Chapter 11
eleven
. . .
Jess
“Let me get this straight,” Brandon says, leaning against my kitchen counter with an expression of pure disbelief. “You…are now…Mrs. Jessica Carmichael?”
I flip him off without looking up from the box I’m packing. “Don’t call me that.”
“Which part? Jessica or Mrs. Carmichael?” Brandon’s grin is infuriating. As a stuntman, he’s built to take physical punishment, which is the only reason I haven’t thrown something at him yet.
“Both. Either. And it’s Lexington-Carmichael.” I shove books into the box with more force than necessary. “Are you going to help or just provide color commentary?”
“Definitely commentary,” he says, helping himself to a beer from my fridge. “This is premium entertainment.”
My apartment has become command central for what Blair is secretly calling “Operation Marriage Plot.” After three days of shuttling between here and Lucas’s place for Dylan’s filming schedule, I realized I needed to actually move in to maintain the illusion.
This is why Blair, Brandon, and Stella are allegedly helping me pack, though they’re mostly interrogating me about my sudden marital status.
Brandon, my across-the-hall-neighbor-turned-accidental-best-friend, is lounging on the couch with a half-eaten bag of pretzels.
As a stuntman, he’s one of those guys you’ve seen in a hundred action movies but wouldn’t recognize on the street, and he’s also possibly the chillest person I’ve ever met.
He helped me carry up a broken bookshelf three years ago, and now he has a permanent spot in my life.
Stella, on the other hand, is delicately wrapping a framed photo in bubble wrap like it’s one of the crown jewels.
She’s the youngest of us, all soft edges and sunshine.
She started out as Blair’s intern at The Wynn Agency and followed Blair when she opened up her own agency, Tangerine Talent.
Somehow, she’s become everyone’s little sister.
Technically, she lives on the other side of the complex, but she’s always at my or Brandon’s apartment, usually with snacks and support.
“I still can’t believe it,” Stella says, squinting at the photo before adding more wrap. “Isn’t this the same Lucas you once described as having the emotional depth of a spoon?”
Blair snorts. “Or the one she called the human equivalent of an email that starts with ‘Per my last note.’”
“My personal favorite,” Brandon adds, “was when she said his press statements were so sanitized they could be used as disinfectant.”
“Or when she signed him up for Manifesting for Men,” Blair adds. “That was inspired.”
Stella gasps. “Did you really?”
“I also sent him a digital subscription to Goat Yoga Monthly,” I mutter. “Are you guys keeping a catalog of every insult I’ve ever used?” I ask, exasperated.
“Only the really creative ones,” Blair says, patting my shoulder. “It’s just, you have to admit, this is a complete one-eighty from everything you’ve ever said about him.”
I take a deep breath. This is the hardest part, lying to my friends. I glance at Blair; she’s the only one who knows the truth.
Journalism is about truth; it’s what I’ve built my career and reputation on. But here I am, constructing an elaborate fiction for the people closest to me.
“Sometimes, the line between hate and not-hate is thinner than you’d think,” I say carefully.
Brandon raises an eyebrow. “And that line just disappeared in Vegas?”
“When you know, you know,” I offer weakly.
“Bullshit,” Brandon coughs into his fist.
I throw a pillow at him. “No one asked you, Grimaldi.”
“Hey, I’m just saying what we’re all thinking.” He catches the pillow effortlessly. “The Jess I know would never marry her nemesis.”
He’s right, of course. Brandon has lived across the hall from me for three years. He’s been witness to my rants about Lucas.
“Well, maybe you don’t know me as well as you think,” I retort, but my words lack conviction.
Stella, ever the peacemaker, intervenes. “Whatever the reason, we support you. Right, guys?”
“Always,” Blair agrees immediately. “Even when you marry the ‘enemy.’”
“He’s not the enemy,” I say, and I’m surprised to find I mean it. “He’s just on the other side of the professional fence.”
A knock at the door saves me from further explanation. Brandon, closest to the entrance, swings it open to reveal Sophia, stunning as always in skinny jeans and an oversized sweater.
“Hey, superstar.” Brandon greets her with a hug. “You’re early.”
