by Jae
“Do you think I will meet them?”
“Oh yeah. My boss is having a party next week, remember?”
A party with a bunch of psychologists. Fun. Lana somehow managed not to grimace.
“So what’s our story?” Claire asked. “Where did we meet?”
“Maybe I mowed you down in the park when I was roller-skating.”
“That would certainly get my attention.” Claire scribbled it down. “And who made the first move?”
“I did,” Lana said.
“Why do you get to be the one who made the first move?” Claire asked. “Most of the time, I was the one who asked out women instead of the other way around. I don’t know why, but women sometimes seem hesitant to approach me.”
A sip of beer went down the wrong pipe. Lana coughed. Oh yeah. I wonder why? “Yeah, but if I ran you down with my roller skates, I would have invited you for a coffee or something.”
“That’s an apology, not a date.”
“It could be a date if I asked with romantic intentions.”
Claire tilted her head. “So it was love at first sight?”
“Of course.” Lana batted her lashes at her. “Wasn’t it for you, lover girl?”
Claire threw the cap of her pen at her.
Caught off guard, Lana didn’t catch it. The missile bounced off her shoulder, ricocheted across the living room, and landed on the floor near the fireplace.
Claire got up and retrieved it as if she couldn’t stand even that tiny bit of a mess on the floor. When she bent to pick it up, her formfitting skirt tightened across her trim butt.
Lana didn’t even try to avert her gaze. It was all for getting into her role, of course. As Claire’s fiancée, she was supposed to stare at her ass, right?
“I’m not one for whirlwind romances,” Claire said when she was back in her recliner. She curled her nylon-stockinged feet under her. “Abby and I—” She bit her lip.
“Abby?”
“My fiancée. Um, former fiancée. She and I knew each other for a while before we started dating.”
“Okay, so you and I were friends first, and then, when the two of you broke up, we got involved. We could tell people I was there for you after the breakup, and that’s how we grew close so fast.”
Claire rubbed her chin, leaving an ink stain behind on her fair skin. Somehow, that tiny imperfection made her more human, so Lana decided not to tell her for now. “Won’t people think you’re my rebound girl?” Claire asked.
Lana winced. Unfortunately, that was a role she had plenty of experience with. Katrina had left her not long after her accident, claiming she’d never gotten over her ex and wanted another chance with her.
“I guess we’ll just have to convince them that we’re really into each other,” Lana said.
“At least you’re not a carbon copy of her, so no one will think I’m trying to recreate what I had with Abby.”
A snort escaped Lana. From what she had seen of the thin blonde in the photo that had been on Claire’s bedside table, she and Abby couldn’t even be distant cousins, much less carbon copies. “We also need an engagement story for when we meet with the publishing people. Who proposed?”
“I did,” Claire said immediately. “If you get to be the one who made the first move, I get to be the one who proposed.”
Lana shrugged. “Fine with me. So you went down on one knee in some romantic place?”
“Of course. Should Ms. Huge—the acquisitions editor—ask, we’ve been together for seven years. Last December, we went to an excellent French restaurant, then took a stroll along the pier on a moonlit night, and I asked you to marry me.”
Had that been how it had happened between Claire and her ex-fiancée, or had Claire made up these details? Not that it really mattered.
Claire capped her pen and clipped it to the top of her notepad, apparently done with the conversation.
“Can I ask you something?” Lana asked before Claire could decide to call it a night.
A wary expression settled on Claire’s face. “Um, sure.”
“Why pay someone to pretend to be your girlfriend? Why not date someone for real?” Lana had asked herself that question since finding out about this unusual arrangement. “I mean, look at you.” She gestured at Claire, who, even curled up in the recliner, her bare feet tucked under, exuded an air of elegance. “You’re gorgeous. A woman like you shouldn’t have any problem attracting dates.”
A blush climbed up Claire’s neck. “I hope flattery is included in what I’m paying you.”
Stung, Lana stared at her. Yes, Claire was paying her for pretending to be her fiancée, but did she have to be an ass about it? “I have a feeling you psychologist types have a word for what you just did.”
“Excuse me?”
“Someone who gets sarcastic when they’re being complimented. There’s probably some shrink term for that.”
Claire sighed. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m not feeling very attractive after—” She cut herself off. “Anyway, the last thing I need right now is the complication of a real relationship.”
“I get that. I’m happily single myself. I just didn’t expect a love guru to be so…anti-love.”
“I’m not.”
“Not a love guru or not anti-love?” Lana asked with a slight smile.
“Neither. I’m a psychologist specializing in couples therapy, and I believe in love. Just…”
“Just not for yourself?” Lana finished when Claire fell silent.
Claire shrugged and took a long sip of wine. When she looked up, she studied Lana over the rim of her glass. “What about you? Why did you agree to our arrangement?”
Lana looked her in the eyes. No reason to lie about it. “Oh, I’ve got a very good reason. Fifty thousand reasons, to be exact. I’m not kidding myself. This is probably the most I’ll ever get paid for a role, and I’d be a fool to turn it down.”
