Her Fake Engagement

by Gigi Garrett

  We’ve barely been sitting at our posh table overlooking both the New Jersey and the New York skylines for five minutes when I hear a young voice say, “Professor Whitman?”

  I turn and Jane is literally hiding her face in her hands, the same way Birdie does when she plays peekaboo. A young college-age guy is standing at our table. He looks somewhere between amused and terrified.

  “Professor Whitman?” he repeats.

  Jane uncovers her face. “Oh, hi, Scott. I can’t say I was expecting to run into anyone I knew here tonight.”

  He smirks and shows a mouthful of toothpaste-commercial-white teeth. Jane’s student is a hottie. “Professor Whitman, lots of NYU students go here.” Then his face turns red. “Well, just the legal ones. But I’ve never seen a professor here. This is a first, and I’m not going to lie—I can’t believe it’s you.”

  Jane looks to Mia and Elsa May to help her out. “It’s her bachelorette party,” Elsa May explains. “Want to sit down and have a drink? Assuming you’re legal and all.”

  “I’m twenty-two,” Scott says seriously. “I’ve been legal for fourteen months.”

  I try not to laugh at his exact math, and I watch Jane cringe as Scott takes a seat right next to her.

  “Nice crown,” he says. “I didn’t know you were engaged.” He looks at the triad diamond ring that Mia borrowed for Jane. “Nice rocks too.”

  Elsa May leans over and whispers, “I was hoping for a celebrity encounter . . .” She pauses. “But this is even better. This is epic.” That word has truly become like nails on a chalkboard. As funny as this whole scene is, I want to go home. It’s already edging past my self-imposed bedtime, and I can’t shake this awkwardness between Elsa May and me.

  And I have to wake up early to see Tyler tomorrow.

  I rub my temples before standing up. “Hey, ladies. I’m not feeling well. Can I get a rain check? I think this will all go perfectly without me.”

  Elsa May looks at me like I’m a stranger. “But this isn’t even our last stop.”

  I hold my stomach. “I don’t feel well,” I repeat.

  Mia shrugs. “How about you stay at our place tonight, Elsa May? Your bag is there anyways.”

  She nods. “Okay,” she says, bending down to pick up and half throw, half hand me my purse.

  I fumble to catch it. Who is she? I turn to leave, but then I hesitate. “It’s obviously not okay,” I say loudly enough that even Scott turns around.

  “Outside, now. We need to talk,” Elsa May says to me. “I’ll be right back,” she says in a sweet-as-honey voice to Scott, Jane, and Mia. She’s treating me like I’m her child. Scratch that—she’s much nicer to Birdie.

  We collect our things from the coat check and silently ride the elevator down to the ground floor. Elsa May and I have been in exactly one fight, and it was over her decision to quit the newspaper in college. I wanted her to do it with me, and she went behind my back and dropped out. The whole fight lasted but a day. It ended with us making Kraft mac and cheese and watching an entire season of The O.C.

  Somehow, I don’t think that’s how tonight is going to end. I don’t think this is that simple.

  We walk through the hotel out into the cold winter air. Out on the cobblestone streets of the Meatpacking District, twenty-and thirtysomethings shiver and shake their way to different bars and restaurants. I sit on the curb, which is something I would normally never do since it’s dirty and disgusting. But my feet hurt, I’m exhausted, and I’m giving this trashy dress away tomorrow anyway. Elsa May sits down beside me but leaves enough space between us that I feel our distance, in more ways than one.

  “What’s wrong, Lottie?” she asks. “What’s the big deal about doing this one more night and having some fun?”

  “Wake-up call: I’m not fun.” I point at her. “And you of all people know this. That’s why we’re friends. Let’s face it. Neither of us is particularly fun. We’re smart. We’re determined. But we’re not fun. Mia’s fun. Not us.” I point to our sequins. “This is not us.”

  Elsa May smiles, which irks me further. “But why can’t it be us? Don’t you ever wonder if you wasted a lot of your life living by the rules? Hell, I wasted my twenties buried in tort textbooks for a job I’m never going to do.”

  Now Elsa May’s swearing?

