Her Fake Engagement

by Gigi Garrett

  Elsa May looks at me knowingly. “I got this one,” she says, holding up her hand and hailing the closest cab. She jumps in the front and we all get in the back. “Grand Central Terminal Station, please.”

  When we reach our destination, Elsa May ushers us all in. We weave through groups of commuters and tourists. When she arrives at the main concourse, she points up at the grand ceiling, “That it! It’s the zodiac,” she says, pointing at the gorgeous mural. “Lottie always said that she didn’t even miss the stars living in the city because if she did, she could always come here.”

  I nod. “Great work,” I say. “I name you the champion Amazing Bachelorette. Now we’re off to the final bar to end this party.”

  On cue, Mia and Jane both ask, “Bathroom first?”

  “I have to go too, Elsa May,” I say, trying to buy time. “I think we’re all in need of disco coffees. Can you grab us some while we’re in the bathroom? There’s a great place over there,” I say, gesturing across the station.

  “Sure,” she says. “Coffee sounds good.”

  Near the bathroom entrance, like I had planned, Thad is waiting in a tux. “Here you go, fairy godmothers,” he says, passing me a garment bag.

  The three of us huddle in the bathroom and I unzip the bag to reveal three $295 Vera Wang bridesmaid’s dresses. They’re mauve, which is probably no one’s color and it’s definitely not mine. But I know that it is the exact dress and color shade that Elsa May wanted for her bridesmaids.

  I’m hoping it’s worth the investment. When you tack on the cost of Mia’s and Jane’s matching dresses, which I also paid for, these dresses cost me almost a grand. I might actually have to wear mine again.

  But compared to what I’ve gained from these bachelorette parties, it’s a small price to pay.

  We all transform from bachelorettes into bridesmaids.

  “We clean up well,” Jane says, admiring our reflection in the streaked mirror. After we leave the bathroom, a few tourists ask to take our pictures and we oblige.

  “Okay,” I say, taking a deep breath. “Let’s do this.”

  Mia grabs my arm. “This is super sweet,” she says. “And I thought you weren’t a romantic.”

  I shrug. “Maybe I’m changing.”

  We meet back up with Thad after stopping to pick up our preordered bouquets at Dahlia Flowers and cupcakes at Magnolia Bakery.

  I pass a bunch of hand-tied pink tea roses—I got the inspiration from a picture on Elsa May’s secret Pinterest “wedding” page—to each of the bridesmaids.

  By the time we reach Elsa May, we are a sight. Three bridesmaids carrying bouquets and cupcakes, accompanied by a handsome groom wearing a rose boutonniere.

  Elsa May holds her hand over her mouth in shock like one of those lottery winners on TV.

  “Happy faux wedding,” I say, as I pass her a cascading bouquet of fragrant white roses.

  Elsa May squeals.

  “You didn’t,” she says looking at me. “How did you know?” she asks, checking out our dresses.

  “I found your Pinterest page,” I say. “I saw the pin and I remembered how you loved these bridesmaid’s dresses. And since every other photo was a bride and groom at Grand Central, I knew this was your dream place for wedding photos.”

  “You’re right,” Elsa May says, looking around. “I’ve always thought it was the perfect place for wedding photos,” she says. “So symbolic. At the station in the center of the world. A couple setting off on a journey.”

  I smile at her description.

  She fingers my dress. “You look as beautiful as I thought you would in this dress.”

  I hold up a garment bag. “Another surprise: Thad brought your wedding dress,” I say. “Go change. A photographer is meeting us in five minutes to take those pictures you never got.”

  Elsa May leans back and laughs. “Wow, Lottie,” she says. “Who are you? But one thing: Where’s Birdie, Thad?”

  “With my parents. Sound asleep,” Thad answers.

  “Perfect,” Elsa May says.

  After a zillion photos with the crystal chandeliers, marble staircase, and ticket booths, we are all exhausted and sit on a bench to eat cupcakes. Inside the box, there’s an envelope.

  “Another clue?” Elsa May says, reaching in and opening the card. “Stop, there can’t be more,” she says, her eyes teary. “ ‘Let’s go back to where it all started, back when you and Thad were first-years,’ ” she reads aloud.

  “McDonnell’s Tavern!” Elsa May shrieks.

  I nod. “The very one.” McDonnell’s Tavern is NYU law school students’ favorite bar—and it’s also where she and Thad met.

  She throws her arms around me. “This is all so sweet and personal.” She pauses. “It’s one of the best nights ever.”

  “Let’s go,” I say. “But first, let’s eat these cupcakes,” I say, pointing at the white-and-gold-frosted ones.

  As we’re getting ready to leave, the photographer points up at the iconic four-sided, opal-faced clock that’s rumored to be worth millions. Both hands are nearly at the twelve.

  “Want your Cinderella shot?” he asks. “The timing is perfect. Nearly midnight.”

  Elsa May and Thad dash to the clock and the photographer gets the photo just at the stroke of midnight.

