Faking It

by Leah Marie Brown

  Gorgeous, charming Jean-Luc is faithfully riding beside me, yet my thoughts turn to Nathan, my fickle ex-fiancé. We should be here together, bride and groom, embarking on our long ride through life. Instead, we terminated the ride before it ever really began. And now—

  Now I’ll never know what it feels like to be hopelessly in love in the most romantic place in the world, or make love beneath a starry Provence sky, or lie in a field of lavender making plans for the future.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “What?” I shake my head, clearing away the sticky thought webs. “What did you say?”

  “I asked what you were thinking about. You look a million miles away.”

  “Sorry,” My smile feels fragile, false. “I was a million miles away.”

  “Be in the moment, Vivia.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Be in the moment. You will never find yourself here again. In this place, this moment. Enjoy it.”

  I stop myself from the quick sarcastic retort that comes to mind and let his words sink into the soil of my brain. Be in the moment. This moment.

  When was the last time I heard a chorus of cicadas sing their mating song? When was the last time I felt the exhaustion that comes from pushing myself mentally and physically? When was the last time I felt as exhilarated as I did when Luc and I sped down the side of the mountain, night on our heels, a path of stars leading the way?

  And when was the last time I felt as aroused as I did when Luc pressed me against the farmhouse wall and kissed me in the rain?

  Be in the moment. Yes. Good advice.

  “Merci beaucoup, Luc.” I whisper.

  “De rien, Vivia.”

  Get out of the driver’s seat.

  Let life take you to new territories.

  Be authentic.

  Be in the moment.

  Who would have thought I would learn some of life’s most important lessons on my honeymoon?

  Chapter 16

  Definitely Dior Worthy

  The next morning, I wake with aching thighs and a sappy smile on my face. I’m stretching between the silken sheets of a canopied bed in the honeymoon suite at Châteaudouble, a storybook castle hotel, feeling blissfully happy.

  Even if I live long enough to be one of those wrinkled Hobbits whose birthdays are celebrated on the Today Show, I will never witness a more beautiful site than Châteaudouble at night.

  Before we turned off the main road, Luc pulled over and asked me to get off my bike.

  “Why?”

  “Trust me,” he said. “Just get off your bike.”

  “Okay.”

  He held his hand out to me.

  “Now close your eyes.”

  I held his hand and blindly followed him.

  “Now,” Luc whispered in my ear.“Open your eyes.”

  I opened my eyes to find a long drive flanked by flickering torches. In the distance, the chateau glowed like a shimmering golden mirage, its lights reflected in the still black moat circling it. When Cinderella was locked in her dreary attic room, chattering with her rodent friends, she dreamt of a castle like Châteaudouble.

  “Hello—” Fanny snaps her fingers. “Earth to Vivia.”

  I blink rapidly, still dazzled by the memory of my first view of Châteaudouble. “What? I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  “So was he Dior worthy, ma chérie?”

  I turn my head. Fanny is grinning at me.

  “What? Who are you talking about?”

  “Don’t play innocent with me, Vivian. You know who I am talking about.”

  “Luc?”

  “Luc, is it?” Fanny giggles. “So he’s graduated from Jean-Luc to just Luc. Nice!”

  “Shut up!”

  “He likes you,” Fanny says. “What’s more, I think you like him.”

  I hold up my engagement ring and let my stony silence be my answer. I don’t know why, but I just don’t feel ready to confess my budding feelings for Luc to my best friend. Hell, I’m not ready to confess them to myself.

  “Did he kiss you?”

  I roll out of bed, walk over to the minibar, and pull a bottle of water out of the mini-fridge, ignoring Fanny completely.

  “Did he, Vivian? Did Jean-Luc kiss you?”

  “You’re relentless. Like a bulldog with a bone.”

  “I am.” Fanny sits up in bed and fixes me with an unwavering stare. “So did he?”

  I am buckling under her relentless pressure, like she’s the matron of a gulag and I am her new prisoner.

  “Yes!” I say, breaking. “Yes, he kissed me.”

