Fake It

by Mia Ford

  “I honestly don’t know. Why didn’t you tell me he was such a big deal before I started hooking up with him?” I whine.

  “How was I supposed to know you were seeing the Thomas Henry? That could be the name of any number of people.”

  I heave a heavy sigh. It’s not her fault I was thinking with my hormones and not my brain. “Well, I guess there’s not much I can do about it now. Guess I’ll just have to ride it out.” I pick a collection of fuzz off my blankets and flick it to the floor. My life has been nothing but a series of unavoidable wrinkles like my bed sheets. I try to remember the last time I washed them. My mind is a hundred places at once.

  I hear Regina snicker. “Isn’t that what got you into this mess to begin with?” She then cackles into the phone and it makes me smile despite the piss poor mood I’m in. Thomas Henry. I should nickname him Hottie Henry or something else equally inappropriate.

  “Yeah, yeah. I need coffee. I’m going to the coffee shop. Hopefully, this will all blow over.” Caffeine was my only drug of choice and it had better fix this because I didn’t know anything else that could.

  She just chuckles again and tells me bye. After disconnecting the call, I toss it to the blankets tangled around my feet. Then, leaning forward, I press my hands against my eyes. “Fine freaking mess you got me into,” I grumble to my libido. “See if I listen to you again,” I swear my libido chuckles back, cruel wench. She doesn’t care as long as her needs are getting met even if it proverbially screws me over again and again.

  After another fifteen minutes of wallowing in self-pity, I climb from bed and rummage through my closet for something to wear. I finally pull on a pair of capris and a short sleeve shirt. My favorite coffee shop is just a block from my house. The walk there is great exercise and refreshes me in the morning. I don’t even mind spending a little of my hard-earned tips every morning just for the pleasure. I think about calling upstairs to see if George wants to join me but he’s usually busy this time of day and I don’t need to rehash this all over again just yet.

  I open the door to my apartment and find a guy standing in the hallway. He is on his phone and seems startled when I come out. He doesn’t look like someone I’ve seen in the building before. I decide he’s waiting for the girl who lives in the apartment next to me. I lock my door and give him a polite nod and smile, but as I walk by him I hear him say quietly, “get ready, she’s coming.”

  Please tell me that my caffeine deficiency is causing me to hear things. Surely, he did not just tell someone that I’m coming out of my apartment. That wouldn’t make sense. I shrug it off as paranoia and stress and proceed on my way.

  When I get to the bottom floor I push the double doors open and am blinded by the brightest lights I’ve ever seen. Startled I jump back inside trying to adjust to the flashes in front of my eyes pulling the door closed with me. What was that?

  I look out the window to the side of the door and see cameras. There are at least five men with cameras outside my apartment. My landlord already hates me because I’m perpetually late with rent. I can only imagine what all this attention is going to cause. If I’m not homeless by the end of the week because of late rent, I will be because of all the slimy paps hanging around the front doors. My building doesn’t have fancy security and this is going to blow up in my face.

  Breathing heavily, I press my back against the wall by the window. One of the photographers comes up to it looking in, but he can’t see me. Maybe there’s someone else staying in the apartments is famous. That’s a possibility, right?

  “You need a bodyguard?” George comes up to me and smiles his brightest. “They can get my good side if I protect you.” I smile and grab onto George in a half hug. I’d never been so thankful to see a friend before. He hugs me back and ushers me forward. No place to go but moving on.

  “Can they come into the coffee shop?” I ask completely oblivious to how this whole thing works.

  “No, they usually don’t.” He flips imaginary hair and smirks. “I once dated the stand-in for Brad Pitt in one of those movies. I got followed a couple of times.” My jaw drops and he winks reassuring me.

  “Oh okay, then walk with me to The Steam and Press, please?”

  “You’re going to the dry cleaners?” George asks.

  “No, it’s a coffee place. They have the best coffee. Please, just walk me there. I can’t be photographed and stalked like this.”

  George nods and I take a deep breath. He pushes the door open and demands the cameramen get back. He uses his body to block them and guide me out onto the sidewalk. They press and hound us.

  “Hey sweetheart,” one of them yells, “are you going to see Thomas?”

  “Doll, look at me. Where does Thomas take you on dates.”

  “Back up a bit and let the lady walk,” George says as he pulls me into him. I tuck my head under his arm wishing I had some dark sunglasses to put on. This is what I have decided my nightmare consists of. I have no doubt that in less than an hour my mother will be frantically calling to ask what the heck is going on.

  The walk to the coffee shop is usually my time to think and relax. This is far from relaxing. In fact, I am really assessing my burning need for coffee. Like how badly do I really need the jolt of caffeine? Now might be the time to make a special trip to Target for a coffee maker which I’d been putting off since I cracked the glass on the last one I had.

  Do they always follow Thomas like this? He told me once they wait outside the gates of his parent’s house and go to the clubs he’s at. He says you can’t do anything anymore once they catch your scent.

