Chapter 11
lovelillibet Do you ever think about how something as simple as a bubble can have so many different meanings? In a glass of champagne, it’s effervescence and joy. If we’re talking about the blue bubble of a Portuguese man o’ war drifting on the surface of the ocean, it’s time to swim the other way unless you want to get stung. That’s why when some people refer to me as a content creator, I tell them I’m a context creator. Because no woman is an island.
Love, Lillibet
Image: A tiny blue-tinged man o’ war with trailing tentacles draped across the sand, waiting for an unwary beach walker.
#watchyourstep #tinybubbles #contextisqueen #veuveclicquot
I’ll take insulting marriage proposals for a thousand, Libby thought. Or no, twenty thousand.
“You want to pay me to…?”
“Marry me,” he filled in the blank.
Because that made everything crystal clear. “Meaning what, exactly?”
It looked like he was going to repeat himself a third time, in case Libby really was that slow, until his eyes widened in understanding.
“Not sexual congress.” His expression was mildly repulsed, as if Libby were the one who’d propositioned him. “I’m married to my work. We make each other very happy.”
He smiled at Libby with a smugness she struggled to interpret. Did he want her to congratulate him or stew in the knowledge that she could never compare to his faucet empire?
“Also I need a green card.”
Ha! Guess your weird shower can’t help you with that. Libby gave herself a mental shake. She was not in competition with bathroom fixtures. At least now she knew why he’d agreed to play along. Except for one thing.
“Why me?” As opposed to any of the less pathetic candidates he might have chosen. Someone who’d made it through college without running out of money, for example.
“I am a man who recognizes an opportunity. A gap in the market, let us say. A space for growth.” He cupped his palm, holding it out to Libby. Was she the blank space in this equation? “When you bring together timing, inspiration, and potential, innovation happens.”
“I don’t really understand corporate jargon.” As opposed to personal wellness BS.
“You are available and—with a few cosmetic refinements—will look the part. Blond is a desirable color.”
It was also available from a box in every drugstore. Which didn’t stop people from making snap judgments based on Libby’s appearance. That had been part of Jean’s argument for starting Love, Lillibet: thumbing their noses at everyone who looked at Libby and saw long blondish hair and a tan and assumed she was Beach Barbie.
“I considered the other one. It’s true she is neater in her proportions, but also”—his nose wrinkled as he searched for the right adjective—“unpredictable. You know the Irish.” He mimed raising a bottle to his lips. “So you see, you are perfect for my purposes. No family, low social standing, physically attractive. The total package.”
It was eerily reminiscent of a serial killer’s checklist.
“Perhaps I will be inspired to name a fixture in your honor.” He looked her over like a fish at the market. “French gold, I think. Brushed finish or brilliant? What do you say?”
“Um, both sound nice?” She assumed he wasn’t talking about real gold. A tooth was one thing, but a showerhead? That was some Marie Antoinette business.
“You misunderstand me. I don’t require anyone’s opinion about my creations.”
“Oh.” Libby stopped herself on the verge of apologizing. What else could he have been asking? Ohhh. “You were talking about … the other thing.”
“Our marriage,” he confirmed, as if she’d correctly solved a basic math equation. One plus one equals green card.
“That’s, you know, a big decision.”
“How so?” The faintest hint of testiness had crept into his voice. “The advantage is almost entirely on your side.”
“I don’t know if I’d go that far.” When Mr. L looked ready to argue with this mumbled protest, Libby hurried on. “I’m not saying I would say no … necessarily.” She drew out the sentence, stalling for time.
Mr. L leaned forward.
“At least, not at this exact moment.” Certainly not without talking to her friends, in case they had some idea how to get her out of this with minimal blowback.
“I think we are back to yes, no?” He made a circling motion with his finger.
“No! No yes!” Libby didn’t totally blame him for losing track, considering the number of negations she’d thrown out while also trying really hard not to sound like she was shutting him down. How was she still this bad at spewing nonsense after all those months as Lillibet?
She opened her mouth to try again, but at that very moment Jean burst into the room. “There you are!”
Libby leaped to her feet. “Coming!”
“But—” Mr. L began.
“Hold that thought. We’ll circle back to this soon.” Libby flashed what she hoped was an ingratiating smile before racing out of the room so fast there was probably a trail of cartoon smoke behind her feet.
Jean was half a step behind, her instinctive sense of drama (and when to flee the scene) kicking in without prompting. They hurried past the bedroom from which Hildy’s laughter floated, light and delicate as a flute solo. Libby tried not to be bitter. It wasn’t Hildy’s fault she had a boyfriend who liked her for herself, as opposed to her citizenship and general lack of resources, especially of the educational and orthodontic variety.
