Her Fake Engagement

by Gigi Garrett

  Tyler bangs his fist on the table and cracks up all over again. “I can’t believe you did this for a commission.” He shrugs, then says, “Well, actually, I can sort of believe it.”

  And I join in laughing because it’s a pretty ridiculous thing to do for a broker’s fee. But that’s not why I kept up the ruse after leasing JR’s apartment. I know I kept lying because if I was engaged, then I didn’t have to consider the possibility of me and Tyler.

  And now, the truth is out and it’s clear that he just finds the whole thing funny, which is great. It means whatever might have been there wasn’t actually there, and I can move on.

  Tyler leans across the table, over the stack of papers.

  “Can I confess something too?”

  “Sure,” I say. All of a sudden, my stomach feels like it’s hosting a butterfly migration.

  “I’m glad you’re not engaged, because I’ve spent the past month feeling like a total douchebag for having a crush on an engaged woman,” he says.

  “You have a crush on me?” I repeat, leaning back in my seat. I look away from him and back down at the contracts.

  Today is about starting over.

  “That’s very flattering,” I say and I mean it. In some alternate galaxy, maybe Tyler and I could work. But not here in the Milky Way.

  “But I don’t date”—I pause and take a deep breath—“I don’t date people I’ve worked with,” I finish.

  “In that case, I’d be willing to get a new broker,” Tyler says. He raises his eyebrows expectantly. It’s an extremely hard face to say no to. “I dig my new apartment and all, but . . .”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “But it’s more than just that.” I want to say more, to explain, but I fear that would only make things worse.

  Tyler nods. “Okay,” he says. “I can take a hint. Hey, it was worth a shot.”

  I nervously shuffle the papers.

  “Well, back to business,” I say out loud. At that, Tyler’s face crumples into an expression I haven’t seen before—true hurt.

  But I know I’m doing the right thing. Without this mess in my life, I can focus on work and on meeting the right kind of guy. I’ll steer back onto course, and once that happens, I’ll feel normal again.

  I stack the papers neatly and paperclip them.

  “The owner’s broker should be in touch with the keys,” I say in an even tone. “You can move in on the fifteenth. Do you need any recommendations for movers?”

  He shakes his head. “I’ll do it myself,” he says. “Okay, I’ll make JR do it,” he admits.

  I stand. “Well, thank you, Tyler.”

  Tyler watches as I take the last sip of my latte before turning to go.

  “Take care of yourself, Lottie,” he says as I walk away.

  “I will,” I say over my shoulder. “Goodbye,” I whisper.

  I know this is the only way in the long run, but I wish it didn’t hurt so much.

  Chapter 9

  Three months later

  Jane’s article in Dazzle comes out today. Her email said that it would be posted online as well, but I want to see a physical copy with my very own eyes. I wake up, throw on clothes, and go down to the bodega and pluck a copy off the stand. The headline, “Faux Bachelorette Exposé” written in a bold, hot pink font, jumps out at me. Seeing that makes it so much more real. Amy Schumer is on the cover. I feel like she’s smirking right at me.

  It’s finally a true spring day, so I get a coffee and sit on a bench in this secret church garden by my apartment. Three months have passed since that fateful night. Three months without talking to Elsa May. In best friend years, that’s the equivalent of a century. I flip to the story. Accompanying it is a great photo of Jane next to the pink Hummer. She’s wearing our bachelorette crown. I hesitate before beginning to read. It’s all here in black and white. I take a deep yoga breath and dive in.

  The (Faux) Bachelorette

  by Jane Whitman

  Across the pond, they are called hens nights. In South Africa, kitchen teas. Here in the U.S., we call them bachelorette parties, an all-girls’ night out to celebrate a bride-to-be before she gets hitched. In mass media, the idea of a bachelorette party conjures up limos, penis straws, and poor life decisions. In gender studies, my own personal field of expertise, bachelorette parties are often regarded as a practice adopted from male patriarchy. At their best, they are an opportunity to bond with other females. At their worst, they’re seen as a woman’s last night of freedom before being shackled to her husband—an ending instead of a beginning.