  “I knew it!” Fanny is beaming.

  “You should forget your dream of working at Dior and apply to work for the CIA or Interpol. You could coax a secret from the tightest lipped government operative.”

  “I do have my skills,” Fanny says, pretending to polish her nails.

  “Skills? You’re frightening. You could reduce Jason Bourne to a babbling mess in minutes.”

  “Enough flattery. What was it like to mack on Jean-Luc? Is he as luscious as he looks? Is he Dior worthy?”

  “He’s definitely Dior worthy.”

  “I knew it!” Fanny hops up and hurries over to me. “I want details.”

  “It was nice.”

  Fanny scrunches her face. “Nice? That’s a word you use to describe the sweater your aunt gives you for Christmas or Jason Mraz songs or a pot of tea or the latest Ralph Lauren collection…”

  “Okay, okay!” I hold up my hands to stop what I know will otherwise be an endless flow of nice examples. “What do you want to know?”

  “Where did he kiss you?”

  “On my mouth.”

  “Vivian!” Fanny stomps her foot in frustration. “I meant, where were you when he kissed you?”

  “Seriously? That’s the first question that comes to your mind?”

  “Setting is important. Think about it, if he kissed you for the first time in some seedy back alley, it just wouldn’t be romantic, would it?”

  “Because we’ve passed so many seedy alleys on our ride through Provence.”

  “Vivian!”

  “Okay,” I laugh. “We were on the porch of an abandoned farmhouse, near the lavender fields. It was raining.”

  Fanny sighs.

  “Romantic enough for you?”

  She nods.

  “Now, can we change the subject?”

  “Nope.”

  “What else?”

  “How did you feel? Did you enjoy it or put yourself through a guilt wringer?”

  “It was…” I pause, momentarily swept up in a wave of desire. I am a writer, yet I’m struggling to find the words to describe the overwhelming longing I felt for Luc when he kissed me. “Amazing.”

  “Better than Nathan?”

  “Fanny!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Fanny drops her head in the pose of the contrite, but I know what’s coming. I know she’s not truly sorry. The thin veil hiding her contempt for Nathan dropped away when she learned he’d left me sitting alone at Snob. She looks up at me. Uh-oh. Here it comes. Wait for it.

  “He was better than Nathan though, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes.” My whispered confession is laced with shame. “He was.”

  “Stop feeling guilty, Vivian.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  “Nathan dumped you. He discarded you like he does one of his empty wine bottles.” She grabs an empty water bottle from the mini bar counter and deftly tosses it into the garbage can. “Goodbye, Vivia.”

  “That’s harsh.”

  “But it’s true. Nathan is a twat.”

  “Where did you learn that word?”

  Fanny shrugs. “I don’t know. Somewhere. It’s not important.” She grabs my shoulders, forcing me to look down into her face. “The point is: Nathan is a worthless bastard, a pretentious snob who tried to cram you into a ri
diculous mold to be his compliant trophy wife. Don’t you know how much better off you’ll be without him?”

  I open my mouth to respond, but Fanny is on a roll.

  “No! You don’t know. You act as if you committed some heinous sin, as if you owe him your penitence. He had insane expectations and then abandoned you the moment you didn’t meet one of them. Get out of the nunnery, Vivian. Live life. Love Luc. Love a dozen Lucs, if you want! Let Nathan do the repenting.”

  The opening riff of “Fashionably Late” blares out of my iPhone speaker, letting me know it is nine o’clock on the dot. I hurry over to the nightstand, slide the snooze bar on my iPhone, and Ronnie stops singing. Fanny’s right. I did let Nathan cram me into a mold of his construction. Heck, I crammed myself into it every time I pretended to like Michael Bublé, J. Crew sweater sets, and snooty wine bars.

  Maybe it’s time I push Nathan and his J. Crew sweaters to the back of my closet. Maybe it’s time I pull out my boyfriend jeans and metal music.

  “Don’t be mad at me, please.”

