Chapter Twelve
Fake Dating—a trope found primarily in romance stories, where the main protagonists pretend to be in a relationship (for business, for the purposes of impressing nosy family members, to incite jealousy). The fake relationship eventually becomes real.
Desierto Encanto is the best bar in town. There are neon cacti placed all around the room, and the walls are painted in a modern desert motif, with howling coyotes and sunset landscapes. The bar is a large slab of pink quartz, and the stools look like geodes that have been cut in half, all in blue, purple, and pink. I move up to the bar and take a seat on the stool and order two margaritas.
I look around the room, realizing that for as small as the town is, I don’t know anyone in the bar all that well. Maybe because my best friend is a single mom who never gets to go out and my other friends are in their eighties and nineties.
This is the dating scene, which I’ve never been part of in Rancho Encanto.
“I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve called this meeting,” I say, pushing the margarita toward him.
“I’m riveted,” he says.
I tap the side of my glass. “You know, my ex-boyfriend ...”
“The one I just learned about?”
“That would be him.”
“Fucking fuck,” he says, picking his margarita up and taking a sip.
“The very same.”
“What about him?”
“He’s going to help raise a lot of money for the town. By being here. By existing. He doesn’t love this place, he doesn’t care about it, he’s just famous. Ish. And handsome.”
“Okay,” he says, fixing me with a gimlet eye, obviously suspicious about what I’m going to say next.
Rightfully so, in fairness to him. He should be suspicious of me.
I have ulterior motives.
“It occurs to me,” I say, “I also know someone handsome and famous.”
His gaze narrows. “Surely you don’t mean me.”
“I do,” I say.
“What exactly do you think me being famous and ... handsome is going to accomplish?”
For a full second all I can think is ... You’d make him so jealous.
That’s the stupidest thought. I don’t want to make Chris jealous. But the truth is ...
I feel like I landed myself in the middle of a weird Christmas movie with all the possible clichés. Except Nathan doesn’t own a Christmas tree farm, and Chris would never ask me to go back to the city.
I wouldn’t want him to.
I wouldn’t want to move to Nathan’s Christmas tree farm if he had one.
It’s been established that the man doesn’t want me, and also that he’d be too big of a project for me even if he did.
“I want you to consider doing a book event. At A Very Desert Christmas. If we can advertise that you’re going to be there giving a literary talk ... I think you would be a real draw.”
“Right,” he says.
“I know you don’t love to do things like that. You’re very private, you protect your identity. I get that.”
“Yes, and you realize that everyone at the motel knows my actual name.”
“Well, maybe half of them know your first name. Almost none of them use the internet. I’m pretty sure Albert is on the run from the law.”
“Albert?” he asks.
For a moment, I’m about to explain who Albert is when I realize he’s not actually asking, he’s questioning the logistics of what I just said.
“Yes. Ruth told me.”
“What did he do?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he was a contract killer.”
He shakes his head. “No. I’ve met contract killers. Albert is no contract killer.”
“Point is,” I say, “you don’t have to worry about them going in broadcasting your identity. Probably anyone psychotic enough to look hard could connect the two.”
“True enough.” He shrugs. “I find that I give enough information that no one seems interested. They don’t seem to realize that author me isn’t ... the rest of me.”
“I don’t do author events, so I don’t know what that’s like. Honestly, no one is interested in me. So I’m actually not trying to step on your privacy. I care about that.”
“I really can’t think of a good reason to say no to you, Amelia,” he says.
I’m never going to get tired of hearing him say my name.
“That must devastate you,” I say.
“You have no idea.” He takes another sip of the margarita. “You really don’t.”
“I appreciate this.”
“Don’t be grateful to me,” he says. “Please. I can’t stand it. I’m not actually that great, and I certainly haven’t been that great to you, so don’t go thanking me for doing something that’s really just my job.”
The acknowledgment that he hasn’t been very nice surprises me. He hasn’t been, but he’s been steadfastly acting like there’s nothing weird happening, so having him just say that is kind of a shock.
“I’m going to be grateful to you,” I say. “You don’t get to tell me what to do. If you’re going to own up to being difficult, don’t be a new kind of difficult on top of it.”
“I’ll try, but difficult is about the only thing I know how to do these days.”
Silence lapses between us for a moment.