  While bachelor parties have been a “thing” since way back in Sparta during the fifth century, bachelorette parties only became a common practice in the late 1980s. Yet in the last thirty years, they have become a rite of passage for females. Having a bachelorette party is now considered a milestone in the same regard as experiencing menses for the first time or getting a driver’s license.

  Until recently, I was a bachelorette party virgin. Let’s be honest: when you are entrenched in feminist studies and are by nature an introvert, you observe most parties from the outside and are rarely invited to attend any of these parties. Yet in the last month, I’ve attended three bachelorette parties, including my own. But I’m not engaged. You see, these three parties were all carefully concocted ruses. Now, why would intelligent, attractive women do something so seemingly childish—or, even worse, pathetic? It began as a sincere attempt to spice up life. The question was simple: Do bachelorettes really have more fun? The answer, however, turned out to be much more complicated.

  In Manhattan, at my age, the singletons rule. It’s an urban Neverland, run by gangs of Peter Pans, Tinkerbelles and, of course, a few Lost Boys. A married person under thirty—or even an engaged person—is a unicorn. A rare breed. They are regarded as the “other,” deemed both mysterious as well as dangerous. They represent what many of us want to have in life—a solid future with a partner—but they also represent what many of us fear. While many move to New York to find love, many here still also shun and run from commitment and marriage. A bachelorette party is a symbol that celebrates this “other,” a woman no longer available.

  To answer the first question, yes, bachelorettes do have more fun. But it’s not for the reasons I initially thought. At first, I assumed a bachelorette party was a silly way for a woman to be the center of attention and to get free drinks. And this does happen. Over the course of the three bachelorette parties, we probably drank a thousand dollars’ worth of (overpriced) cocktails and shots, gifted to us by men and even a few women. And whoever “played” bachelorette did get a lot of attention. She glowed in dark rooms and had a gravitational force that pulled men to her. This was not because the men were trying to sleep with the bachelorette . . . although they probably would have if she had asked. But it was more than that—men actually talked to the faux bachelorette. They opened up to these women whom they believed were both committed and ready to take the big leap. They talked about their dreams, their past mistakes, and even their biggest fears. They asked questions about the bachelorette and her friends. They listened. They did everything we singletons could hope for from potential mates, but it seemed that the only reason they did it was because the bachelorette was “off the table.” There was no fear of being rejected. There was no worry of “tomorrow.” There were no promises made, kept—or broken. Although moments of emotional intimacy between men and the faux bachelorettes occurred every time we set out, they were left there that night.

  So yes, bachelorettes—even the faux variety—do have way more fun. But a big reason why is that men, when faced with someone on the verge of marriage, finally open up. They expose themselves rather than wear tightly sealed armor. And maybe the fake bachelorette, without the worry or fear of rejection, also reveals her true self. While I’m a cynic by nature and skeptical of everything gendered, in the end, I’m grateful for these bachelorette parties. They seemed in some ways to invert stereotypical gender roles. In this setting, men
were willing to be welcoming and vulnerable. It reminded me that men want what women want . . . even if it takes a bachelorette party to show that to them—and us.

  To recap, what I learned from playing a (fake) bachelorette is that men aren’t that different from women. And sometimes you have to pretend to be something you are not in order to open up and allow people to see who you really are. Confident. Beautiful. Desirable. Sometimes you realize that you like your pretend self better than you like your real self. So shake things up. I dare you. Be a (fake) bachelorette for a night. I promise you’ll be forever changed. I was.

  * * *

  I exhale. There’s no mention of Elsa May and the big fight we had. Even better, there’s no mention or even allusion to me at all. Instead of being an exposé as advertised, it’s a thoughtful piece on bachelorettes and gender. If anything, it’s a little bit stiff. Overall, it’s very Jane.

  I pick up my phone and type out a text to her.

  “Congrats on the article. I really enjoyed reading it.”

