by Jen Meyers
The sun had long since set, and the only light in my apartment came from the little lamp on my desk, casting a warm glow across my keyboard, phone, and scattered notes. I had a habit of jotting down ideas on my phone or on random pieces of paper—whichever was closer—when inspiration hit. I’d been writing this column for over three years. After all this time, I thought in column snippets the way some people think in tweets or politicians think in sound bites, and if I didn’t write them down right away they were gone forever.
So when I finally sat down to write a piece, I spread all my notes out in front of me and wove them together into one brilliant read. Or, at the very least, an entertaining one. I mean, that’s what they paid me for.
A high-pitched giggle echoed out in the hallway, and I rolled my eyes. Clearly Josh was bringing home a date. I stared at my door, willing myself to stay put as my teeth sank into my lip. It didn’t matter who was with him or what she looked like. I’d seen enough of them already.
Tall, blonde, and tan, with arms I would die for, they all looked like they spent most of their free time at the gym.
I’d never even set foot in a gym.
It’s not like I was opposed to exercise—I walked my ass off all over this city—but I’d never had the attention span to actually make it through a workout, and I couldn’t quite fathom how people could stand the sheer boredom of lifting a weight over and over again. I mean, what was the point?
I hurried across the room and plastered my eye to the peephole.
Josh’s date was showing off her beautiful, sculpted shoulders and biceps in a pink spaghetti-strap sundress. Apparently THAT was the point.
I could pull off a dress like that, but no one would be coveting my pale, scrawny arms through a peephole.
Tonight’s Amazonian woman wrapped her well-defined arms around Josh’s neck and pressed her body along the full length of him. He let go of the key in his doorknob, and sank into the kiss with her.
And I sank with them.
My whole body sighed, letting go of all my tension so that my fingers unintentionally released the mug I’d been holding. It landed hard on my toes, then rolled to the ground unharmed.
“OW.” The breath whooshed out of me at the sharp pain, and I grabbed my injured foot and squeezed. Oh god, that only made it hurt more. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“That was the plan,” Josh said from the other side of my door.
Shit. I peeked back through the hole and he was right there smiling at me. His door was open behind him and the girl was gone, already inside I was sure. Probably leaving a trail of discarded clothes to follow, where he’d find her naked and waiting.
Good god, I needed to get some.
“Okay,” I called to him. It’s not like I could pretend I hadn’t been spying. “Well, have fun then. Use protection!”
“I always do. On both counts.” He knocked twice on my door and then walked toward his. “Have a good night, Will.”
I wished. He was going to get lucky tonight and I was so freaking jealous.
What did a girl have to do to get laid in this town? I mean, seriously. Was it too much to ask?
Grumbling, I picked up the mug and limped toward the kitchen. My foot throbbed harder with each step and I couldn’t put any weight on my toes at all. I snatched the kitchen towel off the oven door, filled it with ice, and hobbled over to the couch.
As soon as I’d settled into the cushions and the coldness washed over my foot—oh sweet, icy relief—my phone rang.
All the way across the room on my desk.
For a moment I considered ignoring it, but just like the part of me that had to go see Josh’s girl du jour, I had to know who was calling. It was a sickness.
Four wobbly steps in, I caught the edge of the coffee table with my throbbing toes, bringing me to my knees and eliciting a slew of curse words that would have made my sailor grandmother proud.
I crawled the rest of the way, keeping my injured foot far off the ground. Once I had my phone in hand, I just lay on the floor and answered.
“Mom?”
“Hi, honey. Did I wake you?”
“Mom, it’s only ten, and I’m not four. Or seventy, for that matter.” My foot was throbbing so much that I rolled onto my back and propped my bad foot on top of my other knee. “What’s up?”
“Dad and I are coming to New York tomorrow. You father has an appointment on Thursday morning, and we were hoping we could stay with you.”
“Of course.”