  “I’m not mad.” I walk over to Fanny and hug her. “You’re right, Fanny. It’s time I start being the Vivia I was meant to be.”

  “Damn right!”

  The phone rings, startling us. Fanny grabs the receiver and chatters away in French. She hangs up.

  “That was the front desk with a message from Jean-Luc.”

  My heart flips. Jean-Luc left me a message?

  “Really?” I pretend nonchalance. “What did he say?”

  “He wanted to remind us the ride to the village is optional. We are supposed to meet in the courtyard after breakfast if we want to go en masse. Otherwise, we will be departing the château for Cannes tomorrow morning!”

  For the love of Lance Armstrong! Not another bloody freaking ride? What is wrong with these people? Biking seems to be their religion. They’re like those Christians who retrace Christ’s final steps by dragging a wooden cross through the streets of Jerusalem, only they’re riding bikes through Europe. What is this, penitence through pedaling?

  If my God is merciful, Fanny feels the same way I do and will suggest we spend the morning lounging by the pool, nibbling strawberries dipped in chocolate.

  “So,” I say in a bland tone. “Did you want to ride to the village?”

  “Bien sûr! Don’t you?”

  No mercy!

  “Not really, but I will if you want me to.”

  “I just thought you’d want to get some exercise.”

  “You have got to be kidding.” Lowering my chin, I glare at her through the fringe of my bangs. “I get you’re an über-competitive fitness freak, but come on!”

  “Fine! I get it,” Fanny says, raising her hands. “But what will you do?”

  “I saw a pool with my name written all over it. I’ll stretch out on a lounger and read in the sun. You know, affect my disaffected nobility pose.”

  “You’re, ‘I am too important to be bothered by this world class château resort’ pose?”

  “Exactly,” I laugh.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay and keep you company? I don’t mind.”

  “No.” I wave my hand in the air dismissively. “Ride to the village. Exercise for both of us, and then bring me back a pastry or something.”

  Fanny makes her way to the bathroom to get ready for her ride when I stop her.

  “Fanny?”

  She turns around and fixes me with a puzzled expression.

  “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “For everything.” I shrug and my smile wobbles a little. “Thanks for talking me into taking this trip instead of staying home and wallowing in self-pity. For sticking by my side, but also giving me space. For…being my best friend.”

  She gives the impression of being cool, clipped, controlled, but deep down Fanny is a smushy-mushy sentimental marshmallow. She grabs me and gives me a fierce hug.

  “It’s just my time,” she finally says, pulling away. “You know?”

  I shake my head. I don’t know.

  “Being best friends is like playing baseball. Right now, it’s my turn to step up to the plate and carry the team.” She lifts her chin and looks up at me with her trademark confidence. “Don’t worry. Your time at bat will come.”

  “I hope I will carry the team as well as you have.”

  “You will.”

  “Wait!” I laugh. “Did you just make a baseball analogy?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “The Americanization of Fanny is complete.” I stroke my chin and chuckle maniacally.

  “Funny!” Fanny snaps. “I don’t think so!”

  “It starts with reality television binges and baseball analogies. Soon, you’ll be forgoing French chocolate for Hershey’s bars and baguettes for Wonder Bread.”

  “Never.”

  “I don’t know…”

  We laugh.

  Fanny knows I am only teasing. I wouldn’t want her to become American any more than she would want me to become French. Respecting each other’s cultures has always been a cornerstone of our friendship. Vive la différence!

  After Fanny leaves, I check my phone for new text messages. My mum has sent me a dozen texts since my arrival in France. She’s confused by the abrupt rupture of my betrothal and worried at the threat of my impending seduction and ruin by a “wicked, wicked Frenchman.” She deserves some assurances. Time to calm the maternal beast.

  Predictably, the first two texts that pop up are from my mum.

  Text from Camilla Grant:

  Vivia! It’s Mum. I hope you’re enjoying your time in France. Are you okay? I am worried about you. You know that I love you, don’t you, my girl?