“I couldn’t live like that…month to month, never knowing if I’ll be able to make rent…”
“What if being a psychologist were like that?” Lana asked. “Barely paying enough to get by. Would you still want to do your job, or would you look for another?”
Claire circled the rim of her wine glass with the tip of her index finger, a gesture that was strangely hypnotic. Lana couldn’t look away.
“I don’t know,” Claire said after a while. “I’d like to believe that I’d do it anyway. I never considered doing anything else.”
“Not even as a kid? You never wanted to be a princess or a doctor or a dragon slayer?”
Claire raised her eyebrows at that last one. “Is that what you wanted to be when you were growing up?”
Lana laughed. “No. I wanted to become a famous artist. But the problem is that I can’t even draw a stick figure.”
“So you settled for becoming an actress,” Claire said.
“It’s not about settling. It’s about finding something that fit me better.”
“Hmm.” Claire stared into the depth of her red wine.
Silence settled between them, and for the first time, it wasn’t awkward. Lana was hesitant to disturb that newfound peace, but there was one last thing she needed to know if she wanted to play her role as Claire’s fiancée convincingly. “Your colleagues…did they know Abby? I mean, I take it you’re out at work, right?”
“Oh, yes, of course. The counseling center is very LGBT-affirmative. Abby and I were together for seven years, so my colleagues met her several times.”
Lana let out a low whistle. So at least that detail about their fake engagement was based on Claire’s relationship with her ex-fiancée. “Seven years? Wow. I’ve never been with anyone for that long. What happened? I mean, after such a long time, you don’t just break up, especially if you’re engaged to be married…do you?”
Claire sn
orted and mumbled something Lana didn’t catch into her nearly empty glass.
“Oh no. Don’t tell me… You caught her cheating?” Lana couldn’t see it happening the other way around. Claire seemed like a woman who wouldn’t betray her principles.
“What? No! It wasn’t that. It was…nothing you need to concern yourself with.”
“But won’t people expect me to know?”
“The people from Wishing Tree Publishing don’t know there’s been a breakup, and if anyone else asks, tell them you don’t want to betray my confidence by talking about it.” Claire emptied her glass with two big gulps and stood. “Now excuse me. I’m tired. Let’s continue this another time.”
Before Lana could think of anything to say, Claire had disappeared down the hall and her bedroom door clicked shut behind her.
Lana took a long swig of beer. Damn. Just when Claire had begun to loosen up a little, she’d chased her back into her ivory tower. If they continued like this, this entire arrangement would fail the very first time they pretended to be a couple in public.
Chapter 6
The next Monday, Claire was counseling a couple that reminded her a bit of herself and Lana.
Mr. Greyson slumped against the back of Claire’s couch. “Why do we have to talk about this over and over and over again?”
“We wouldn’t have to if you listened and stopped being such a slob,” his wife fired back. “Would it really be so hard to put your mug into the dishwasher instead of leaving it in the sink?”
“I would, just not the moment you want me to do it. You’re so anal that you—”
“Anal? It’s not anal to expect some help with simple household chores, is it?” Mrs. Greyson turned toward Claire. “Do you think it’s too much to ask that he contribute a little?”
Oh no. Claire knew that game. She wouldn’t take sides. She was a therapist, not a referee. “Let’s pause here and think about what’s really going on in your relationship.” She looked from one to the other, but neither jumped in, so she continued. “First of all, could you try to use more neutral terms when you talk about each other? I can’t imagine it makes you feel positive toward each other if you hear yourself called slob or anal, right?”
Both lowered their gazes to the floor. “Right.”
“Okay.” Claire turned toward Mrs. Greyson. “How do you feel when you get up in the morning and find dishes in the sink?” Not that she really needed to ask. She knew how it felt since she’d found dirty dishes in the sink this morning too.
“Angry,” Mrs. Greyson answered without hesitation.
Claire could empathize, but she kept her face neutral. No taking sides. “It makes you angry because…?”
“Because he’s not contributing!”
“Can you try to use I statements?” Claire asked before the cycle of mutual accusations could start again. “What is it that you feel when he’s not contributing?”
“I…I feel taken for granted.”
Claire gave her an encouraging nod.
“I feel…unloved. Like he doesn’t even care enough to do this one simple thing for me.”
“You feel unloved because I leave one damn mug in the sink?” Mr. Greyson looked genuinely puzzled.
“It’s not about the mug. It’s about…” His wife looked to Claire for help.
“About being seen and heard?” Claire gently suggested.
“Yes! I feel like he doesn’t see or listen to what I need.”
“Can you tell Brian?”
Mrs. Greyson turned on the couch to face her husband. “When you leave dishes in the sink, it makes me feel like you don’t see or care about my needs.”
He vehemently shook his head. “That’s not true. I just figure why bother if I already know the way I put the dishes in the dishwasher won’t be good enough for you?” He looked at Claire and added, “She always takes them out again and restacks them the way she wants it done.”
