Her Fake Engagement

by Gigi Garrett

  I awkwardly fumble to turn the next page. Did Harry say that he was in love with me? From the day I met him at the Archive Building, that has been my dream. But here, faced with that reality, I’m not so sure.

  But I don’t want him to know that. At least not yet. Rule Number Sixteen: Never say “I love you” to someone first and don’t respond right away if he says those three little words. Even if you are certain. Even if you’re head over heels.

  “You’re in love with me?” I ask, still looking down at a photo of affordable housing that will be bulldozed for a luxury high-rise.

  Harry gently takes my chin in his hand and pulls my head up. “I’m starting to be,” he says. His phone rings and he looks down at the screen. “Rats. I have to answer this. It’s the big boss.”

  I nod understandingly. “Of course,” I say, happy to have an out from the conversation.

  Harry walks over to the kitchen. I hear him say, “Yes. Yes. You’re right. Okay. I’ll be there.”

  I try not to exhale too loudly. Harry returns to the table and puts his hand on mine. “Lottie Lou, I know that you’re going to think that I’m a real dog, and I don’t blame you, but I have to go into work. My boss thinks we can close this deal today. I know we have that networking event in Brooklyn, but you can do that in your sleep, right, lovely? We’ll meet up back in the Village for our dinner reservation.”

  I stick my lip out, but it feels like I’m playing a character who would do that. Honestly, I’m relieved. This way I won’t have to do the awkward introductions between Tyler and Harry.

  And I’m also happy that Harry has to leave before we go back to that “I love you” business.

  We kiss goodbye—a little tongue but no passion. When I shut the door, I slump against it. Again, I have the overwhelming urge to call Elsa May. She would know what to do. But I can’t now. It’s been too long.

  I head for the shower. I’m going to Brooklyn.

  * * *

  I fiddle with my purse on the subway ride over. Tucked inside are thirty business cards. I put in extras before heading out the door. I am bringing them in an attempt to convince myself that I’m going to Tyler’s housewarming only for business, but I know in my heart that’s not completely true.

  Twenty short minutes after leaving my house, I’m standing in front of the brownstone. I follow a couple—two bearded guys in flannels and boots—to the front door. One of them presses the buzzer.

  “Are you here for the open house too?” the taller one asks.

  “Tyler’s?” I ask. They nod in unison. “Yes.”

  “I didn’t think he knew any girls,” the other one jokes.

  I laugh along, even though I hate being called a girl since I’m nearly thirty and financially independent. And how come a guy like Tyler wouldn’t know women? I would’ve guessed he has a waitlist of women—and girls—wanting to go out with him.

  Someone buzzes us in, and I follow the guys up the two flights of stairs.

  The front door of the apartment has been propped open with a book, so we let ourselves in. In the entryway sits what looks like an antique table. Framed above it is a black-and-white photograph of a man and woman on their wedding day. I stand there puzzled at both how classy Tyler’s taste is and how beautiful the photo is.

  Maybe in my attempt to put people in boxes for my job, I end up oversimplifying them. I think I’m guilty of initially doing that with Tyler.

  “Boo!” someone whispers in my ear. I jump nearly ten feet.

  “Tyler,” I say, turning and hitting him on the arm.

  “Welcome, Apartment Fairy Godmother. Those are my grandparents, by the way. 1955.”

  “Gorgeous couple,” I say.

  He nods. “My grandma,” he says, pointing. “She’s my muse. And I love this picture. They look so young and reckless. Like they’re jumping off a real cliff, not just a metaphorical one.”

  He looks behind me and out into the hallway. “Where’s the plus-one?” he asks. He wags his finger then says, “You didn’t invent him too, now did you? Is this like some sort of new disorder?”

  I laugh. “He’s not Pinocchio. He’s a real boy. Or man, rather. But he got called into work.”

  Tyler’s lips form a thin line. “Sounds like you are perfect for each other.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” I say.

  “Take it however you want,” Tyler says with a wink. Damn him and his winks.