Immediately, I started to make a mental list of all the things I needed to do:
1. Find a boyfriend;
2. Do laundry again—needed fresh sheets on my bed for them;
3. Find a boyfriend;
4. Get groceries—the fridge was virtually bare except for a few almost-empty takeout containers;
5. Find a boyfriend.
A BOYFRIEND. My parents were a bit old-fashioned, and had it in their heads that I would only be safe in the city if I had a man around. I’d gotten so sick of them asking whether I had a boyfriend every time they called, that a year ago I’d finally said YES. YES, I DO. HIS NAME IS JOSH.
Having just spent the better part of an evening up on the roof drinking and shooting the shit with him, his name was the only one I could come up with on the spot. And that had worked out well because I could base my fake boyfriend on the real Josh and substitute his name when I told them the good bits of my mostly disastrous dates.
If you’re going to lie, keep it simple.
Look, I didn’t lie to my parents on a regular basis. I mean, SURE, they didn’t know about my column in Du Jour and were under the mistaken impression that I made a living writing ONLY novels…but that was really just a convenient omission of information, rather than an outright lie.
There IS a difference, you know.
They were two of my favorite people on Earth, and I loved them to death. But they’d been driving me nuts with all the boyfriend questions and the worrying. I mean, I could FEEL their worry a couple of states away.
So all I’d really done was ease their minds. It’s not bad to lie if it helps them feel better, right? And it wasn’t a problem because every time I went home to visit, I just said he was too busy working, and they never came to visit me here in my tiny apartment. So far it had worked beautifully.
Except now they were coming here.
“What’s the appointment?”
“A cardiologist.” She said it like it was no big deal. “Will Josh be in town? We are so excited to finally meet him.”
Oh. Yeah. There was that problem. Either I needed to find someone to pretend to be Josh or I had to—
Wait…a cardiologist?
“Is there something new going on with Dad’s heart? I thought the drugs had fixed it.”
“They’ve only half-fixed it.”
“What? Why didn’t you tell me?” I could hear the panic rising in my voice.
“We didn’t want to worry you, sweetheart.”
THIS from the people who worried about everything. And this was exactly why I’d created my fictional boyfriend. They had enough to worry about already, they didn’t need to be worrying about me, too.
“Your father probably needs a pacemaker, and we’ve heard really great things about this doctor, so we’re coming to her. This appointment is just a consultation. Nothing to worry about.”
Oh geez. In my experience, when someone says it’s nothing to worry about, there’s usually a LOT to worry about. My heart squeezed at the thought of losing my dad. I couldn’t handle that…I couldn’t—
Focus, Will. Stop putting the cart before the horse.
“What time will you get here?” I said, blinking back tears and forcing my voice to sound normal. Everything was fine. My dad was okay. “Are you coming by train or plane? And do you want me to meet you?”
“Our flight gets in around four. We’ll get a cab.”
“Okay. So you’ll be here by five. Maybe we can—”
; “Have dinner with Josh? Dad and I are dying to meet him. It’s only right that we get to welcome him into the family.” Her voice filled with joy, and I could practically see her eyes crinkled in delight. “Have you two set a date yet?”
“A date?” Shit. I’d totally forgotten that the last time I’d been home, I told them he’d popped the question.
THIS is why you shouldn’t lie—especially if you’re a writer. Once you start making things up, it’s hard to stop. And we writers…well, we lie with flair. It comes with the job.
But my parents had been desperate for good news, for something to celebrate. My dad had been having so many health problems, then he’d had the heart attack and had needed emergency surgery. They’d been so stressed out at the time, and before I knew it, I was blurting out my engagement.
“ENGAGED!” I’d said, throwing my arms wide and smiling way too big.
“What?” my parents had said together, both turning to look at me.
“I’m…uh…engaged! Josh proposed.”
Mom had cried out “Oh, THANK GOD!” and reached for my hand just as I’d realized I hadn’t thought this little lie through because I had no ring. Her eyes landed on my bare finger, then flew up to my face in confusion.
