by Jen DeLuca
“Of course.” Her voice was shaky, but her nod was firm. “And I’m fine with that. There’s just a lot still to finish up. Lots of little things, you know? And April’s busy, so . . .”
“You have another bridesmaid, you know.” I pointed exaggeratedly at myself, slopping a little paint on my tank top as I did. Thank goodness I’d worn old clothes today.
“Yes. I do know that.” She threw me a side-eye, and I felt a little surge of triumph. She wasn’t freaking out anymore; she was back to her snarky self. “But I also know that you’ve been busy, doing all that stuff for Mitch.”
I waved a hand. “I’m just about done with that. A few more emails to send tonight; that’s it. So lay it on me. What do you need?”
“It’s mostly just little stuff.” She started rolling paint on the booth again, her mind back on our task. “I haven’t looked at the seating chart since the last RSVPs came in, so I need to make sure everyone’s accounted for. Stuff like that.”
“So you’re really doing a seating chart?” I kept my voice as neutral as possible. I wasn’t criticizing. I was observing. “Even though we’re going to be out in the woods?”
“There are still going to be tables,” she said. “And people want to know where to sit, believe me. I went to this wedding once where they wanted it to be all casual. ‘Sit wherever you want,’ they said. Well, it was chaos.” She shook her head. “Simon hates chaos.”
Emily hated chaos too, but I wasn’t going to say it. “Give it to me,” I said. “Is it on paper or spreadsheets?”
“Paper.” She sighed. “I should have done a spreadsheet; it would have been easier. But it’s too late now.”
“No kidding,” I said, not really sure which of her statements I was agreeing to. Both, really. I’d become a bit of an expert on spreadsheets since I’d been helping Mitch coordinate everything for Faire. “But either way, it doesn’t matter. You want me to look at them for you?”
“God, yes,” she said. “That would be fantastic. Do you think you could come over tomorrow to pick them up? I can’t even look at them anymore.”
“Of course.” As we finished up the painting, I thought that no one was going to be happier to see the back end of this wedding than Emily. Just so she wouldn’t have to think about it 24/7 anymore. The girl liked to plan things, but this was getting ridiculous.
Later that afternoon, Emily and I parted ways in the grassy lot in front of the Faire grounds, with plans for me to go to her place in the morning for coffee and to pick up the seating charts. She already looked happier; the furrow between her brows had smoothed out, and while her smile was still tired, it was genuine. “Thanks, Stacey.” She paused with the driver’s side door of her Jeep open. “I know this isn’t exactly your thing.”
“Helping out friends has always been my thing.” I tried to not sound defensive. Everyone in town, Emily included, seemed to think that I was a ditz. And maybe I encouraged that reputation, with the blonde dye job and the propensity to hit happy hour. I could have changed people’s perceptions if I’d put my mind to it. But then again, maybe I couldn’t. Maybe I was doomed to be the basic white girl in everyone’s lives.
Oh, well. It could certainly be worse.
Once home, I took a long, hot shower to scrub off the last traces of woods and paint. Faire opened next weekend, and while Simon was rounding up a few of the older kids to finish up painting and other final details tomorrow, my workdays out in the woods were over. Until it was time to wear a corset, of course. My hair was still wet as I settled onto the couch with my laptop and my cat. Benedick kneaded my thigh as I logged into the Faire’s email address, wishing I were wearing body armor instead of yoga pants. I needed to trim his claws.
“Spa day for you soon, buddy.” I dropped a kiss on his head and gave his chin a scritch as the email page loaded. Several new emails, mostly confirming my confirmation, and I wondered if I should respond to them. Confirming their confirmation of my confirmation? It could be a never-ending circle if I wasn’t careful. So instead I opened each email and logged the responses carefully on the spreadsheet, in the final column. Later tonight I’d send the completed spreadsheet to Simon, and the last i’s would be dotted and t’s crossed. Just in time. That would make him happy.