  Immediately, my phone pings back.

  “Thanks. I had mixed feelings about writing it after how the chips fell. We should catch up sometime.”

  I know it wasn’t Jane’s article that caused what happened between Elsa May and me.

  “That whole thing was probably a long time coming. Hope you’re doing well, Jane. Hope Mia’s good too.”

  When everything fell apart, I lost Mia along with Elsa May. And Jane too. I didn’t call them, and they didn’t call me. I thought maybe the whole thing would last a week and blow over, but it’s been three months now. I never apologized and neither did Elsa May. I wonder if my words echo in her head, like hers do in mine. I wonder if she wants to take back everything she said about how I was wrong about everything and needed to change.

  This has all just sat there in my brain, being analyzed day after day, until I got the email from Jane about her article. I’ve lived in panic since then. The editor promised anonymity and all that, but you never know.

  My phone rings. “Harry,” it reads in big block letters. Yes, that’s dream Harry.

  I bumped into him about two and half months ago at Angelique’s, a coffee shop on Bleecker Street. I was hard-selling the neighborhood to another client since it seems all I do now is work—even more than before. But less because I love it and more because it was all I have.

  At least I am back on track.

  Harry spotted me first as I was standing in front of a case of pastries. “Lottie,” he said in that most charming accent. “I love my apartment. I’ve been meaning to email you to say thank you.”

  I nodded and motioned to my client. “See, a walking, breathing billboard. And I’m not even paying him.” He laughed, and I felt a rush of energy, even though I hadn’t sipped my cappuccino yet. While my client ordered, I whispered to Harry that I wasn’t engaged anymore, and that it was a long story. I told him I was up for that date if he hadn’t been swept off his feet by some American broad. He said yes. I’m still not sure what got into me. If it was loneliness or if I actually absorbed some of what Elsa May had said. She was off on a lot, but maybe she was still right about telling the truth.

  I almost speed-dialed her after I saw Harry to tell her everything, but then I remembered. I’m finding out that losing your best friend is a lot like a death. Sometimes you almost forget for a second that it happened, but then your heart reminds your head. There is no more painful feeling.

  Two weeks after the coffee shop run-in, Harry and I had our first date at the restaurant Sant Ambroeus. That was two months ago. He works all the time, but so do I. Just like I thought, we’re a perfect match. Two straight-edge workaholics. Maybe there are no fireworks when we kiss or long passionate debates that go on until sunrise, but it’s comfortable and that’s what I’ve been looking for. Something that fits.

  He’s like Rock, but better.

  I pick up the phone. “Morning,” he says. Seriously, we need our government to mandate that we all pick up British accents. They are so pleasant, even at nine in the morning. I think it would go a long way to uniting our country.

  “I read the article, darling,” he says. “I don’t know why you were fretting so much. It wasn’t even about you, Pumpkin.”

  “I overreacted,” I admit. When I told Harry the whole story about the faux bachelorette thing, he laughed for a full two minutes and then didn’t say anything. Finally, he said, “American women are nearly as crazy as I thought.” Elsa May was right. He didn’t care. And just like with Tyler, the truth set me free and let me get back on course.

  “The whole article was a bit stiff if anything,” he says. “I wanted to hear more about the penis straws. Maybe I should have a faux bachelor party. That would be a hoot. I could have some of my friends come over from London. Hopefully, it’d go better than that movie The Hangover.”

  “Don’t you dare,” I say. “Believe me, like I told you, there was a lot more to that story than was fit for print.”

  I throw the magazine in a trashcan. I don’t need it sitting around my apartment like an unwanted party favor from one of my worst nights ever.

  “Why don’t you call Elsa May already?” he asks, as if one phone call could magically solve this whole thing.

  I shake my head even though he can’t see me. “Let’s stay in tonight,” I say, changing the subject. “I have six appointments in the next three days.”

  “That’s another thing I like about you,” Harry replies into the receiver. “You work as hard as I do.”

