Too many faces. All of them too demanding. Incomprehensible.

  I should say something. Or do something. Run. Flee.

  But my vision’s starting to waver and go dim. When did it become so dark so fast in Los Angeles?

  I crumple against the cold, dark glass wall behind me, making myself as flat as possible, while my knees shake.

  Chapter Thirteen

  David

  “Are you going to meet her again?” Derek asks, sounding amused over the phone.

  “Who?”

  “The blonde.”

  I guess Matt hasn’t told my brother who Erin is, even though Jan told Mom I was awake on Sunday. That’s why Matt’s my best friend, and Jan’s just my cousin. Blood may not be thicker than water, but the Bro Code is. “I doubt we’ll appear in public together again. It was just a one-time deal because I ran into Shelly.”

  “That bitch.” There’s still a lot of heat. Derek’s the only one who knows the truth about Shelly, and he hates her almost as much as I do. I also wonder if it has something to do with the fact that he was really rooting for her and me, too. The more someone disappoints us, the more we feel betrayed.