  I’m thinking this is probably the end of us. I can’t imagine him wanting to be with me if he can’t sneak to the bar anymore. For some reason, that thought bothers me a little more than it probably should. I’ve enjoyed our hookups and while yes, a secret part of me maybe hoped it could be more I’m not stupid. I wouldn’t take a moment with Thomas Henry for granted and now it’s gone. I don’t really want the cameras in my face all the time anyway. No matter how hot he is, I feel like that will give me anxiety.

  They are going to be watching him that much closer now. They are going to be watching his every little step. They will be trying to catch a glimpse of poor little bar girl, desperately sleeping with a rich boy as she tries to claw her way to the top.

  I frown because it wasn’t even like that. We met by chance. I didn’t know he was rich, and I certainly didn’t know who he was. I think he liked that until I saw him on television and almost dropped the glass I’d been drinking out of.

  Had I let any of my friends meet him or someone see us together, I would have known a lot sooner, but I liked for him to be my dirty little secret. Who wouldn’t? There’s just something about being sneaky and being bad. Well, this is as about as bad as I can afford and now I’m going to pay for it, possibly lose my job, maybe even my apartment when I can’t pay rent.

  George is right, when we walk through the doors of the coffee place, they don’t follow. They also don’t leave. They continue to hover outside like scavengers. He informs me that a lot of businesses won’t allow paparazzi through the doors because they believe their customers deserve privacy.

  “Look at the relentless little vultures,” George says and scrunches his face up at the menu. “I like my coffee shop better.”

  Still, he orders a coffee right behind me and we sit in little plush chairs to wait out the cameras.

  “I don’t think they are budging,” George says after we’ve sipped in silence for a while.

  “What could possibly be interesting about me getting coffee?” I throw up my hands. One of the cameras snaps through the window.

  “Oh, now the headline will read slutty barmaid fights with a fabulous friend over gross coffee,” George says smiling. My eyes roll hard but I know he’s right. My every move will be scrutinized until they move on to the next big scandal or indiscretion.

  “Please, you’re probably right,” I smile. None of this is comfortabl
e to me. I rarely post pictures of myself anywhere and if I can get out of being in a picture with someone, I will. I don’t even post on social media sites unless I’m obligated.

  After our coffee is finished I look outside to see only one of the five photographers have been deterred. When I get ready to go out and brave everyone, I see the guy who’d been standing in my apartment ordering a coffee.

  There’s no way it’s a coincidence that he’s here and I am going to confront him. I walk up to him and cross my arms. He turns slowly and gives me a long look up and down which I don’t appreciate.

  “Why are you following me?” I ask and tap my foot impatiently.

  “I go where the boss says to go and that’s where the money is. Don’t worry honey when he hooks up with someone else, you’ll be old news.” He sneers. If I was into punching people on the regular, he would be on my hit list right up at the top.

  He walks away and try as I might I can’t think of anything clever to say to him. Still, what he says bothers me a little bit. When he hooks up with someone else. For some reason, that made what I’d been doing with Thomas feel dirty and cheap. Was I just another in a long list of hookups? I didn’t like having to second guess myself and I didn’t like the implied label this guy was giving me.

  I try to tell myself that these type of people say these things to make you mad. They want you to cuss them so they can report it.

  I hear him get on his phone as he’s leaving. “You’re outside of Rosa’s apartment? Beautiful, yell at her about the bar chick. Get a reaction.”

  Not only are they after me and Thomas, but they are going after his ex-girlfriend too? This sucks so bad. “This is madness,” I tell George as he prepares to shield me once again for the walk back to the apartments.

  “I know, I love it,” he yells as the photographers start hollering things at us again. The walk back feels like it takes twice as long and my mood dampens as the caffeine wears off.

  Chapter Seven: Thomas

  I walk into my house around ten o’clock feeling the effects from last night. I’d slept in. Mason and I had stopped for breakfast at a little diner avoiding any discussion around Rosa or Sophia. He had some work to do at the office so I came home to face the music. That morning while we ate I saw the shaky phone footage of my fight on my phone. It had been posted to Instagram. About ten damning seconds of footage that was now captured forever, haunting me. Soon after there were alerts going off about Sophia going to get coffee and the girl I’d been defending was with some guy already. New hashtags popped up every few minutes because the trolls had nothing better to do than harass my girl. Whoa. Where had that thought come from? My girl. I still wasn’t used to the idea beyond a hookup.

  It is insane how fast they are. I don’t really understand how they can get news out as fast as they do. That’s why I’m always so careful. Now, because I threw that careful nature into the wind to help Sophia out, I was back in the news again. I groan slapping my hand to the wall. The move doesn’t change anything except to send a sting up my arm. I wish I had punched that Price dick. At least then I would have unloaded some of this frustration.

  “I just wonder what like the people who get followed every minute and have the paparazzi in their faces while they hold their kids go through,” I tell Mason before he leaves. “I’d be in jail if one of these yahoos put the camera in my kid’s faces.” Mini versions of Sophia with dark hair and impish smiles flood my brain and I pause stopping myself. No. No. No.