Most everyone acknowledged the upcoming wedding, which was nice. Simon and Emily met at Faire, they fought at Faire, and they fell in love at Faire. Getting married at Faire and celebrating with so many people who loved them was exactly what they deserved. So each email expressing excitement at the wedding made me smile a little wider.
Until.
The last email was from Daniel MacLean, confirming the reservations I’d made for the Dueling Kilts. Two rooms, and the rest would camp in their RV.
“Daniel.” A smile crept up my face as I said his name aloud. After all these months of getting closer to Dex, I felt that I was part of this group in a weird way. Part of the family. Which was why the final paragraph of Daniel’s email stopped my breath.
Congratulations to Simon and Emily! This must be the year for weddings. My old college roommate got married a couple weeks ago in late June. Looking forward to celebrating with all of you when we head back in your direction.
I’d read those words before, and they’d made me smile. Now my smile was quashed, my pulse sped up, and a tingle spread across the back of my neck, sending gooseflesh down my arms. I picked up my phone from the coffee table and scrolled back to the day I’d been trying on wedding dresses. It took a while; Dex and I texted a lot. But there it was. . . . Must be the year for weddings . . . old college roommate . . . married in June . . . head back in your direction.
There were only two scenarios here that would explain what I had just read. One: Dex and Daniel MacLean were cousins. So it was possible that they used similar syntax, especially in writing. It was also possible, but a little less likely, that they both had an old college roommate getting married in June.
Or.
Or.
No.
My eyes flicked back to my laptop, to the email from Daniel that was still up. To the signature that was appended to the end, that included his cell phone number. By now I couldn’t breathe; my hands shook as I fumbled with my phone, tapping the little icon that brought up the details of Dex’s contact info. His email address, which I’d entered into my laptop as “Dex MacLean,” that we’d been communicating through all this time. His cell phone number, which showed up as Dex on my phone . . . because I’d put it in there that way. My eyes went back and forth, from laptop to phone, and there was no denying it. The number was the same.
All these months, when I’d been texting, emailing, and falling in love with Dex MacLean, the man on the other side of the screen was his cousin. Daniel.
What.
The.
Fuck.
* * *
• • •
What the fuck.
I wasn’t one for the F-bomb usually, but as I paced around my tiny apartment, those three words kept echoing in my head, in time with my footfalls.
What.
The.
Fuck.
It only got worse when my phone chimed with a text an hour later. A text from Dex . . . or Daniel. Or whoever the hell. Of course: it was about this time every night that his day ended and he texted me to say hello. I cleared the notification from my screen without reading the text, and then I did the unthinkable. I powered my phone off and tossed it onto my bed.
“Fuck you,” I snarled at the phone. Or possibly at Daniel MacLean. It was so hard to tell. Benedick darted under the couch at the sound of my voice, and who could blame him. I wanted to hide from my own anger. Tears stung my eyes, and it was hard to draw a good deep breath. “Fuck you!” Now that I’d gotten a taste for the word, I couldn’t stop saying it. I wanted to scream it until my throat was raw.
So much for a relaxing night in.
I was too angry to sleep, and too keyed up to do anything relaxing. After the third lap of my small apartment, pacing off my nervous energy, I stopped to straighten up my little bookcase. Then I cleared the clutter off my kitchen table. A couple laps later I dug out the broom and dustpan. By one in the morning my place sparkled, and I’d exhausted myself. Just as I fell facedown into bed, sinking into sleep, I remembered I’d told Emily I’d drop by her place for that wedding stuff. Ugh. I fumbled in the blankets for my phone and turned it on.
More texts from Liar MacLean:
Hope you’re having a great . . .
In a few days we’ll be on the road to Maryland. I think . . .
Wow, you must be busy this Saturday night. Usually you . . .
Stacey, is everything okay? Text me back when you . . .
Nope, nope, nope, and nope.
I cleared all the notifications with stabby fingers, leaving the texts unread. Then I set my alarm and pulled the covers over my head. I’d talk to Emily about all this tomorrow, I thought, as everything faded around the edges again and sleep crept in. Maybe some good old-fashioned girl talk could help me solve this.
