Chapter 31
thirty-one
JAY
Rubbing my eyes, I force myself to focus on the printouts that my agent Grady left for me. The stack of sponsorship proposals blurs together. Energy drinks, protein bars, outdoor gear, a line of performance T-shirts; the usual suspects. But there are some new things too. And those things make me pause.
A cookware line. A series of “Dad and Me” adventure books. A love hotel in Florida. What the hell is that, anyway?? All of them focus on one thing: playing up the angle of my brand-new family life.
Ick. I rub my eyes and lean back in my chair to stare at the ceiling.
The love hotel offer is cute, in a nauseating sort of way. “Bring your bride for a romantic weekend!” the brochure gushes. It’s full of pictures of happy couples kissing in hot tubs and canoodling over desserts. It’s very chintzy.
All right, I can totally see Calla and I enjoying the hell out of that place.
It’s two months out, though. Way past the timeline Calla and I agreed on. By then, we’ll have the annulment. And I’ll be... what?
Single again? Back to my old life?
What happens when I tell my followers that it was all a joke? That we were never really married, never really in love? I can only imagine that I’ll lose some followers.
This whole set up was really short-sighted on my part. It would have been better to let sponsors down than to put this kind of pressure on our fledgling relationship.
I close my eyes. Maybe this whole thing was a terrible idea. Maybe I should have just faced the music after Blake left. But then I wouldn’t have met Calla.
A future without her is a prospect too ugly to face.
The sound of Calla’s voice pulls me from my sulk. She’s in the kitchen, on speakerphone. I shuffle to the doorway and lean against the frame to listen.
“I just don’t know if it’s possible,” I hear her say. “That’s really soon. I don’t even have any special cakes made!”
The woman’s voice on the other end is tinny and desperate. “We’re in a bind. The baker we hired flaked, and the wedding is this afternoon . You’re our last hope.”
I peek around to see Calla chewing her lip. I can almost see the gears in her head turning. “I have a lot on my plate right now…,” she hedges.
“We’ll take whatever you have on hand. Cupcakes, cookies, eclairs, donuts. We’re not picky. Please?”
There’s a pause. I hold my breath. Calla is the most capable person I’ve ever met, but she’s also stretched thin. The last thing she needs is more stress.
“We saw you on Jay Rustin’s Instagram,” the bride adds. “You’re basically famous now!”
Calla crosses her arms, one foot tapping the floor. She looks tired.
I can’t help myself, and step all the way in the room to wave at Calla to get her attention. “Go for it!” I mouth, pointing to the phone.
Calla frowns at me and turns away. “Hey, Helen? Let me check some things. I’ll let you know either way by the end of the day.”
The bride sounds like she’s going to cry. “Thank you. We really appreciate it.”
Calla ends the call and turns to me, hands on her hips. “You’re not my boss, you know.”
“I know. But it’s good exposure, right? Plus, you love a challenge.”
She sighs and uncrosses her arms. “I’m not sure I can handle another ‘opportunity’ right now. I’m still catching up from last week.”
I take the phone from her and set it on the counter, then take her hands in mine. “Calla, you’ve got this. They’ll take donuts. You can make donuts in your sleep.”
She softens just a little. “It’s not just the baking, it’s the delivery. The aquarium is all the way across town. I don’t have a van?—”
“But I do. I’ll drive.”
She looks at me as though I’ve spoken in an alien language. “You’ll drive?”
“Yep. The whole point of you agreeing to stay married was for the exposure to help your business thrive. If you need a little help making it happen, then guess what? I’m your guy.”
“Are you sure?”
I brush my lips against her knuckles. “Very.”
She laughs. “Fine. I’ll call her back and say yes.”
Two hours later, I’m wheeling a bakery cart through the glass doors of the Georgia Aquarium. It’s loaded with cupcakes, cookies, eclairs, and donuts; enough sugar to induce a city-wide coma. Calla walks behind me with her hands full of utensils. She juggles them while checking items off of a color-coded checklist.
“Thanks for encouraging me to take this,” she says. “I was really unsure.”
I glance back at her. “This is what you’ve been working toward, right? You should enjoy it. It’s your first wedding.”
