Chapter 5 Lucy
Lucy
I have spent my whole career being honest with my readers, and now I’m in a fake relationship. But preserving my job means earning the trust to write about the stories that are important to me.
One could also say choosing the new senior news writer of The Journal was a questionable decision, but I really did contemplate trying to make this story work with someone else.
With Chris, or Parth, or Dylan, or any of the other guys I have readily available on my phone.
The problem is plain and simple: I don’t have to pretend with Marsh.
He understands what I’m trying to do when it comes to my column.
Once I get back to my desk the rest of the morning is somewhat of a wash.
I barely make any progress on my next story, “The Dos and Don’ts of Deep-Throating.
” Instead, I think about the next few weeks and try to wrap my head around how to be a girlfriend.
I guess the first thing would be spending time with Marsh?
I open our company instant messaging app.
It’s the easiest way to get a quick answer instead of shooting off an email.
I type Oakley and the name Marshall Oakley pops up.
There isn’t a photo but instead, a generic silhouette like a missing person.
His icon is green, signaling that he’s online. I click his name and start a new chat.
Lucy Reid:
Hey! I was thinking we can grab dinner or something after work and talk more? I can make a reservation.
I hit send and then immediately follow up with another message.
Lucy Reid:
There’s a sushi place up the street or a new smashburger place that opened. It’s like a 5 min drive.
For the next ninety seconds I stare at our chat and wait for him to respond, but nothing. His icon then goes from green to gray and I frown. I pull up another tab and attempt to write but then see a notification in the corner of my screen.
Marshall Oakley:
Sushi sounds good. I can meet you there at 6pm. Looking forward to keeping the conversation going.
Well, based on his painfully sterile messaging style if anyone reads our chat, they sure as hell won’t suspect what’s going on. I react to his message with a pink heart, leave it at that, and make a reservation.
The silver lining about living in a big city like Los Angeles is that no matter what time you go to a restaurant, there will, without exception, be someone there.
The Japanese spot in the middle of the Arts District is small and dark with black tables, red walls, and bamboo trimmings everywhere.
It feels cozy, and from what I remember, their tuna crispy rice is worth writing a Yelp review for.
At 5:57 p.m. Marsh walks through the door, his tall frame making him look like a basketball player who entered a preschool classroom. For some reason I look down at my phone in my hand and mindlessly scroll my text history, making it look like I’m preoccupied.
I feel his presence coming closer and closer and don’t glance up until he says, “Hey.”
“Hi.” I set my phone on the table. “How was work?”
“Oh, you know.” He takes the seat across from me and reaches for his tie. In one swift motion, Marsh pulls it undone, stuffs it in his jacket pocket, and then pops the top two buttons of his dress shirt open.
Forcing my gaze to meet his, instead of what little bit of neck is exposed, I laugh. “Rough day?”
“Just long,” he says.
“Oh, are you sure you’re okay to have dinner? We can always do—”
“No, no.” He adjusts in his seat. “Trust me, this is all I’ve been looking forward to.”
I smile. “Okay, if you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” he says unconvincingly. “How was your day?”
“Long,” I echo him, and it breaks the stoic look on his face into one that’s softer. This is the Marsh I remember from the other night.
We end up ordering a pot of green tea and a combo of rolls and sashimi. As we wait for our food, Marsh leans back in his chair, taking a sip.
“So, I think I have to put it on the record…” he starts. “Just to be clear, I don’t do this all the time.”
“Pretend to date your co-workers or attend your exes’ weddings?” I say, and there’s that uncomfortable look on his face again. “Don’t worry, Marsh. I’ve done weirder shit.”
“Oh?”
“Nothing crazy, but it’s mostly for my column,” I explain. “I’ve put myself in many questionable scenarios for a story—all willingly, of course.”
“I guess that makes me feel better?”
“Okay, so”—I sit back in my chair—“tell me about this wedding.”
“What about it?” he asks.
“I know this is your ex getting married, there’s history…but why do you need to attend?”
“My family is going to be there,” he says simply. “I don’t really have a choice.”
“But you could technically be busy that day,” I respond, and he just stares at me. Clearly, he’s already run through that scenario. “Do you still have feelings for her?”
“No.”
“Why did you break up?” I ask.
“It just didn’t work out.” He shrugs and I wait for him to continue.
“Okay…” I prompt when he doesn’t.
“Isn’t that why most people break up?”
“But after nine and a half years?” I raise an eyebrow. “There’s a little more to it just didn’t work out after that long.”