If I got any more text notifications that night, I slept through them. Which was what they deserved.
* * *
• • •
In retrospect, I probably got to Emily’s place a little earlier than I should have the next morning. But I’d bolted awake around six, unable to get back to sleep. I’d been dressed and ready to go soon after sunrise, and she’d never actually specified a time. It wasn’t until I pounded on her door and she opened it wearing her bathrobe and a blinking, sleepy expression that it hit me. A little after eight on a Sunday morning was too early to show up with my laptop and anger in tow.
But because she was the Best Friend Ever, she didn’t slam the door in my face. Instead she opened the door wide. “Coffee?”
“Yes, please.” As I stepped inside, the scent of freshly brewed coffee hit me, so at least I hadn’t gotten her out of bed with my early morning visit. Emily’s place wasn’t much bigger than mine, though it was a real honest-to-God apartment, and not a studio space over a garage. As she bustled in the kitchen with coffee mugs and creamer and whatever else, I plonked my laptop on her dining table and woke it up.
“Here.” Emily passed a mug across the table to me. “Have you even had breakfast yet? Let me drink this and I’ll get those seating charts for you . . .” Her voice trailed off as she took in my laptop and my thunderous expression. “What’s up? You’re not just here for the seating charts, are you?”
“Look at this.” I turned the laptop around so the screen faced her.
Emily squinted at the screen and took a sip of coffee. “What am I looking at, exactly?”
“This email.” I tapped my fingernail on the screen in emphasis. “Look.”
“What, the one from Daniel MacLean?” She tilted her head and read it over again, while I was pretty sure steam was coming out of my ears. “Oh, he’s looking forward to coming to the wedding. That’s so nice of him to say so. I’ve always liked—”
“What about Daniel MacLean?” Simon emerged from the bedroom, and I tried not to do a double take. It hadn’t even occurred to me that he’d be here, but they were engaged. Of course they’d have sleepovers. I’d never seen Simon first thing in the morning, and I’d certainly never seen him this rumpled, in sleep pants and a stretched-out T-shirt. He ran a hand through his hair, settling it, but he still looked roguish; with a week before Faire opened, his pirate beard and hairstyle were in full effect. But the concerned look he shot our way was less carefree pirate and more worried Faire organizer. “Is something wrong with the Kilts?”
Emily shook her head. “They’re confirmed, at least according to this email. But I’m obviously missing something.” She looked up at me quizzically. “What am I missing, Stace?”
“Okay, you read that email. Now look at this.” I took the laptop back and hit a few keys, bringing up a screenshot of Dex’s text message—the one about his roommate’s wedding—before flipping it back in her direction.
“Huh. Well, that’s weird. That text pretty much says the same thing.”
“Exactly. And this phone number”—I handed her my phone, with Dex/Daniel’s contact screen showing—“matches this phone number.” I alt-tabbed back to the email, with Daniel’s electronic signature. “So they were written by the same guy, wouldn’t you say?” My voice was judge, jury, and executioner.
“Oh, yeah, definitely. But why are you texting with Daniel MacLean? I didn’t realize you knew him that well.”
“And why would he tell you the same thing twice?” Simon frowned and leaned against the archway leading to the kitchen. “He’s not forgetful like that.”
She looked down at her mug. “This isn’t decaf, is it? Because I don’t think it’s working.”
“Because . . .” And now I saw the problem with keeping this whole thing with Dex a secret. It was going to take forever to bring Emily up to speed on why I was so pissed off. I sighed. “Okay. Remember last summer? You asked me about . . .” Emotion overwhelmed me for a moment, and I had to clear my throat. This was harder than I thought it would be. “You asked me who I’d been seeing? The mystery guy?”
“Ohhhhhh.” Emily’s eyes lit up at the promise of early morning gossip. “Why, yes. I do remember that.” Emily rested her chin on her hands, settling in for my story.