“Well… technically it’s my second.” Calla gives me a teasing look. “The first one just got canceled.”
“This one will go more smoothly.”
“You’re right.” She exhales a big breath. “I’m just nervous.”
We stop at an elevator. She leans in to kiss me on the cheek. It’s quick, like a bird stealing a crumb, but it leaves warmth behind. “Thanks,” she says, and my heart skips.
My dumb, traitorous heart.
The reception room is on the second floor. A huge Beluga whale tank fills one wall. The creatures glide through the water like fat, white angels. Calla’s eyes widen when she sees them. “This place is amazing,” she says, half to herself.
I start unloading the cart. “You’ve got this. Go set up.”
She moves with purpose, talking to the wedding planner and caterers with the self-assured authority of a general. I watch her for a moment.
She really is a sweet person. She deserves to be taken care of, no matter what.
When I finish unloading everything, I join her in arranging the desserts on an exquisitely decorated table. She’s meticulous, making sure each treat is perfectly aligned .
“Thanks for helping,” she says while fiddling with the spacing between the eclairs. “I know this isn’t your thing.”
“Are you kidding? I’m learning so much. Like how to stack donuts without crushing them. It’s a real skill.”
She laughs, and I could get used to this sound. After this wedding is over, I should really talk to her about the feeling I’m having that annulling our marriage will shatter me.
The wedding party bursts into the room, loud and chaotic. Someone spots me and squeals. “Oh my god, it’s Jay Rustin!”
Calla pauses with her hand in midair. I see the tension creep into her shoulders. I step away from the table and raise a hand, subtly redirecting the guests.
“Hey guys. Congratulations to the happy couple.”
A groomsman, already half in the bag, stumbles over and claps me on the back. “Dude, can we get a picture?”
“Of course,” I say. “But Calla’s working right now, so?—”
A purple clad bridesmaid cuts me off. “We want a picture of you two! Your Instagram is so cute. Are you really married?”
Calla is looking very pointedly at the eclairs. I need to defuse this, fast.
“Tell you what,” I say. “Let Calla finish setting up, and I would be more than happy to shoot some video by the whale tank. I know all the best angles. You guys will never look better. Sound good?”
There is a chorus of agreement. I look to Calla. “I’ll be back to help in a bit.”
She doesn’t say anything, just nods and goes back to her checklist.
I follow the wedding party to the tank and pull out my phone. “All right, let’s get the Belugas in the background. Start by striking your sexiest pose. ”
They instantly suck in their cheeks and angle their bodies. It’s more than a little funny because they’re already four sheets to the wind. We do a few takes while I coach them through some shout-outs and goofy poses. It’s actually kind of fun. Fans are the lifeblood of my brand, and moments like this remind me why I do what I do. They’re good people. Plus, their drunk enthusiasm is infectious.
They take turns snapping selfies with me. I make sure to flash my best “Rustin Smile,” the one that’s equal parts genuine and camera-ready. The drunkest groomsman asks about taking photos with Calla, but I explain that she’s working. They seem to understand, and I’m relieved.
I look over to the dessert table. Calla is talking to the wedding planner, her hands making small, precise gestures. She looks… happy. Like she’s in her element.
I should go help her. I start to walk over, but someone grabs my arm. It’s one of the other guests, an elderly woman holding a glass of champagne. “Thank you,” she slurs, a little wobbly. “For everything. You’re making this day so special.”
I take the glass from her and clink it against the glass she’s holding. “It’s all her,” I say, nodding toward Calla. “She’s the real deal.”
She follows my gaze. “You’re lucky to have her.”
“Yeah,” I say, and it comes out softer than I mean. “I am.”
She totters off and I turn back to Calla. She’s alone now, tidying up the table. I walk over, slowly, thinking about what the older woman said.
I am lucky.
“Calla,” I say when I’m close enough. She looks up, and I can’t read her expression. Maybe she’s wondering where I’ve been and why I haven’t helped more. “I’m sorry,” I say. I jerk my thumb over my shoulder. “I got caught up.”
“It’s fine,” she says. But it doesn’t sound fine.
“I was trying to keep them off you. They just?—”
Her lips thin. She glances behind her at the rest of the wedding guests filing in and nods towards the hallway. “Not here,” she hisses as she tows me out of the room.