“Apparently you also know how to write,” I say.
“Some would say.”
“What’s your favorite kind of scene to write?” I ask.
He gives me long-suffering side-eye. “Fight scene.”
I frown. “Least favorite scene to write.”
“Sex scene,” he says.
“Wow. I would be the opposite. Except I don’t really write physical fight scenes. Also, your books have sex in them?”
“Have you never read one of my books?” He looks genuinely baffled by this.
“No. I don’t tend to read male authors.”
“That’s sexist.”
“It’s not. Men don’t read women. I’ve always felt like if I don’t run out of women authors to read, I don’t need to worry about getting to the men. Plus, men write sad books.”
“It’s not only men who write sad books. Women write very sad books sometimes. Also, I read women.”
“Have you read me?”
“No,” he says. “I don’t read romance.”
“I don’t read dude books.”
He stares at me. “Dude books?”
“Yeah. You know. What did you say about it a couple of years ago ... acts of heroism, blowing shit up?”
“Don’t underestimate the entertainment value of a good explosion.”
I laugh and drain the rest of my margarita. “Since you’re doing this for me, I promise I will read whatever book you’re going to have sent to the event.”
“Well, I await your review with bated breath.”
“I’m sure you do.”
He pays the bar tab before I can stop him, and I leave a tip. Then we walk out into the parking lot slowly, out of step, and I’m not sure which one of us is trying to break the connection. Or keep it.
We start heading back in the direction of the motel, in that same out-of-step fashion, like maybe it’s a coincidence we’re headed the same way. I don’t know why he’s doing it, I just know I don’t want it to feel like I’m keeping him tethered to me.
Then I realize, I do need to tell him about the next meeting.
“There’s a meeting tomorrow,” I say. “Of the committee. I’d like for you to come and show your face and ... I know I’m asking a lot of you.”
He sighs heavily. “I was there the day of the fire, Amelia. I feel something about what happened here. You don’t have to browbeat me every step of the way.”
“I didn’t mean to imply you didn’t care. I just am aware that I’m taking liberties.”
He laughs, short and hard. “Is this what you call taking liberties?”
I scrunch up my face. “Well. Not really.”
My heart flutters, and anxiety rolls down my spine in a wave that makes me shiver.
I’m about to take liberties. I take a deep breath and decide it’s time. “What if ... what if Chris thought we were dating.”
“What?”
“I’m going to look so unhinged to him. He’s going to think I lured him here. I’m sure he already thinks that. But if you and I look even casually together at the event, and I’m sort of organizing your event and ... It’s going to be weird no matter what, but I won’t have to do all kinds of explaining and he’ll ... He won’t think I did it to try to get him back.”
“You didn’t, though,” he points out. “You didn’t even know he was coming.”
“No!” I say. “I didn’t, but be honest. Would you believe that? Like genuinely, would you believe that at all if you showed up at an event you got invited to and it turned out your ex-girlfriend was on the committee?”
His expression turns reluctant, and he lets out a long breath. “Okay, yeah, it would be hard to believe.”
“See? We weren’t casually dating. We owned a house together. I caught him in the act of screwing another woman. It’s ... it’s a lot. Please.”
“What would this entail?”
“Really almost nothing. We don’t need to convince anyone here we’re dating. It’s just ... you know, maybe some casual ... touching, at the event.” Just saying it makes my breathing ragged.
He stops walking. “You know ... I’m probably the person least likely to ever involve myself in shenanigans. Yet here you are. Involving me.”
I am, he’s correct. There’s no earthly reason for him to say yes to me. He pities me, and I get that. Though, right now I’m not above taking pity. I’m just surprised that he feels it for me. I can’t get the way he talked to me that night out of my head.
“I know this means we’ll be a little close.” I clear my throat. “You did say you wanted distance.”
“Jesus,” he says.
“You did say that.”
“Yes. I did. And you aren’t letting me win that, are you?”
“You could say no,” I point out. “You could continue to be the most antisocial man who ever lived, and you could say, Fuck your fundraiser and fuck your feelings; your ex is going to just have to think you want to skin him alive .”
He looks at me with no small amount of something that might be wonder in his eyes. “You’re right. I could. Two years ago, I would have.”
“But not now,” I say.
“No,” he says, and he starts walking again. “Not now.”