  And unlike in the fairy tale, no one loses a shoe, turns into a pumpkin, or has to race home to some other less fabulous life. We continue on into the New York night to our final stop.

  * * *

  Thad picks Elsa May up and carries her over the door into McDonnell’s.

  “I love this,” she says.

  I shake my head. “This isn’t all. Let’s go to the back room.”

  We maneuver through the rowdy crowd in the front bar. Once we reach the back room, a chorus yells out “Surprise!” A small group of Thad and Elsa May’s friends jump out from behind tables and chairs. They have been waiting to join the fun. Some are from college, others law school, and a few from their life in the burbs.

  “I figured that if you’re in the city, why not make a big night of it? Plus, your friends never got to officially celebrate your wedding with you.” I use my loudest voice to shout over the nineties music. “Everyone, welcome to Elsa May’s bachelorette party slash wedding celebration.”

  The whole group shouts and toasts. There are no speeches, because I know that Elsa May is against those. But every time I look around she’s blushing—like a bride.

  Once Thad and Elsa May have made their rounds, Elsa May works her way back to me. “Thank you,” she says. “This is the greatest, and only you could’ve planned it. It takes a best friend to do this,” she says.

  “You did the same for me,” I say.

  She points across the room. “That’s Andrew,” she says. “Thad says he’s single now, and talk about a total catch. Want me to introduce you? I always wanted a couple to fall in love at my wedding.”

  I shake my head.

  Elsa May stomps her foot. “What happened to Fun Lottie?” She dramatically looks over her shoulder. “She was here just a second ago.”

  “She’s getting another drink at the bar,” I joke. Then I lean in close. “The real reason I don’t want to meet Andrew is that there’s this other situation,” I say.

  She puts her hand on her hip. “Is this another rule? A new one? One I don’t even know about?”

  I laugh and even smile. “No, no. I’m not adding any more rules. But there’s something I need to see about first.”

  “You’re going to tell me all about this over brunch tomorrow,” she says. “I’m holding you to that. But can we dance now?” She points me toward the dance floor. “I always imagined taking over the dance floor with you at my wedding, just like our late-night dorm parties. We both know that Thad isn’t known for his moves.”

  We look over to Thad, who’s awkwardly bopping his head to his own beat. No guy is perfect, after all. Or maybe that’s what makes people perfect—their flaws.

  It’s wa
y past my bedtime and I’m wearing a stained, mauve bridesmaid’s dress, but I let Elsa May twirl me onto the floor anyway. It’s her bachelorette party—or wedding or whatever this is—after all.

  I always thought it was staying inside the lines that got you where you needed to be, but maybe that’s the wrong idea. Maybe everything good is found only when you color outside the lines.

  Chapter 12

  “Tyler,” I say, walking into his apartment. “Thanks for letting me come over.”

  His hair is all scruffy and his eyes are barely open. He rubs them like a tired little kid. It’s adorable.

  “Sure,” he says. His eyes are more open now, and he’s looking at me with concern. “Is everything okay?”

  I glance down at my mauve-brown floor-length bridesmaid’s dress. “Everything is actually great.”

  “Were you at a costume party?” he asks slowly.

  “This is my most favorite dress,” I say playfully. “What are you implying?”

  Tyler laughs. “You’re a surprising one,” he says. “That’s what I’ve always thought, anyways.”

  “I’m trying to become more spontaneous,” I say. “I normally don’t call men at three a.m. In fact, I don’t even call men at all. I wait for them to call me. And you’re surprising too,” I continue. “I like to peg people—it’s part of my job, but you’re hard to nail down. I can’t quite figure you out, but the thing is that I keep trying.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” Tyler says and sits on the couch. “For the record, I don’t mind being called.” He looks at his watch. “But it’s not three a.m. It’s three fifteen.”

  “Details,” I say with a wave of a hand. I look back down at my dress. “Uh, can I borrow some sweats?”

  “I guess that means you’ll be staying a while,” he says with a big grin. Then he jumps up, goes into his bedroom, and returns with a well-worn pair of navy sweats and a T-shirt.

  “You know where the bathroom is,” he says. “Hell, knowing you, you probably could draw the floor plan blindfolded.”

  “I never forget a layout,” I say. “Clients, yes. A place, never.”

  Tyler touches my arm. “Hey, did you just call me forgettable?”

  I watch the goosebumps infect my arm. “Tyler, you’re not my client anymore,” I say. I point at him. “You said it once yourself.”

  A crimson red spreads across his cheeks, and he nods boyishly.

  When I’m in the bathroom, I change into Tyler’s clothes and look at myself in the mirror. “This is the beginning,” I say to myself before going back out to the living room.

  I sit near him on the couch—only one cushion separates us.

  Tyler shrugs. “I’ve got all night.” He looks around. “Unless there’s somewhere else you’d rather be. Or someone else you would rather be with.”

  “Well, I recently got out of a relationship,” I say. “Less than a week ago, actually.”

  “So the plus-one is gone?”

  “Yesterday’s news,” I say.

  “Are you sad?” he asks. He doesn’t look at me.