Uh oh. I can tell from the tightness in her lips that this isn’t going to be a thank-you hug.
Once we’re out of earshot, she rounds on me. “If you’re not here to help, you should just go home. Today is about my business, not your social media audience.”
I wince. “Calla, I’m sorry. I was just trying to take the pressure off you. I thought?—”
“You thought what? That I couldn’t handle it?”
“No, that… I don’t know. That it would be easier for you if I kept them busy.”
She crosses her arms and looks away. “I can handle a little attention, Jay. It’s not like I’m a complete nobody.”
“I know that. I’m sorry.”
She lets out a long breath, then uncrosses her arms. “I appreciate you driving and helping with the setup. Really. But I need you to understand why I’m doing this.”
“I do,” I say, though I’m not sure I do. “I’m just trying to help.”
She nods, but the gesture is half-hearted. “I forgive you. But I’m still mad.”
“Fair enough.”
We move back to the dessert table and start restocking the trays. The room is filled with the low hum of conversation, punctuated by the occasional clink of glasses. We’re left alone until a man in a chef’s coat walks up to Calla.
“These are fantastic,” he says, holding a half-eaten eclair. “Sorry. I snagged one off the tray of backups. Did you make these yourself?”
Calla wipes her hands on a towel and stands a little straighter. “Yes, I did. Thank you. I am trying to get my dessert shop off the ground.”
“I have a question. How do you get the pastry cream so smooth?”
Her cheeks color. “Low and slow heat. Temper very gradually. I also pass it through two sieves to filter out any imperfections in the cream.”
The chef looks genuinely impressed. “I’m a pastry chef in New Orleans. We are doing a home baking competition on WhiskTV soon. I’d love to talk to you about being a guest judge on the show. It would be amazing exposure for your business.”
Calla’s mouth opens, then closes. I can see a dozen emotions flicker across her face, but she’s literally speechless.
She hands the card to me and I take the chef’s card and pocket it. I nudge her, breaking her out of her awkwardness.
“It’s so nice of you to think of me. I will really consider it.”
The chef nods and walks away. Calla turns to me, her eyes wide. “Can you believe that?” she says. “A job offer on TV?”
“Yeah,” I say. “That’s huge. If you can manage it, I mean.”
She frowns. “What?”
“Nothing. It’s just… Your wedding cake business is just taking off. Can you really leave to do something else?”
She gives me a funny look, like I’ve said something in a language she almost understands. “It’s just a meeting, Jay. I didn’t offer to move to a new country or anything.”
Why am I being such a dick about this? I can’t seem to control the words coming out of my idiot mouth. “It’s just a lot, that’s all. You were so stressed on the phone earlier! You’re already so busy.”
She takes the card from my hand and studies it. “I can handle it.”
“Of course you can.”
She slips the card into her purse, then looks back at me. “Can you take some pictures of the display? I need them for my portfolio.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“And post them. Tag me.”
I pull out my phone and start snapping shots from different angles. The desserts look like an enchanted sugary skyline. “You know, I can just send them to you. You don’t need me to post them.”
“It’s better if it comes from you,” she snaps. “Your followers are more engaged.”
I finish taking the pictures and put my phone away. Now I’ve made her angry again. That’s the last thing I wanted. “Calla, I’m really sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to?—”
“Thank you for the pictures,” she says without looking at me. “You know what? I can take it from here. If you want to go mingle with the guests, that’s fine.”
That’s a dismissal if I’ve ever heard one.
I nod, not knowing what else to say. I walk out of the reception room, past the dessert table, and into the hallway. The sounds of the wedding fade. I’m left with the silence of my own thoughts.
What happens when I’ve given her all the exposure I can? When she doesn’t need my platform or my followers? When she’s famous in her own right and doesn’t need me at all?
I take out my phone and look at the pictures of the dessert display. They’re perfect, just like everything Calla does. I start to post them, tagging her bakery and adding a few hashtags.
She deserves all of this, I tell myself. She deserves to be taken care of.
But when I close the app, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m just a stepping stone for her. That when this is all over, the only thing I’ll have left to offer is a fake marriage.