  I turn my legs to face her. “Birdie’s only eight months. You have plenty of time to practice law.”

  Elsa May shakes her head. “It’s not just Birdie. Sure, sometimes I get bored at home. But the reason I’m not practicing law”—she pauses and looks at me with tears in her eyes—“that’s all about me. If I wanted to do law, I would be doing it already. I could’ve studied for and taken the bar by now.” She shrugs. “But planning these parties has further proved to me that I wouldn’t have been happy as a lawyer. If anything, Birdie saved me from a life of doing what I thought I should do.” She pauses. “Looking back, I decided to become a lawyer because my parents told me I should. It was like I was on a moving escalator and too afraid to get off and figure out how to walk on my own.”

  “Are you happy now?”

  Elsa May buttons her coat. “It might not seem like it, Lottie, but I actually am happy. I complain about being a mom, but I love it, especially since I still can come in on weekends and have fun with you guys. And this bachelorette thing—I know it’s all a hoax—but it’s fun for me.” She smiles again. “It might have started as a way to cheer you up, but I love it. The creativity, the control, the details. Everything. It makes me feel something that the law never did. Excited. And happy.”

  I point to the Boom Boom Room, perched above us. “But this is all pretend. This isn’t real. We’re playing dress-up like a bunch of little girls with a costume box.”

  “So maybe no one is actually getting married. So what? Just because we’re almost thirty doesn’t mean we can’t be silly and have fun.”

  “You’re already married with a kid,” I argue. “I’m single. This is becoming a waste of my time.” I stick out my pout. “I like my schedule. I like my rules. I like feeling like I’m getting something done.”

  “I’m your best friend,” Elsa May says. “So let me be the one to tell you this. You have your entire life to live on a schedule.” She sighs. “But you’re never going to find someone if you keep it up with that rules stuff. That’s a defense mechanism you use, so that you can feel like you’re in control. You’ve been this way forever. You think if you take one step away from your carefully crafted life plan, the world will crumble.”

  “Um, hello,” I say, waving. “Ever since this all faux bachelorette witchcraft started, my life has become a total mess.”

  “Maybe,” Elsa May says slowly, “this whole thing is making you realize that you weren’t all that happy before. Maybe that’s why you’re so upset.”

  “Thanks, Dr. Phil. So pretending to be engaged is the answer?”

  “No,” she says. “But loosening up is. Why don’t you call that Tyler guy and tell him the truth? Hell, just tell dreamy Brit Harry the truth.” She makes a serious frown, the same one she made whenever she was studying. “Tell someone the truth. Screw it, I’m your best friend, so I’ll tell it to you. You need to stop being so worried about everything going the way you’ve planned it and start actually living.”

  The idea of telling Tyler the truth makes my stomach drop.

  I push myself off the curb and stand up. “I know your plans didn’t work out,” I say sharply, “but that doesn’t mean mine won’t.” I point in the direction of the club. “Why don’t you go back to your party? After all, that’s what this is, right? Your party.”

  Elsa May dusts off. “So now you’re Dr. Phil? You know what, Lottie? While I genuinely like the planning aspects, I started doing it because of you. You needed this way more than I ever did. You were still so stuck on Rock.”

  I shrug. “Rock had a lot going for him,” I say. “I’m going to find someone like Rock. I’m okay waiting for someone who has everything I w
ant.”

  Elsa May throws up her hands. “Rock was an asshole,” she says. She shrugs. “There, I said it. He may have filled every box you dreamed of, but he wasn’t a nice person. And he wasn’t fun. Rock is the same as my law degree. He’s who you think you should be with, but you all weren’t even good together. It was always about how great Rock was at his job and how he was everything you dreamed about, but it was never about how he made you feel.”

  “He made me feel safe,” I say.

  “Until he got up and left,” Elsa May says. She reaches out for me and I scoot away. She shrugs. “Lottie, I’m not some client you’re trying to sell on a shitty apartment. You can be honest with me.”

  I don’t respond.

  “Sometimes, Lottie, we aren’t always right—even about our own lives. Believe me, I know,” Elsa May says with a tear in her eye.