  Text from Camilla Grant:

  Cheers, Vivia. It’s your mum. Anna Johnson’s daughter had her baby. A boy. 13 pounds. Saint Joseph! My scone hurts just pondering that obstetric nightmare.

  My mum refers to female genitalia as scones. You can imagine my utter confusion and horror the first time she took me to The Palace Hotel for high tea.

  My fingers make rapid tap-tap noises as I type a response.

  Text from Vivia Grant:

  Bonjour, Mum! France is lovely. I am safe. So is my scone. Love you very much.

  The next text is from Travis. I try not to read the two lines, but the words burn themselves onto my retinas before I can look away.

  Text from Travis Trunnell:

  Bonjour, beautiful! I ordered Rosetta Stone. When you get back, I will take you to dinner & whisper romantic phrases to you in French.

  Fucking cowboy balls! Is he for real? What kind of guy says things like that? I grit my teeth and tap a response.

  Text from Vivia Grant:

  This is a simple French phrase you need to learn: Adieu, Monsieur Trunnell.

  I jab the send button and smile when my phone makes the bloop noise indicating the text’s delivery. The cowboy’s response comes as fast as a stampede. It’s like he was waiting for my text. How pathetic is that?

  Text from Travis Trunnell:

  LOL! I prefer Bonjour to Adieu. Don’t you?

  I don’t know what it is about the cowboy, but his bold, confident style really gets under my skin.

  Text from Vivia Grant:

  It depends on who’s saying it. If it’s my fiancé, then yes, I prefer Bonjour.

  Power off, Vivia. Power off. Don’t wait for his response. You don’t really care what he has to say. Power off!

  Text from Travis Trunnell:

  Did he send you a Bonjour, beautiful text this morning?

  Text from Vivia Grant:

  That’s none of your business.

  Text from Travis Trunnell:

  I didn’t think so. If you were my girl, I’d send you a Bonjour, beautiful text every morning. You’d never doubt my feelings for you. GG. Rosetta Stone time. Have a good day, beautiful.

  I power off and toss my iPhone onto the
bed. I refuse to reread the cowboy’s texts, overanalyze the cowboy’s texts, or even waste any more brain juice on thinking about the cowboy.

  Chapter 17

  I Am Not A Nymphomaniac!

  I’m walking to the pool when I realize I didn’t check my e-mail or Facebook for messages from Nathan. The cowboy completely discombobulated me.

  The cowboy’s effect should piss me off, but I’m actually kind of glad he texted me this morning. He distracted me. He spared me from my daily ritual of tossing salt onto my wounded heart. To keep expecting Nathan to write to me is akin to self-flagellation. It’s just sad and gross.

  I pass the divorcees on my way through the lobby/great hall. They’ve poured themselves into tight fitting halter dresses. Two distinguished elderly gentlemen are close on their shiny heels. Candace raises her arm to wave to me, her leopard print Lucite bangles slide to her elbow.

  “Bonjour, Vivia!” She says, waggling her fingers. “We’re headed to a winery for a tasting. Wanna come?”

  “Thanks, but I’m going for a swim.” I hoist my Kate Spade beach bag up to my chest. “Have fun!”

  “Oh, we will!”

  They leave me in a cloud of perfume, their giggles and heel taps echoing in their wake.

  I have to admire their joie de vivre. They don’t seem to be letting the pain and disillusionment of divorce keep them from squeezing every second of fun out of their trip. Fanny talked to them during one of our breaks. Apparently, they’d each been married over twenty years. If I am an emotional wreck after ending a year-long engagement, what would I be like if Nathan dumped me after twenty years of marriage?

  I would be a Hiroshima-sized disaster. A catatonic woman with a shocking Einstein-esque mane of split ends, shuffling from place to place in pajamas and an unbuttoned trench coat. I would be picked up by the SFPD, taken to County Hospital, and admitted to the padded ward. I’d spend the rest of my days staring blindly at Dr. Phil reruns or making useless yarn art tea cozies, while Nathan cruised to Santa Barbara with a car full of bleached-blond floozies.