“Meeting got pushed up,” Sophia explains, stepping into the apartment. When she spots me surrounded by boxes, her eyes widen. “Jess! I heard the news. Congratulations?”
The question mark at the end is subtle but unmistakable.
“Thanks,” I say, accepting her quick embrace.
Sophia and I became close over the last year when her house flooded and she moved in with Grant Hall, head of Wonderland Studios and Lucas’s boss.
I tortured her in the beginning. Lucas wouldn’t share anything with me, and I was suspicious that something was going on.
Turns out I was right, but it didn’t happen in the way I thought.
And I never could have imagined teaming up with Lucas to help Grant with a public declaration about his feelings for Sophia on my podcast.
“Marriage looks good on you,” she says, studying my face. “You’re glowing.”
I quickly correct her. “That’s stress sweat. Moving is hell.”
“Speaking of,” Brandon says, checking his watch, “we should head out if we’re going to make that meeting with the stunt coordinator.”
Sophia nods. “I hate to rush out, but duty calls. We’re prepping for that action sequence in Wonderland’s new spy franchise.” She eyes the boxes. “So, you are moving into his place?”
“Yes, until we can find our own place together,” I reply. “And it’s closer to the studio for him.”
“And further from everything for you,” Blair points out. “A true sign of love.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
“That reminds me,” Stella says, perking up. “If you’re mostly staying at Lucas’s now, would you mind if I used your apartment occasionally? The tenant across from me is doing renovations, and the noise is driving me crazy. I can’t concentrate on scripts.”
“You want to use my place as a reading room?” I ask.
“Just sometimes! I’d water your plants, grab your mail.” She bites her lip. “And your place is closer to a certain someone in the building.”
Brandon makes a face. “Not that tech bro? The one with the messenger bag and the cold brew addiction?”
“He has a name, Brandon. It’s Mason.” Stella’s cheeks flush. “And he’s not a tech bro. He develops apps for nonprofit organizations.”
“Same difference,” Brandon mutters.
“Sure, use the place whenever,” I tell Stella. “I’m paying rent either way, and most of my stuff is staying here. Lucas and I haven’t exactly figured out the long-term logistics yet.”
And there it is, the first truly honest thing I’ve said all afternoon. We haven’t figured anything out beyond surviving the next six months of this charade.
Later, after everyone has left and I’m alone with my half-packed boxes, I pour myself a glass of wine and stand at my living room window. The sun is setting over the city, casting long shadows across the buildings.
“This is just a story,” I whisper to myself, “like any other story with an embargo date. Six months from now, the truth comes out, and everything goes back to normal.”
I’m making a deal with the universe, or maybe just with my own conscience. I, Jessica Lexington, who has built a career on exposing truths, am living a lie. But it’s a necessary lie, a temporary one, like going undercover for a story.
The problem is, undercover agents sometimes go rogue, and the line between pretend and reality gets blurrier every day I spend with Lucas.
My phone vibrates with a text. Speak of the devil.
LUCAS
Dylan wants to film us having dinner with friends next weekend. Says it’ll make good B-roll for the “support system” segment. Any chance your friends are free that Saturday?
I stare at the message. Looks like I’m dragging my friends deeper into this fabrication.
JESS
I’ll ask. Blair and Stella for sure. Brandon if he’s not working.
LUCAS
Alex too. Maybe Grant and Sophia if they’re free.
JESS
Quite the dinner party for two people who barely tolerate each other.
LUCAS
We’re married, remember? Try to look like you enjoy my company.
JESS
That will be an Emmy-worthy performance.
LUCAS
Funny. I’ve seen how you look at me when you think no one’s watching.
My breath catches. What does that mean? Before I can overthink it or craft a suitably cutting response, another text comes through.
LUCAS
Don’t forget I’ll pick you up from work tomorrow at 7 for the Survivor premiere.
Great. More lying to people I care about. I set down my phone, pick up my wine glass again, and take a long sip.
“Just a story,” I repeat to myself, “with an embargo date.”
But as I turn back to my packing, I can’t shake the feeling that this particular story might be getting away from me, and the journalist in me knows those are always the most dangerous kind.