“What are you, a therapist?”
I give him an unimpressed look. “I’m a journalist.”
“This isn’t an interview.”
“Marsh, if I’m going to pretend to be dating you, I think I’m going to need to know why you two didn’t work out—”
“It just didn’t work out,” he says firmly. Our waiter appears with our food and places it in front of us. I stare at the fresh rolls and thick pieces of fish and look back up at Marsh. “I’m sorry,” he breathes out.
I realize that even though I’m an open book, maybe it’s going to take Marsh a little bit of time. We’ve only just met. There’s an uneasy look on his face, like he feels bad for not giving me more, but he’s just simply not ready and that’s okay.
“Got it,” I say. “So, are you trying to make her jealous?”
“God, no.”
“Then why do you need a date again?” I ask, now even more confused.
He looks at me like we’re very close to our game of twenty questions being over.
“I just want to bring a date, okay? Do you have to dive into my whole psyche to understand why? My ex is getting married. Is it a crime to want her to know I’m doing okay?”
“No.” I ease up. “It’s not. I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry.” Marsh rubs the back of his neck. “I guess I’m a little defensive over all of this. It’s been a year. It shouldn’t still be a sore subject.”
I straighten in my seat, now feeling invested in this scenario I’ve gotten myself into.
“You’ve only been broken up for a year and her whole ass is engaged?!” I say in disbelief and then soften my tone. “You have every right to feel defensive. Also, I’m sorry for grilling you. But I need to know all this for my character.”
“Your character?” Marsh asks like he’s already annoyed before hearing my answer.
“Yeah…your new girlfriend who can’t get enough of you. Trust me, it’ll drive her crazy.” I flip my hair and Marsh shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “What?”
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” he says.
“What? Why?”
“People are going to see right through it.”
I scrunch my face. “How?”
“I’m not the type of person that dates women like you,” he replies. “It doesn’t feel believable.”
Um, ouch? I’m sure Marsh graduated at the top of his class and his ex is probably someone who reads only highbrow literature and goes to the museum on weekends. But the subtle dig when I’m trying to help him doesn’t feel great.
“What are women like me?” I say slowly.
“Women that are super confident, and attractive, and funny.” He puts his fingers up in quotes. “And crazy about me.”
Oh.
“It’s not like we’re telling everyone we’ve been happily together for years,” I say.
“It’s new, it’s fresh. Usually after breakups people always end up dating the opposite of what they used to.
” I break my chopsticks apart and stir my miso soup.
“It’s totally believable, Marsh. As long as you believe it. ”
“Okay, fine.” Marsh sighs. “I swear I’m usually a lot more fun than this.”
“I’m having fun,” I say with a smile.
“I’m sure you are.” He pops a piece of sashimi into his mouth.
“So, should we come up with our story?”
“Our story?” Marsh says evenly.
“Yeah,” I reply more enthusiastically than intended. “If people ask how we met, how long we’ve been together, et cetera.”
“Oh, uh…” Marsh drags a hand through his hair. “I haven’t really thought about it. I guess work?” I shake my head in disapproval. “What?”
“Work’s too close,” I explain. “All it takes is for one person at that wedding to know someone at The Journal. They mention we were together, that person says we aren’t dating, and the whole lie unravels.”
Marsh stares at me quizzically. “Are you a serial liar or something?”
I give him an unimpressed look. “No, I’m a woman.”
“Okay,” he surrenders. “So, how do you want to meet?”
“We can still say the Gold Line, just not that we work together,” I explain. “We can both be writers, but I’ll just say I freelance.”
“Sure,” Marsh says, like he still doesn’t know the difference between his version and mine.
“How long have we been together?” I ask.
“Uh, a couple weeks?”
“How romantic.” I roll my eyes.
“A month?” Marsh gives me a mock annoyed look. “And we’ll see if we make it to two.”
“I think we should be together for at least three months.”
“Why?”
“Because I need to make this relationship seem believable to my readers,” I explain. “If I’m suddenly writing about someone that I’ve been with for only a few weeks, it’ll feel too soon. Plus, a month isn’t long enough to be considered serious in your ex’s eyes.”
“I don’t care what she thinks,” Marsh says.
“Well, clearly you do if you’re going through the effort of bringing a date to her wedding.”
He crosses his arms and leans back again. “It’s more to show everyone that I’m okay. I haven’t seen a lot of these people in a year and a half, and if I show up to Julia’s wedding by myself, it’ll immediately turn into the Marsh pity party, and I just don’t want that attention.”