  “Not at all,” I say, shaking my head. Tyler scooches closer to me on the couch. Now, we’re basically sitting on the same cushion.

  He sits up straight, takes a deep breath, and blows it out like cigarette smoke. Tyler rotates his body on the couch toward me and gently turns me to face him. His eyes go all kaleidoscope-like again, and I feel like I’m being hypnotized “I still have a crush on you,” he says. “I’ve had one since the day we met.”

  This is exactly what I’ve been waiting to hear, even when I tried to convince myself it wasn’t.

  Our shoulders brush. I’m still not brave enough to meet his eyes, though. I face forward, my eyes glued to the blank TV screen.

  Tyler continues: “I’ve been hoping against hope that you were thinking us all over, and that you would come around like I did with my apartment. That’s the real reason I invited you to the open house.”

  “Really?” I say.

  “Yes,” he says. “I hoped if we kept bumping into each other, maybe one time you’d finally start to see me differently.”

  “How so?”

  Tyler reaches out and gently holds my chin in his hand. With his other hand, he brushes the side of my cheek with his finger.

  “I wanted you to see me as someone you wanted to be with.”

  I mentally calculate how many rules I’m breaking.

  Tyler has a beard.

  He’s an artist.

  He lives in Brooklyn.

  He’s possibly against marriage.

  I’ve Googled him.

  He was a client.

  I lied to him about being engaged.

  I went inside his apartment without going on a date first.

  At 3:15 a.m. . . . semi-drunk.

  I’m wearing his clothes.

  “Well, you’re not exactly like other guys I’ve dated.”

  “You mean I’m not a washing machine?” he says, referring to our conversation the day I showed him the town house. I can’t believe he remembered that.

  “Exactly,” I say. “You’re definitely not a washing machine. I’m used to washing machines.”

  “I think I could make you feel better than any washing machine ever could.”

  I nod. “You already do.”

  Tyler raises his eyebrows. “So you’re crushing on me too?”

  I look around. “Major duh. I’ve liked you longer than even I realized.”

  Tyler leans in and kisses me. His beard tickles, but in a good way. I always imagined it would be rough like a Brillo pad, but it’s soft like a down pillow. I find my hands reaching out and smoothing it down. I can definitely get used to this beard thing.

  Tyler pulls away and reluctantly our lips unlock.

  I feel a rush of adrenaline. It reminds me of certain moments from childhood:

  the sound of the final bell ringing on the last day of school before summer; the feeling of being at the top of the Herby Derby, the tallest rollercoaster in our town, and looking down right before the big drop.

  The sensation when you’re bodysurfing and the wave takes you and feels like you’ve entered a secret ocean portal.

  This is, undoubtedly, one of the best feelings I’ve ever had.

  Tyler pulls me in for another kiss, but I gently press him back. “Let’s go back to that in one second, but first, can I ask you about a ring?”

  He puts his hands over his face then spreads his fingers and peeks out with one eye. “Now, I’m embarrassed,” he says.

  “So it is named after me?”

  “Of course,” he says. “I couldn’t get it out of my mind that I could find a better home for that diamond.”

  “You did,” I say, pulling him in close.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to my editor, Heather Waters, for getting Lottie and her story, and more importantly for believing in it and its potential. I’m appreciative of both your expertise and guidance.

  Thank you also to everyone at St. Martin’s and Heroes and Heartbreakers. You all are critical to making this book—and my dream—real. I’m grateful for your hard work. A special shout-out to Hope Breeman, my copy editor. It’s a better novella because of you.

  Thank you to VCFA and the Magic Ifs for all the fairy dust. YAM!

  Thank you to Nelly, Zayda, and everyone at my child’s preschool, who lovingly cared for my children so I could find time to write.

  Thank you to Jeanne Yoo for your amazing editing help.

  Thank you, friends! Life is busy but you remain some of my best inspiration. :)

  Thank you to the Carters, Nicols, and Baumans. It’s wonderful to have so many family cheerleaders rooting you on.

  A million thank-yous to my parents and my sister, Aliceyn, for always believing in me as a writer, ever since I was a little girl. You all helped me to believe in the impossible . . . and your continued faith helps me persist at my dream.

  Thank you to my husba
nd, Cory, and our children, Arrietty and Quincy. You mesmerize me and your love buoys me.

  Finally, thank you, readers. You all are the ones who lift these characters off the page and into your imagination. Thank you for reading this novel and making my dream realized. Please contact me at authorgigigarrett@gmail.com. After all, my readers are why I do this.

  Don’t miss other Heroes and Heartbreakers Originals

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  by Shiloh Walker

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  Available from St. Martin’s Press

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  About the Author

  Since childhood, Gigi Garrett has loved playing with and rearranging the 26 letters of the alphabet. When she’s not imagining and writing fictional lives, she’s probably chasing her kids around or thinking about pizza. She lives near the beach and believes the ocean fixes almost everything. She loves to hear from readers. Please contact her at authorgigigarrett@gmail.com.

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10