“Oh…uh, a ring,” I’d said. “Yeah, um, Josh hates the diamond industry.” Which was true. The real Josh DID hate De Beers, the company that had a ridiculous monopoly on diamonds and charged overly-inflated prices for what was actually a really common gem. From all he’d told me, they were pretty evil. But my mom looked a little sad at the news, so I said, “And I didn’t want one anyway. I’m not a diamond kind of girl.”
Thankfully, that was also true.
The important thing when lying is to stick to the truth as much as humanly possible. That way there’s less you have to keep track of.
Of course, right now I was cursing my natural talent for embellishment as my mom tattered dreamily on about my non-existent wedding in her excitement about meeting my fake groom-to-be.
“You know your dad has always looked forward to walking you down the aisle.” She sighed happily, clearly letting her imagination run wild with my wedding day. “Did we tell you he’s been taking dance lessons just so he’ll be ready for your father-daughter dance?”
If I hadn’t already been lying on the floor, I would have fallen over. My father never danced. He had two left feet, absolutely no coordination, and no rhythm.
Not even a little.
And, GOD, he’d been taking lessons? The little girl in me melted into a puddle and I could feel tears springing to my eyes again.
And for a moment I wished it was all true. That I was getting married to someone—anyone—just so my parents could have this day. So my dad would get to be father of the bride.
I was so going to hell for this. They were going to be crushed when I told them I’d broken up with my faux beau.
Eventually.
Of course, I wasn’t going to do it yet. I mean, my dad had this big appointment, and I couldn’t break their hearts right NOW. I’d have to do it later.
Much, MUCH later.
Like maybe when I was forty. A sixteen year engagement is realistic, isn’t it? And I could break up with him because he wouldn’t go through with the wedding. YES. That was perfect. That’s exactly what I’d—
“Willow, honey? A date?”
“What?” I shook my head. “Uh, no. No date yet. We’re not…uh…rushing into this, Mom. We’re not in a hurry to get married.” She was silent on the other end. “We’re just happy to be together, you know?”
“Oh, of course you are!” She laughed, then said to my dad, “George, Willow’s so in love and we’re finally going to meet him.” My dad said something I couldn’t make out. “We’ll worry about that when we’re there.”
“Worry about what, Mom?”
“Oh, nothing, sweetie.” She mumbled something else to my dad. “Well, we’ll see you tomorrow night. You and Josh, both. We can’t wait!” Then she said goodbye and hung up.
I lay there on the floor, my foot throbbing. How was I going to pull this off? Either I needed to tell them or I needed to find a friend who’d be “Josh” for a couple of days.
Problem was, the best person to pretend to be Fiancé Josh…was Real Josh. But he was going to think I was insane.
Unfortunately, there really wasn’t time to find anyone else, especially if I was going to be realistic—and it looked like I was going to HAVE to be. So, I’d just have to explain the situation and make him understand. And beg, plead, or bribe him to play along.
I looked over at my door. Couldn’t ask him now. He was too busy schtupping the blonde. Besides, he was coming over tomorrow to show me how to fix the chair. I’d ask him then.
I had no other choice.
And I had to look on the bright side. He’d probably be flattered that I actually HAD created a character based on him. Right?
Oh, who was I kidding. It was going to be humiliating, and he was never going to let me live it down.
I could only hope he’d say yes anyway.
six
“Did you bring your tool belt?” I wiggled my eyebrows at Josh as he lugged this gigantic tool box into my apartment the next day. But then I made a big deal of looking him up and down. “You’re a bit overdressed, don’t you think?” I said. “Or did you miss the part where I said ‘a tool belt and nothing else’?”
“Shit.” He set down his load and ran a hand through his hair. “Was the broken chair just a ruse? Is this actually a booty call?” Head tilted back, he groaned in mock frustration. “Because I TOTALLY misinterpreted the signals. I must be losing my touch.”