  I look down the hall to a packed living room. “You have a very crowded open house. I know now that you’re a popular man, so it’s a good thing your real estate agent found you such a spacious place.”

  “Oh, those people,” he says. “I see them all the time. Tell me what’s new with you.”

  I shake my head. “You don’t want to hear your real estate broker go on and on about her personal life at your party, do you?”

  Tyler gestures around the room. “Lottie,” he says in a whisper. “No offense. I have my dream place now, so I’m not really in need of your services as a real estate agent anymore.”

  He pauses, the color draining from his face. “I mean . . . I invited you here as a friend,” he says emphatically, as if I might misinterpret his intentions. As if maybe everything isn’t water under the bridge like he said in his email.

  But I swallow and nod. Friends aren’t something I have in droves these days. If he can be this good-natured after I turned him down, I can move past it too.

  “Thanks, friend,” I say, although the word is awkward coming off my lips.

  I place my hand on the entry table to try to stop the dizzy feeling. It doesn’t help. I feel the same way I did after going on the teacup ride as a kid at Disney World. I no longer know which way is up and which way is down.

  Tyler points to the living room of people. “C’mon,” he says, “I’ll introduce you to some people. Everyone’s wondering about this mystery lady who finds brownstones with Viking ranges.” He smiles at me. “You’ve become a bit of an urban legend among my people.”

  I laugh. “That’s definitely a first. I’m not really legend-inspiring.”

  He wags his finger. “Don’t be so sure,” he says. “JR,” he calls out into the crowd. “You have the honor of escorting Lottie, our esteemed real estate agent, around the party. She doesn’t know anyone here.” He whispers, “Remember, she’s a Manhattan girl. These are foreign waters.”

  JR takes my hand. “With pleasure. By the way, Lottie, me and the lady friends are loving my pad. Thanks.”

  He leans in. “And the closet rocks.”

  JR is excellent at introducing me to everyone. I can see why he would be good on Wall Street. He passes out more of my business cards than I do. The whole time, I’m working on autopilot. I’m going through the motions. I feel like I’ve fallen back into the rabbit’s hole that I worked so hard to climb out of . . . I try not to, but I find myself craning my neck the whole party to note Tyler’s whereabouts.

  I want to talk to him again, but what would I say?

  I should be passing out my cards and networking the room, but I can’t stop wondering why I don’t feel half as much about Harry as I do about Tyler.

  “Earth to Lottie,” JR says, handing me a spinach canapé.

  “Sorry,” I say, taking a bite. “Did Tyler really make this?” I ask JR. “It tastes absurdly good.”

  JR laughs. “Believe me, it’s not easy having him as a big brother. He’s a lot to live up to.”

  I watch Tyler float from group to group, and I nod in agreement.

  I do a quick phone check and also note the time. It’s 4 p.m. I have to get back to Manhattan. Harry promised me a perfect night out after bailing on our morning plans.

  “I have to go,” I say to JR. “I have something in a little bit.”

  He nods. “Don’t be a stranger, Lottie.” I look over to where Tyler is deep in conversation with a raven-haired girl in a canary-yellow beanie.

  They look perfect for each other. Maybe they’re dating? I
didn’t even bother to ask him about his life.

  “I don’t want to interrupt,” I say, gesturing toward Tyler and the girl. “Will you tell your brother thank you for me? The place looks even better on him than I hoped it would.”

  JR shrugs. “I think he would want to say goodbye to you himself.” JR pauses. “I could tell he was disappointed when you initially said you couldn’t come.”

  I get that feeling you get when someone is holding something back. Is it possible that Tyler mentioned something about me to JR?

  “Look around,” I say, motioning to the increasingly crowded apartment. “Tyler’s busy with his many fans. Please thank him for me.”

  “That’s an old friend from school,” JR says, subtly pointing to the woman. “Just in case you were wondering. She dates his college roommate.”

  “Oh, that’s not it,” I say, trying not to sigh with relief. I look at my watch and then to the door. “It was really nice to get out—and do some networking,” I add at the last minute. “Thanks for saying goodbye for me.”