  “Like-wise, man. That’s why I’m glad you’re the famous one.” We fist bump and then I flip off a cameraman who has come to get a shot. He’s thrilled by this of course. Anytime they get a rise and get us to show some sort of anger and emotion, they see dollar signs. Flashes flicker and I consider busting a camera for show, but I hold back. My PR folks warned me about this and I’m letting them win by giving in.

  I’ve seen celebrities freak out before. They smash cameras, chase the paps, and basically rack up assault charges. The headlines always say they’re out of control, but it’s really the paps just push too far.

  I’m happy to drive into the gates of my parent’s house and get away from the cameras. I need to clear my head.

  As I make my way through the foyer I can smell the remnants of breakfast and realize my parents must have gotten up late as well.

  “Thomas is that you. Come here please, your father has lost his mind.”

  My mother calls from the dining room. I walk in to find her playing solitaire on the table the old school way. She says it relaxes her. My dad is standing at the counter reading a newspaper. I grab a piece of bacon and sit at the table munching quietly waiting for him to speak. Despite just eating a large amount of breakfast, I just can’t pass up bacon.

  Mom is wearing her Sunday outfit of a silk robe and kerchief around her curlers. Dad is dressed for the day already in slacks and a polo shirt. They both seem anxious.

  “What’s going on?” I ask taking another piece of bacon off the huge stack in the middle of the table. No one says anything and I wait in the pregnant silence.

  My mother is stressed, when she’s stressed she gets her chef to cook a lot of food for each meal. Now that’s added up to more bacon than anyone needs even if I do like it.

  “Your father is losing it, Thomas. I don’t even know what to say.” I notice she’s got a mimosa and wonder what number she’s on. She isn’t slurring her words but the carefree way she holding the glass and chugging it down does worry me.

  “I’m not losing it, Thomas. I’ve never been clearer in my whole life. What are materialistic things really? They’re not what’s important.” He’s pontificating and I still don’t know how serious to take him. To say my parents can be eccentric is putting it mildly even if I’ve never heard this before.

  I’ve not heard my father speak like this before and I wonder where he’s going with this. I go over to the coffee pot and pour a large mug full before joining my mother at the table. I’m careful not to disturb her cards. She’s particular about them staying lined up just so.

  “Tell me, what have you come up with dad? What is important?” I watch them as I sip the coffee thinking it’s the perfect temperature of hot. If it wasn’t, I could have escaped to the kitchen to heat it up while dad organizes his thoughts better.

  “Ah, but that’s the question, isn’t it. I’ve decided I’m done being rich, I don’t want the money anymore. I’m going to give it away.”

  I swallow my coffee and put it down, my finger circling the rim slowly to give my hand something to do.

  “You are?” I’m shocked. My father has always taken so much pride in what we had. He’s always been generous and never greedy, but to just give it all away, well this doesn’t sound like him at all.

  “I am. There’s the matter of your inheritance. I wanted to talk to you about it.”

  “Okay, I’m listening.” I still am not sure where this is going, but I see my mother has downed her mimosa and is clutching the edge of the table with one hand while angrily slamming down cards with the other. She flips over a single card huffing and grabbing another with a snap. She’s clearly not happy about what’s happening but she doesn’t interrupt my dad.

  He clears his throat and starts up again, “You need a baby and a woman in the next twelve months to get anything from me. You’re too old to be going out with models and celebrities. It’s time to find a nice girl and settle down.”

  While I’m not opposed to a family someday… someday being the operative word here, this is a shock.

  “I am not going to orchestrate my life so I can gain an inheritance. I’ll just go get a job and earn my own way.” He’s got to be bluffing. There’s no other explanation.

  “That’s fine son. I want to give my money to charity. I want to live off the grid with your mother.”

  Mom continues snapping cards but her voice is angry and stilted as she puts the last card down with a slam that jiggles the table. “If you think I’m going to go
with you while you live out some mountain man fantasy, you’re insane,” my mother says shoving bacon into her mouth.

  “Honey, it will be romantic, just the two of us.” His arms are open wide as if this has been something he’s been discussing for years and the rest of us are being unreasonable about it. I have a good mind to check him for competency but say nothing.

  He gets in these moods. There was one time he wanted everyone to take a watercolor class with him. We decided to try and went with him to the class. He gave up after a week because it never looked like the instructor’s painting.

  I walk into the living room to get away from their bickering and ridiculous ultimatums. He said a baby first before the girl. He wants a grandkid, but why. Is he dying?

  When I walk into the sunken living room and head towards the couch I realize my childhood friend Julia Sugarman is sitting on the couch with Mintzy and Pepper, my mother’s miniature poodles. Mintzy growls at me like she always does.

  “Mintzy, it’s me. You know me.” I say reaching out to pet Pepper who loves me. The dogs merely sniff the air looking for food. Well, that’s about to dry up if dad has his way and gives it all away. I wonder if the dogs can sense the tension and I turn to Julia.

  “Why are you here?” I ask Julia. She’s watching something about animals and has her legs tucked up under her with a pillow in her lap.