  “Thanks, honey. I have to run. Another client.”

  “Bye, Lottie.”

  I hang up and ignore the nagging feeling that even though everything between us matches so perfectly, it still feels like there’s something missing.

  It’s probably because of Elsa May, I think. This whole thing has thrown everything off-kilter. I always thought it was my rules that kept my universe on its axis, but sometimes, I think it was actually Elsa May. Not that I’d tell her that.

  * * *

  Between appointments, I check my email at a Starbucks while sipping from a coffee. I can tell the barista used Splenda and not Stevia, and it’s driving me crazy.

  The name “Tyler King” glares back at me from my inbox. I blink twice.

  It’s not a name that I ever thought I would see again, especially not after the whole confession-coffee day.

  I push away the look of hurt on his face after I told him it was strictly business.

  I hesitate, but then I open the email. It’s a Paperless Post—the fancy version of Evite. I click on the envelope. It opens a virtual invitation. Adorned with a cute black and white sketch of a townhome, it reads: “Please come to my Housewarming. Saturday, February 10th. Tyler’s growing up and he wants to show off his place. Come and have a few.”

  I feel my lips curving into a smile. I totally pegged him right. He did want to find a home to grow into. Of course, I’m not going to attend, but it’s nice to see he’s happy there—and that I was right about it being the place for him.

  I check the box that says “I will NOT attend” and leave a short message. “Thanks for the invite. So glad it worked out. Have a fun party.”

  Almost immediately, my email pings again. “Hi, Lottie. I’m disappointed. I know things got a bit awkward last time, but that’s all water under the Brooklyn Bridge. I want you to be the guest of honor for making this whole thing happen . . . Plus, I can introduce you to more potential clients. It’s the least I could do for you after you found me such a clutch place. And like you said, Brooklyn is the new Manhattan.”

  Tyler knows my soft spot. I reply, “Okay—you had me at ‘clients.’ Can I bring a guest—my boyfriend? A real one this time.”

  I add the last part for good measure. This is a professional meeting, and I should make that clear.

  Ping. “The more, the merrier,” he replies says with a winking emoji. (Did I mention I hate emoji? Think about how much time is wasted over trying to discern wh
at someone meant by an emoji. Like, what does that wink mean? Is it a wink to my having a boyfriend? Or is it a wink to the fact I had a fake fiancé? Or does it mean something different altogether?

  Or is it fate that’s winking at me and making me wonder what would have happened if I had just been honest? Not just with Tyler, but also with myself.

  I push that thought away. C’mon, Lottie. It was a lonely time. You were confused. You never would have wanted to be with Tyler.

  Right?

  * * *

  I send Harry a calendar note for the party that reads: “Networking Event for Lottie in Brooklyn.” Within a few minutes, he’s accepted it, and it has popped up on our shared Google calendar.

  Did I mention we’re perfect for each other?

  * * *

  Five days later, on the Saturday of Tyler’s open house, Harry shows up at my apartment at 9 a.m. sharp, just like he said he would. He checks off punctual on my list in a big, on-time way.

  “I brought you breakfast,” he says, holding up a white paper bag. “The best scone I’ve found in Manhattan, although still a little too flaky.” He holds up a paper cup. “And a tea. You Americans drink entirely too much coffee.”

  I set the cup and bag on the counter and kiss him on his lips. A man who brought me breakfast was never on my list, but it should have been. And he eats scones. Most American men his age still live on Eggos and Hot Pockets. One exception to that rule flashes in my mind, but I shove away the image of Tyler cooking in his kitchen—the one I found for him, and the one I’m going to see again in a few hours.

  Harry and I sit down at my round coffee table. He opens the London Times, and I brief through the New York Times Real Estate section. While I’m scanning the highlights, I feel him watching me. I look up.

  “What?” I ask shyly, brushing a hair from my face.

  “It’s this,” he says. “I like this. It feels right, Lottie. I’ll admit that I never thought I’d fall in love with an American, but I think that’s exactly what is happening here.”