  “Well, thanks for letting me know,” I say. I’m completely fed up with Elsa May, these parties, and feeling so out of control. Everything was fine until all this started. I look at her and without thinking I spit out: “I guess I was also wrong about us being best friends.”

  Her face drops into the saddest expression I’ve seen in a decade of knowing her.

  Without another word, I flag down the nearest cab. I would normally walk from here since it’s not very far, but I need to be home now. And out of these sequins.

  Chapter 8

  When my alarm goes off the next morning, I can barely open my eyes. My head feels like it’s hosting a construction site. Elsa May, with all her perfect planning and foresight, should pass out Advil Extra Strength caplets before these faux bachelorettes. But to be fair, I know this is more than a hangover-induced headache.

  This is one of those headaches that’s about everything, not just too much champagne.

  But there’s no time to lie in bed and mull how it all went wrong. I’m meeting Tyler in ninety minutes. I get out of bed, and I’m not amused to see a few errant sequins found their way into my sheets. I pick up each and every one and throw them in the trash—where they belong.

  After my shower, I look through my closet of black and navy pencil skirts and solid Ann Taylor button-downs. I examine rows of seasonably appropriate pumps, waiting to assault my feet. I think about pulling some athleisure and showing up wildly underdressed, but then I think better of it. Today’s about getting back on track—and the Real Lottie dresses for the job.

  I put on a sensible J. Crew pencil skirt with a coordinating sweater. I look professional—I look like me.

  On the subway, Elsa May’s words “tell the truth” join the heavy machinery playing on a loop. I’m happy when I get off the subway with twenty minutes to spare. One, I like to be early as a rule. Two, I’m in desperate need of a coffee, even some fancy, overpriced, free-trade, Brooklyn coffee.

  I rush to join the line at Caffeinated when I notice that Tyler beat me to the coffee shop. He’s sitting in the corner window seat. His head is down, so he doesn’t spot me. I can see that he’s sketching in a book with charcoal sticks. He puts his stick down and smiles, seemingly at nothing in particular. I don’t think I ever once saw Rock smiling about anything other than signing a deal.

  I can’t lie. I feel something when I see Tyler. I feel warm. Maybe this is what Elsa May meant when she went all Dr. Phil on me. I push away the flashbacks from last night. Having feelings for Tyler doesn’t mean I should act on them. After all, I also harbor a secret crush on Zac Efron, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to send him fan mail and plot our marriage.

  Some things aren’t meant to be. Some things are distractions, and I don’t like to waste time.

  “A mocha latte, please. With extra whipped cream,” I say to the barista, forgoing my normal skinny, no-taste, heavy-caffeine order. “The name is Lottie,” I add in almost a whisper.

  I wait for my coffee out of sight of Tyler, but I keep sneaking peeks over at him. He’s wearing a camel-colored wool sweater and dark jeans. And he looks so cozy here. Maybe this will be his new local spot, I tell myself.

  Usually, I try to sell my clients on the neighborhood as a tactic to get the sale. But with Tyler, I genuinely believe he will be happy here. That thought makes me feel better than I have in a long time.

  Maybe my job is about more than just the dotted line and commission. Or maybe it was this one time.

  “Mocha Latte for Lottie,” the barista calls out in a booming voice.

  Tyler’s head pops up from his sketchbook. He looks around the shop until he finds me and waves enthusiastically.

  As I walk over, Tyler carries over a chair from another table.

  We have that awkward moment when we are both standing over the table.

  “Can we hug now?” Tyler says, reaching out. “I know you do this all the time, but it’s a big moment for me. I kind of thought I’d be Williamsburg for life.”

  I nod, since this is the signing, after all. You always hug on signing, I remind myself. If you hug, it’s just because that’s what you always do.

  Tyler pulls me in close and gives me a big bear hug. I count to three. Three seconds is professional, I tell myself. After a five count, I finally pull away.

  Five seconds is not professional, I scold myself. Suddenly, the coffee shop seems way too warm for a sweater. I wish I had worn a blouse underneath.

  “Sit down,” Tyler says, pulling out my chair.

  He looks at my latte. “I’m getting that next time,” he says, pointing.