  JR gives me a side hug. “Tyler’s right. You are a mysterious one,” he says.

  “Me, mysterious?” I laugh, but my insides twist.

  I slip out the door, making sure Tyler doesn’t see my escape. When I came to the party I had a question, and now I’m leaving with the answer.

  * * *

  My phone chimes as I exit the subway on my way home from Tyler’s new place.

  I don’t get many texts these days. My parents don’t text, even after several tutorials, and Harry thinks it’s provincial. And I’ve lost my two best friends, the only two people who used to text me just to text me.

  My phone chimes again, so I reach for it.

  Mia: “Look at Tylerking.com”

  That’s it. That’s all the message says. Not “Hi from the dead” or “Remember me?”

  I reply with an equally curt “OK.”

  Is it weird that a text from an old friend could give me goosebumps? I type the URL into my phone. Tyler’s website—which admittedly I’ve visited before—pops up. I don’t see anything strange.

  I text Mia again. “Don’t see anything.”

  “Check the new rings section.”

  I pull down the tab. Right there, in front of me, is a ring with the label “The Lottie.” It’s two pavé bands attached with a princess-cut diamond, a diamond very similar in cut and size to the one from my faux engagement ring. But the rings are nothing alike. This one is unique. Inspired. It’s the type of ring Tyler described the first night we met. One that isn’t all about the size of the diamond but rather one that’s about how the setting fits the ring. How they complement each other. Wow. I can finally see what Tyler has been saying. The diamond is only a part of the puzzle. It needs to find the right home.

  “OMG,” I text back. A tidal wave of feelings hits me, so fast I can’t process everything.

  “We have the real thing here at Trinity,” Mia texts. “Stop by sometime and see it in person. It’s stunning. I told you he had a crush. Hope you’re doing well.”

  Maybe my friends were right all along. Maybe it wasn’t only about apartments. Maybe there always was something real there with Tyler, more than just a silly crush on a guy who was different from every guy I’ve ever dated. But I’ve been scared to admit it out loud. Because that admission would mean that my life might veer from my carefully plotted course into territory I never dreamed of sailing.

  Then I type it. What I actually feel. Not what Lottie who plays by rules would say. “I miss you.”

  Mia responds, “Me too.” After reading it, I feel like a little bit of my heart is put back together.

  I look at my watch and realize I’m running five minutes behind. I’m never late—yes, as a rule. You don’t miss anything when you show up early, but you always do when you’re late. I hurry to finish blow-drying my hair and rush out the door to meet Harry for dinner.

  I know I’m not going to be there on time, but hopefully it won’t be too late.

  Chapter 10

  Harry and I are meeting outside of L’Artusi on West Tenth Street.

  When I get there, Harry looks worried. “Are you okay?” he says, after giving me a hug. “Did something happen?”

  I shake my head. “Everything is fine,” I lie.

  I look him over. In his fitted pants and orange gingham button-down shirt, he could be in a Burberry catalog. He checks his watch and gives me a puzzled look—one he usually only makes when he’s crunching numbers. “But you’re late. You’re never late.”

  “I know, I know. I’m sorry.”

  He opens the door. “It’s just not like you,” he mutters as we step into the restaurant. “You’re predictable. That’s one of the things I like about you.” He gently pulls off my light spring jacket. He kisses my cheek. “You look beautiful, Lottie. I hope I didn’t upset you by leaving this morning.”

  I shake my head again. The hostess steps in, thankfully, interrupting our moment. She leads us to the upstairs of the restaurant, a quaint Italian place in the Village that can only be described as romantic. It’s the type of place I have always wanted men to take me for dates. It fits all my requirements for restaurants: quiet and well-rated, with white tablecloths and pleasant lighting. But tonight, I wish for the noise of a bar, the distraction of a loud diner—anything that would make this dinner feel less intimate.

  I’ve broken up with men before. But it’s always because they weren’t exactly what I wanted. I could always explain precisely why it wasn’t working. They weren’t ambitious enough. They wanted to go out all the time. They didn’t put the toilet seat down. I could always say exactly what boxes they failed to check. But tonight, I have to tell Harry that he’s everything that I’ve been looking for, but that I have been wrong about that everything.