When they were safely inside Mr. L’s mother’s dressing room, which Jean had claimed as her command center, Libby pulled away.
“Why are we skedaddling?” Jean asked. “Did you plant a bomb in there?”
“He wants me to marry him.”
Jean’s bark of amusement died out when she saw Libby’s expression. “You’re serious?”
“Yes.”
“I guess he hasn’t dealt with morning Libby. Did you remind him you can’t cook?”
“Nice.”
“Sorry. It’s an unexpected twist.”
Libby dropped onto the chaise longue. “Exactly what we need right now.”
“So he is into you? Because he barely looked at the Me-mas centerfold.”
“Hard to believe, considering my nips were flashing like a fricking lighthouse.”
“Exactly my point,” Jean said, ignoring the sarcasm. “He would have been more titillated if I’d done a portrait of one of his faucets.”
“It’s not me personally. He needs a warm body, and apparently blond hair is a bonus.”
“Ah.” Jean knew how Libby felt about being valued for her appearance—and only that. “Remember when your mom was like, ‘You know she won’t always look that way.’ I still don’t know if the message was, Don’t feel bad, mousy one, or Don’t get attached to having a cute friend, her days are numbered. Like, are you her mom or her wicked stepmother?”
Looks had always been a big deal to Libby’s mother, to the point that their relationship could be divided into phases based on how she felt about Libby’s appearance at a given time. Stage one: Libby is a cute-enough kid to make a flattering accessory. Stage two: Libby is all awkward angles and acne, a warped mirror for her attractive mother. Stage three: Libby finally grows into her height, only now she looks like a younger model of her mom, with longer legs. And the last thing Rachel Lane wanted was a living reminder of her age.
“She’s a mystery,” Libby said, with a lightness she didn’t feel.
“I think the word you’re looking for is monster.” That was one of the unsung roles of a best friend: giving voice to the things you couldn’t let yourself think, much less say.
“Maybe we should introduce her to Mr. L. She’d set him straight.” Though it didn’t sound like their hypothetical arrangement would outlast the oft-mentioned day when Libby’s metabolism crapped out.
“Hold on, there, blondie. Let’s think this through.” Jean paced back and forth in front of the dresser. It was a new habit; there wasn’t enough floor space at their apartment to get a decent circuit going. “How can we make this work to our advantage?”
“Besides the twenty large he offered to pay me?”
Jean stopped mid-stride, slowly lowering her foot to the floor. “That’s a lot of frozen dinners. If he came in at twenty, we can definitely negotiate up.”
“What?”
“If he really wants you to be his trophy wife, let’s make him pay.” Jean raised both hands in the universal sign for, Just listen before you freak out. “Take the money and fake it for a few months. You need a job, and it’s a hell of a lot easier than temping. At least nobody will monitor your bathroom breaks.”
“Um.” Libby let the skeptical arch of her brows do the rest of the work.
“Okay, bad example. You’ll get more than fifteen minutes for lunch. In fact, it could go on for hours. With multiple cocktails, and dessert. You won’t get to eat most of it, but still. It’ll be there. Not to mention the access.”
“To what, his tennis club? You know how I feel about racket sports.”
“I’m talking about real access. It’ll be like you’re a Trojan horse, taking them down from the inside.”
“Number one, he wants a green card. That’s it. And number two, this is not your eat-the-rich moment.”
Jean sank onto the lounge chair beside her. “You turned him down?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Did you black out?”
“I got nervous and started rambling.”
“Yikes.” Jean winced. “You didn’t totally shut the door, though, right?”
“I don’t think so. I kind of got the feeling that no matter what I said he was going to hear ‘yes,’ because I’m so pathetic and he was doing me this huge favor.”
“Romantic.”
“Every girl’s dream.”
Jean rubbed her face with both hands. “Okay, let’s regroup. The good news is, we’re still in with a chance.”
“You sound surprised.”
“Honestly? I figured we’d be out on our asses by now.”
Libby stared at her.
“You needed encouragement, so that’s what I gave you. And it worked. Hashtag winning.”
More like hashtag we’re-all-gonna-die, from where Libby was sitting. And the night wasn’t technically over. “What about dinner?”
“They’re pretty wiped from traveling. I suggested they eat in their rooms. Rest up for tomorrow.”
That was both a good idea and surprisingly housekeeper-like. Maybe they were growing into their roles. “Are you bringing up a tray?”
“Hell, no.” Jean looked disgusted by the mere suggestion. “What am I, their servant? Are their arms painted on?”
Or not. “Maybe we should go listen outside their door?”
Jean made a tsking sound. “All these years, and I had no idea you were such a perv.”
“To hear what they’re saying. If they suspect anything.”
“We should have bugged their room.” Jean clenched her fist in frustration. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of— What?”