  I pull a stack of papers out of my bag. “Here are the contracts,” I say, turning the conversation back to business. Focus, Lottie. Your life is a mess, you’re in a fight with your best friend, and you’ve been masquerading as an engaged woman for weeks. This is not the time to be debating your impossible and completely inappropriate crush on some guy who thinks you’re engaged.

  I hand Tyler a copy. “The owner’s broker emailed these to me last night. It’s a good thing no one takes weekends off in New York.”

  “I always do,” Tyler says matter-of-factly. “I’m a nine-to-five guy in a city that’s not.”

  Another sign from the universe that Tyler is not for me.

  “It’s different when you’re an artist,” I reply. I look over at his sketch pad. “Aren’t you working now anyway?”

  Tyler tucks his long hair behind his left ear. “This?” he says. “These are just sketches for fun,” he says.

  Who is this guy? I ask myself.

  What’s the last thing I did for fun? The bachelorette parties? And look how that turned out.

  “They’re nice sketches,” I say.

  “Thanks,” Tyler says with a humble nod.

  And I swear that Tyler blushes. Like my opinion matters to him. I know the feeling because I held my breath from the time I showed him the brownstone until he finally called and said he wanted it.

  I pull out my special, expensive, signing-day pen. “We have a lot of initialing to do, so let’s get started,” I say. I show Tyler where I carefully placed tabs to indicate where he has to initial.

  “So what took you so long to decide?” I ask Tyler as gets to work. “You know, about the apartment.”

  Tyler shrugs. “It was a big decision, and I wanted to make sure I wasn’t persuaded for the wrong reasons, like an extremely talented saleswoman.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment, and I definitely think you made the right decision,” I say. “This neighborhood is great. You’ll have that amazing kitchen to tinker around in. Trust me, this place is once in a lifetime.”

  “I think so too,” he says. “It feels sort of like it was made for me. Is that weird to say?”

  I shake my head. It’s not weird, I think. In fact, that’s what I thought when I found it. Normally, I convince the person that it’s the place for them. But with Tyler, I searched until I found a place I actually thought was suited exactly for him.

  But I should have never met Tyler, I shouldn’t be sitting here, and I definitely shouldn’t feel the way I do when he
looks at me.

  The only way to fix any of this is to walk away and shut all these doors behind me. That’s the closest I can come to resetting the clock—and my equilibrium.

  Tyler puts his final “TK” on the papers. “Well, thank you, Lottie. It sounds strange, but I don’t think I would’ve done this without you. You’re a terrific saleswoman.”

  Saleswoman. That’s the second time he’s said it. That’s how he thinks of me. Normally, I love a good compliment about my work, but today it stings.

  Tyler points at my left hand. “Ring is still getting cleaned? It must have been really dirty,” he says with a raised eyebrow.

  I shake my head. “Tell the truth,” Elsa May’s voice echoes.

  And I realize it’s time to do so. Not because Elsa May told me to do so, but because I can’t get back on track until I do.

  “Uh,” I say. “I’m not actually engaged,” I confess.

  “Shit. You broke up?” Tyler asks. His eyes sparkle all kaleidoscope-like again before he reaches out and puts his hand on mine. His skin is rough, but comforting. “I’m really sorry, Lottie,” he says.

  I shiver and retract my hand, even though Tyler sounds nothing but genuine.

  The coffee shop now feels like a walk-in freezer. I rub my sleeves for warmth.

  “Not broken up,” I clarify. “I was actually never engaged. This is going to sound totally bizarre, but my friends thought it would be fun to do a fake bachelorette party and somehow, I got elected to play the part and then I met you . . . and, well, it snowballed.”

  There, I finally said it. I take a deep breath and get up the courage to meet Tyler’s eyes.

  When I do, he breaks out in hysterical laughter. He’s laughing so hard that he shakes the table. I hold it steady, so our drinks don’t spill.

  “You think it’s funny?” I say.

  “Very much so,” he says. “A little cuckoo, but mostly funny. Why didn’t you just tell me the truth?”

  I put my hands in my face and then peer out. “Would it be awful if I said it was because I wanted the commission and thought I’d lose it if I told the truth?”