“Oh well, maybe next time,” I said with an exaggerated wink, then pointed him toward the chair. “In the meantime, how about you teach me how to fix that loose thingie.”
“Spindle.”
“Right. I’ve glued that there spindle three times but it won’t stay put.” Hands on my hips, I blew the hair out of my face. “What am I doing wrong?”
“Other than not being clear about booty calls so a guy can come prepared?” He knelt down next to me, his eyes on the separated chair legs. “What kind of glue did you use?”
“Uh…like craft glue, I think? It said it was good for wood.”
“I’m sure it is,” he said, his hands reaching out to caress the smooth finished surface of the leg. He peeled dried glue off the end of the spindle. “But it’s not good for fixing furniture. You need wood glue. And a clamp of some sort.”
Crap. “Okay. I guess I’ll run out to get that…”
“No.” He laughed gently. “No need. I have it.”
With his head tucked down so that all I saw was sun-streaked hair, Josh reached into his toolbox and rummaged around. He had the strongest hands—thick fingers with short nails, tan skin stretched tight, a few scrapes and nicks scattered over them, a natural consequence of his work. They moved with confidence and skill, those hands, and for a moment I was mesmerized, imagining the words I would use to describe them. Phrases floated through my mind and I needed a piece of paper to write them down pronto.
He glanced up and caught me watching, so I scrambled to my feet. I grabbed a little notepad off the table and started scribbling, my face turning seven shades of red.
“What are you doing?” he said, his head cocked to the side.
“Just writing down ideas before they’re gone.”
“You turning me into one of your leading men?”
“You wish. More like the goofy sidekick.” I ripped the paper off the pad and stuffed it into my pocket. No need to have him reading it. I sat back down on the other side of the chair to see what he was doing.
“First thing is we get rid of all this dried glue.” He’d already scraped most of it off. He handed me a bottle of wood glue. “Here. Squeeze some of this into the hole.” The glue came out a thick, butter-yellow goo, and filled the little nook. “Now spread some on the end there—you want glue on both surfaces—goo
d. And then we fit them back together.”
“And this is what I did.”
“But you did it with the wrong glue.” He grinned. “Now a clamp. We can use duct tape.” He pulled a long length of tape off the roll, and folded it lengthwise except for the two ends. “So it won’t stick to the chair,” he said. Then he wound it around the legs and pulled it tight, securing the sticky ends together. “And that’s it. Leave it like this until tomorrow, then you can just cut the tape. It’ll be like new.” He looked at me. “You know, you don’t need to break furniture just to get me over here, Will. One word and I’m yours.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I bent down and looked at what he’d done. “That’s ridiculously easy.”
“Yup.” He opened his tool box again.
“And people pay you to do stuff like this?”
Reaching to put away his things, he nodded. “Yup.”
“You’ve got quite a racket.” I leaned one hip against the counter, arms crossed over my chest.
He laughed as he picked up the glue and tape, and tucked them away amidst his tools. “Well, I do MORE than just fix loose spindles.”
“Oh yeah? Like what?”
“Any kind of furniture—tables, chairs, benches, shelves, dressers, desks…anything.”
“Your designs?”
“Yup. Some is my stuff, some is whatever the client wants.” He nodded toward my desk. “A lot of what I design is similar to that—sturdy and bold.”
“My dad gave that to me when I moved here. It was his.” An old beast of a thing with thick wood sides, it was plain, simple, and heavy. “I’ve loved it my whole life. He said he didn’t need it anymore, and that I did since I was going to be a writer.” I stared at the desk, seeing my dad sitting at it in my mind’s eye. “I love that desk so much.”
“It’s a beautiful piece.”
I turned to him again. “I’d love to see what you make.”
“Yeah?” He looked surprised, his eyebrows raising high on his forehead, a slight smile on his lips.
“Yeah.” I nodded. “Maybe you can even teach me how to make something? I’ve never built anything out of wood, but you can see by my apartment that I have a severe appreciation for it. Some might call it a sickness.”