“I don’t think you need me for this.” Simon threw up defensive hands and went into the kitchen in search of coffee. I gave him a thin smile of appreciation that he didn’t see, then I turned back to Emily and, for the first time, spilled the whole story. Of being so lonely I couldn’t handle it anymore. Of drinking one glass of wine too many and sending that first message to Dex. His response. Our emails. Texts. And realizing last night that it had all been a lie.
“So . . .” While I’d been talking Emily refilled our coffee mugs, and now she sat down again, staring hard at my laptop. “All this time you thought it was Dex, but it was Daniel writing to you instead?”
“Exactly.” I nodded emphatically.
“Are you kidding me?” I jumped at Simon’s voice, harsher, angrier than I was used to hearing him. He was back, leaning against the archway again, his own mug of coffee in his hands. “What kind of Cyrano de Bergerac bullshit is that?”
Emily clucked her tongue and turned in her chair. “I don’t know about that,” she said.
“Of course it is!” He gestured to my laptop. “Look, I’ve known the Dueling Kilts for years. They’ve played the Faire since . . . well, I think since the first year we started hiring outside acts. And they’re great guys. But there’s no way that Dex MacLean could string together a coherent sentence, much less an elaborate email.”
“Hey.” I felt a lick of defensive anger for the hottie I’d hooked up with. But then I thought about it and, well, Simon wasn’t wrong. Hadn’t I thought something similar when I’d first started hearing from Dex? Daniel? Who-the-hell-ever? “Okay, yeah,” I said. “That’s fair.”
Simon’s smile wasn’t unkind as he finished his point. “Which means he got Daniel to write those emails for him. And that’s classic Cyrano.”
“Yeah, but what about the texts?” Emily picked up my phone and waved it at him. “Daniel was using his own phone number. You think Dex was standing over his shoulder, telling him what to say?”
“He could have been.”
“I don’t think so. Besides, in the original play, Cyrano and Christian were both in love with Roxane, but Cyrano sacrificed his chance to be with her because he thought she loved Christian more. But we don’t know if that’s the case here. Maybe Daniel . . .”
“What the hell is wrong with you two?” I closed my laptop with a snap and took my phone back from Emily. “You’re both nerds, you know that? In this century we don’t go straight for a Cyrano reference. We
call it catfishing.”
Simon snorted, and Emily bit down on her bottom lip, but amusement danced in her eyes. “Well, yeah. That’s true. But Simon does have a point.”
“Of course I do.” He blew across the top of his mug before taking a sip.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Don’t you have sets to finish painting?”
His eyes flew up to the clock on the microwave. “Shit.” He set down the mug and headed back to the bedroom.
“You’re fine!” Emily called after him. “You don’t have to be there for a half hour at least.” Then she turned back to me, continuing as though we hadn’t been interrupted. “I guess it could be a Cyrano situation if it happened the way Simon suggested. If Dex enlisted Daniel to be his mouthpiece, and if Daniel is also interested in you. Do you think he is?”
“I don’t . . . I don’t know.” All these months I’d been thinking about Dex, but now I let myself remember his cousin. Daniel, long and lean, those bright green eyes, his red hair caught back in that black baseball cap he always wore backward. Calm and steady where Dex was brash and bold. He’d always sought me out to say hi during Faire. He noticed when I got a new necklace. He wanted to make sure Dex wasn’t breaking my heart. Now that I thought about it, thought about Daniel, his personality matched our communications better than Dex’s ever did. How could I have missed it? But then again, how could I have known that my previous interactions with Daniel had led to the kinds of feelings he’d expressed over the past few months, those words I’d taken into my heart as I read them snuggled in bed under the fairy lights?
“But if he isn’t into you, maybe he was just helping Dex express how he really felt?” Emily drummed her fingernails against the side of her mug while she thought. “So the real question is, whose heart is in the words you’ve been getting? No.” She snapped her fingers. “Which one do you want it to be? That’s the real question. Because then you’ll know what to do when you find out which one it really is.”