“What, what?”
“Guilty face.” Jean demonstrated, looking down and to the left. Libby was pretty sure her roommate was exaggerating the lip nibble. And the hunched shoulders. She definitely hadn’t wiped her sweaty palms on her thighs.
“I think I might have messed up.”
“I thought you said you were ambiguously vague? We need to stay on your pretend-husband’s good side. Don’t forget about K’s restaurant.”
“I know! But I wasn’t talking about Mr. L. It’s Jefferson.”
Jean looked confused. “Who cares about him?”
Libby pressed her lips together, hoping her strangled mmmm didn’t sound too much like me.
“Did he bust you?”
She shook her head.
“Then why are we talking about him?” Jean moved to the closet, clearly more interested in Lillibet’s wardrobe options for tomorrow than talking about Jefferson.
“There was sort of an incident, I guess you could call it. In the shower. Between the two of us.”
“Did it involve you getting up close and personal with his package? A little FedX-rated role play? Special delivery in his pants?”
Leave it to Jean to make it sound like he’d lost control of his bowels. “He was being a gentleman. Protecting me.”
“From what?”
Libby hesitated, aware it wouldn’t sound right. “The water.”
“Was anyone naked?”
She shook her head, hoping the silent unfortunately didn’t show on her face.
“Okay, then. No big deal. Moving on.”
“You’re not mad?”
“I’m mostly disappointed.”
“Sorry.”
“That you have no criminal instincts,” Jean clarified. “How many years have we known each other? My skills should have rubbed off on you by now. But no, there you are, confessing like a punk.”
“Excuse me for being honest.” Intermittently honest, anyway. Libby still hadn’t mentioned the meeting on the beach. Or how hard she was finding it to think about anything else.
“Listen, we both know you broke your brain watching that video a truly unhealthy number of times, but you need to let go of that fantasy man. He doesn’t exist.”
“He’s right down the hall.” Libby neglected to add that she could still feel the very real impression of his body against hers. That was not her imagination talking.
“And he’s an ordinary guy. Not whatever Thor-meets-Mr.-Darcy you cooked up in your head.”
What if he’s better? That was a dangerous thought, so she shoved it aside. “It’s a lot harder to fake it to someone’s face.” Especially if what you really wanted was to make that person like you—the real you.
“It helps to think of yourself like one of those Russian dolls. You unscrew it and there’s another one inside. They’re all part of you, but not the only version, because people have layers. Show one to the world and keep the others hidden until you need them.”
That wasn’t terrifying at all.
“Anyway, I’m not worried about your little water aerobics with Mr. Fro Yo. He already has a girlfriend, and I’m not gonna lie, she’s pretty rad.”
“I like her, too.” Beyond the possibility of a job, Hildy seemed like someone Libby would want to hang out with. If only it didn’t require her to make asinine comments about personal enlightenment the whole time.
“As far as he’s concerned, you’re also taken,” Jean reminded her. Crossing to the dresser, she helped herself to a squirt of hand lotion, rubbing it in as she considered Libby. “Maybe you should make it official. With Mr. L.”
“Seriously?”
“It would be like tying a string around your finger. Note to self, don’t cross any lines with that one dude because I’m hella married. On top of which, you pocket the cash. Sounds like a sweet deal to me.”
“He did offer to name a towel rack after me. Or was it a bath mat?”
Jean was silent for a moment. “I was going to say, He’s full of surprises, but it’s actually the opposite, isn’t it?”
Libby nodded glumly.
“I know how much you want this, Libs. And I’m not going to let you blow it. We’ll figure it out. All the its.”
Jean had put a lot of effort into this ridiculous scheme. More than Libby had ever seen her devote to, say, a legit job. Libby might not be blessed with a college degree or perfect teeth, but she had loyal friends.
“I did have one idea.” Libby watched her roommate kneel on the floor and reach for something under the sofa. It turned out to be a bottle of wine, no doubt smuggled from downstairs.
“Hit me.” Jean sliced through the foil with the tip of her key-chain corkscrew.
“Put off giving him a final answer as long as possible and then pretend I died?”
Jean paused with the cork halfway out of the bottle. “That’s a little extreme.”
“How is it any more out there than the rest of this?” Libby could have made a list, with her giant nudie portrait near the top. “You’re the one who used to talk about faking our deaths to get our student loans canceled.”
“That was different. Lillibet can’t disappear. It defeats the whole purpose.”
“We could say I had amnesia? Like when I resurface a few months from now.”
“I have a better idea. Let’s drink this wine, go to bed, and start fresh in the morning.” The cork emerged with a pop. Jean set it aside, holding the bottle out to Libby. “We made it through the day. Here’s to us!”
Libby took a long drink. “Whoever we are.”