Claire scribbled down “not good enough for you” without glancing down at her notepad. She kept her gaze on Mrs. Greyson. “Have you tried telling Brian how you feel?”
“Um, no.”
“So instead of talking about your feelings, what do you usually do?”
“I nag him until he does the dishes,” Mrs. Greyson said.
Claire turned toward him. “How do you feel when she does that?”
“How do you think? It annoys the hell out of me!”
“It makes you feel…?”
“Annoyed?”
“What else?” Claire prompted.
He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Can you think about it for a second?” The way he clasped his hand around his wedding ring made her think there was something more behind it.
“When she starts her nagging, it makes me want to run.”
“Run?” Claire wrote it down too.
“Yeah. Because it’s annoying.”
Now they were back to that word. Apparently, he needed a little help to see beyond it. “People don’t usually run when they’re annoyed, Brian. Most people run when they’re afraid.”
He went very still. His hand around the wedding ring tightened.
Bingo. Claire waited, not wanting to pressure him any further.
“Afraid?” He repeated it as if tasting the word and not liking it much. “Why would I be afraid?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
He shifted on the couch. His feet pointed at the door as if he wanted to jump up and flee. Just when Claire thought she might have pushed him too far, he said, “Sometimes I feel like I can’t do anything right, not even the damn dishes.”
“Like you’ll never be good enough for her,” Claire said quietly, glancing down at the words on her notepad.
“Yeah. Like she’ll have enough of me one day and move on to someone better.”
“So what you’re afraid of is…losing her?”
He hung his head. “Yeah.”
Mrs. Greyson slid toward him on the couch and put her hand over his. It was the first time they had touched since starting their sessions with Claire.
She let them sit like this for a moment before asking, “So whenever you feel this fear, what do you do?”
“I turn on the Xbox and ignore her nagging.”
“Remember those negative cycles we talked about last time?” She waited until both of them nodded. “This sounds like one. The more you ignore her, the more Sally feels unheard and unappreciated.”
“And the more unappreciated I feel, the more I nag and the more he gets scared and withdraws,” Mrs. Greyson said.
“Exactly.” She put her notepad down and leaned forward. “So what can we do to turn it into a positive cycle instead?”
“Maybe instead of criticizing I could praise him if he loads the dishwasher the right way?”
Claire tapped her pen against her lips. “Hmm. Is there a right way to load the dishwasher?”
Mrs. Greyson blushed.
“She means her way,” Mr. Greyson grumbled.
His wife took her hand off his.
Come on, guys, don’t destroy our progress. “Can you think of a compromise that meets both of your needs? Brian?”
“I’ll try to remember to put the dishes in the dishwasher, and she’ll accept that I’ll do it my way.”
“How does that sound to you, Sally?”
Mrs. Greyson smiled and put her hand back on his. “Sounds great.”
Five minutes later, Claire walked them to the door and watched them leave. They were holding hands. Hmm. Maybe I should ease up on Lana about the dishes in the sink too. As she had said in her book, every relationship required a certain amount of compromise—apparently even fake ones.
Renata crossed the reception area, carrying a stack of files. “What did you do to them?” She tilted h
er silver-haired head toward the door, where the Greysons had disappeared. “When I saw them last week, they were arguing in the waiting room. I was afraid we’d have to repaint because they were going to slit each other’s throats.”
Claire smiled and pretended to sprinkle fairy dust. “Therapy magic.”
Renata laughed and patted her shoulder in passing. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. Your new girlfriend seems to be good for you.”
Apparently, Vanessa had already spread the news. “Um, yeah. She’s great.”
“Make sure to bring her on Friday,” Renata said before stepping into her office. “I want to meet the woman who put the smile back on your face.”
Claire swallowed. No way out now.
Lana jerked awake with a hammering heart. The sweat-dampened sheet stuck to her body as she tried to sit up. She drew in a shaky breath and looked around.
It was still dark. Only the slightest hint of dawn lit up the horizon. The room was quiet, the only sound her own ragged breathing. Even when her eyes adjusted to the darkness, it took her several seconds to remember where she was.
The guest room. She was in Claire’s house. Not in the car.
Next to her, the alarm clock glowed in the dark. Four fifty-seven. Lana knew she wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep now.
She untangled herself from the sheets, swung her legs out of bed, and sat on the edge. Cool air from the air conditioner chilled her damp skin, making her shiver. She pressed her palms to her eyes and tried to shut out the vivid images of shattered glass and gushing blood. But the horrible sounds couldn’t be pushed back that easily. The honking of horns, the squealing of brakes, and the almost human groan of metal as it bent out of shape…
Lana tried to shake it off. She hadn’t had the dream in a while. What had triggered its return? Had it been the stress of her strange arrangement with Claire?
“I’m okay,” she said into the darkness. “Everything’s okay.” Her voice was hoarse. Had she been screaming?
God, she hoped she hadn’t woken up Claire. The last thing she needed was her questions and that piercing therapist’s gaze directed at her.