  Harry pulls out my chair and I sit down reluctantly. I wish I could be the type of person to ghost a guy. To disappear without a message, leaving behind only a pair of underwear or a tube of lipstick. But I’m not that woman.

  “So about this morning,” he says, after the waiter fills our water glasses.

  I dismiss him with a wave of my hand. “No, really. Work is work. You can’t control it.”

  Harry clears his throat. He even does that in the most gentlemanly of ways. “That’s not what I’m referring to, Lottie. I’m talking about what happened before my boss called. I wanted to know how you felt about that.”

  I try to subtly swallow the lump in my throat. “You mean the falling in love part?”

  He nods. “Of course that’s what I mean. I don’t say those things lightly. Maybe men in America do that. But not me.”

  I begin to tear a piece of Italian bread into tiny little pieces. It’s totally unbecoming, but if I don’t put my nervous energy somewhere, I’ll scream.

  “I was hurt very badly before,” I say. “We’ve only briefly talked about my ex-boyfriend Rock, but the truth is that I thought he and I were going to get engaged.” I blush. “I had a wedding date picked out and I even knew what type of ring I wanted, down to the weight of the carat. But then he broke up with me. I was completely blindsided.”

  “I’m sorry, Lottie,” he says. “What a total idiot.”

  I pull my hair to one side. “No. I was the fool. I realize only now—two years later—that I wasn’t in love with him. I was in love with the idea of him.”

  I bravely look into Harry’s eyes. They are as stunning as the day I met him, but they don’t make me feel anything. “Here’s the thing. I know now that I don’t have any idea of what love is. I keep searching for this idea of a person, instead of a feeling. I understand now that’s a terrible way to find happiness.”

  Harry slumps a bit in his chair. It’s the only time I’ve seen him exhibit less than king of England posture. I think he knows what is coming.

  “One of the saddest parts of looking back was that I didn’t miss Rock, the person. Rather, I was mourning the life I had planned for us to live. You see, I
’ve convinced myself my whole life that love was finding the person who had everything I was looking for,” I say. “But now I realize that’s not love. I’m sorry, Harry. I can’t do this anymore.”

  Harry looks at me. “Are you sure you’re okay? Did something else happen today? It’s like you’re a different person now.”

  “I have to go.” I stand up and lean down. “I think you’re wonderful. Truly,” I say in almost a whisper.

  Harry stands too. He lowers his voice into an angry hiss. “I can’t believe this. My friends told me American women were flighty, but I said, ‘Not my Lottie.’ But here we are, doing the whole it’s-not-you-it’s-me routine, like the way it always plays out in all those stupid American rom-coms.”

  I nod. “The whole reason that it’s a cliché is there’s a lot of truth in it.” I look at him. “It really is me, and I do actually wish you the best, Harry.” Then I turn and leave. I don’t look back to see what I’ve left in my wake.

  * * *

  I head over to Mia and Jane’s apartment.

  I scold myself for not calling or texting when no one answers the door right away. When I’m halfway down the hallway, it squeaks open. Jane peers out.

  “Lottie?” she calls out.

  I turn and run to her. I resist the urge to throw my arms around her like a little girl seeing her mother. “Jane,” I say.

  A young guy steps into the hallway next to Jane. Wearing khakis and a polo, he looks vaguely familiar.

  Jane looks at me and smiles. “Lottie, do you remember Scott from my bachelorette party?” She uses air quotes when she says “bachelorette.”

  “Your student?” I ask cautiously.

  Scott shakes his head. “Not anymore. I dropped her class,” he says with a chuckle. “I’m her former student. Semantics, but still they matter, especially when dating someone like Jane.”

  Then it happens. I laugh, and they join in laughing along with me. The three of us are cracking up in the middle of the hallway. This bachelorette party thing has turned all of our lives into The Twilight Zone.

  “How long have you two been dating?” I ask.