Chapter Eight #3
But barring that, I want to move forward with my life. I want to climb out of the gutter I’ve careened into and get back on the path I envisioned for myself, the one Mom envisioned. And if this is the best way to do it, so be it.
What’s one more game? I think. This will be no more real than Romeo and Juliet in college.
“It’s exactly what I want,” I lie to James.
His brown eyes search my face in that devastatingly thorough way of his. I guess I hide my real feelings well enough to miss his scrutiny, because he looks decidedly less tormented when he leans forward to link our pinkies together.
“I’ll think about it,” he says slowly. “It would be our final bargain, yes?”
“The final bargain,” I confirm with great solemnity. “And the final frontier.”
“Which is?” James asks.
“A counterfeit relationship for PR purposes to ensure the success of the project,” I say. “What else?”
“If you say so,” he says.
—
My phone screen lights up as I’m cleaning my dinner dishes. Well, dish. Dad is out late with a foaling mare, so I ate the frozen stir-fry right out of the pan like an animal since no one was here to judgeme.
I expect it to be Serena—because Dad is probably elbow-deep in a horse’s business end and they are the only two who ever text me—but it’s not her.
Maybe James Neely: Image, the notification says.
A bit of residual soap on my thumb makes it difficult to swipe to the messages, so by the time I do, there is another text beneath the photo of what at first glance appears to be a fancily plated meal from a fine restaurant.
Upon a second glance, though, it is clearly a shaped mound of whipped cream with crushed Goldfish crackers sprinkled atop it alongside a drizzle of…
Maybe James Neely: The latest gift from my cousin. I thought you should know. Whipped cream, kid snacks, and a caramel finish. A monstrosity.
I wipe my hands on my shirt to rid them of water and text back: Are you sending me this because we’re dating? I thought people who dated loved each other and tried to spare each other pain. This causes me pain.
James’s text bubbles appear and then, after a solid minute of me staring at my phone, disappear again.
I stare another five before I force myself out of the kitchen and up the stairs. I cannot— will not —sit by my phone waiting for a response. If romance novels taught me anything, it’s that waiting for a guy to text like a puppy waiting for its owner to return is pathetic.
I’m out of the shower with dripping hair and freshly smooth legs that I made myself take as long as possible shaving before he responds.
You’ve never dated anyone before?
I consider leaving him on read for twenty minutes in retaliation for his delay, but I’ve used up all my self-control for the evening.
I’ve dated , I send. And then, because fake-dating or not he ought to know the full truth, I add a very clarifying, Well, sort of .
This time his response is nearly instantaneous.
How can you “sort of” date? Is this not your first fake-dating relationship?
Part of me is gleeful that he has said in writing that he is definitely onboard with the plan, at least insofar as to admit we’re in the fake-dating relationship via text.
The bigger part of me is unsure how to tell James that I think that part of me is broken, that the one guy I liked after college quickly became the one guy I tolerated and then—after I highly suspected he was just using me as a fuck buddy—the one guy I dumped.
I still sometimes wonder if he even registered that I quit responding to his “hangout” texts.
He got transferred to a different office shortly after, so maybe he thought we just met a natural end.
The worst bit is that I’m not even sure I liked him. I’m not even sure I know how to like someone who isn’t fictional.
I’ve yet to meet a man who gives me the kind of feelings Arabella describes when she’s thinking about William. If I’m being honest, I haven’t felt anything that deeply since Mom died.
Maybe the magic she took wasn’t just the parking-spot-finding, flower-bending kind. Maybe it was all of it.
I’ve dated , I text James again. But only the one guy and he ended up being a bummer.
When my phone lights up with a call, even though we were just texting, I don’t expect it to be James. But of course it is.
It’s like I’ve caught him midsentence, because he doesn’t even wait for me to say hello before he asks, “How fucking stupid was this guy if all you can say is that he’s a bummer?”
“Hello to you, too.”
“No, but really. When you say bummer, do you mean, like, he didn’t save your shirt when you spilled something on it? Or something worse?”
I shrug, realize he can’t see me, and sigh to get the gist of the shrug across.
“Pretty much the first one. He was kind of there and I was kind of there, and for like three months we were kind of there together, you know?”
From James’s end, there’s a rhythmic thumping, has been since I answered the call. It seems to be increasing in speed, whatever it is, but I decide it’s best not to call attention to it.
“No, I don’t know,” James says.
I roll my eyes as I sit on the edge of my bed and dig my bare toes into the rug Mom made.
“Of course you don’t,” I say. “Because you’re James Freakin’ Neely and any woman would fall all over herself to be with you.”
“ No. I just mean how could somebody—” He cuts himself off, and there’s a loud thump. “Never mind. It’s none of my business.”
I wonder if I’m braver on the phone because I can’t see his eyes, can’t see him watching me.
“It is your business, though,” I say. “As my boyfriend, you’re allowed to ask whatever you want.”
The thumping pauses for the first time since the call began.
“Fake boyfriend,” he reminds me, like I could have forgotten.
“Might as well get used to dropping the fake if we’re going to keep this up for two months,” I say, keeping it light.
“Though you might be my real ex-fake-boyfriend if you send me another photo bombshell like that again. What the heck was that? Is your cousin having some sort of food-related mental breakdown?”
“Of sorts,” James says, and the thumping resumes. “He has a toddler.”
“Dreadful creatures,” I say. “My best friend has one of those models. She’s constantly threatening to throw herself into the sun because of it. But also for it? It’s very confusing.”
There’s an especially loud bang that I can no longer pretend to ignore.
“Are you, like, throwing the world’s largest Hacky Sack against the wall of your rental?” I ask. “Because if so, I hope you are ready to pay a massive cleaning fee.”
“You can hear that?”
He sounds surprised.
“I think they can hear it on the space station,” I say. “What are you doing? Is it the Hacky Sack thing?”
“No, it’s a pounding metal thing.”
“Because you’re really into plumbing?”
He scoffs.
“No.”
“Don’t make me guess again,” I threaten.
“Because the next logical conclusion is that pounding metal is some sort of euphemism and I’m going to add it to my running list of blackmail should you decide to fake-break-up with me.
” I quickly adopt a pleasant, professional voice before he can respond.
“Reminder: Juniper Green has sworn on her mother’s shirt to not blackmail you for any reason.
This is simply a joke. Proceed with merriment. ”
“How is the shirt?” he asks, definitely not mad at the blackmail comment. If anything, it sounds like he’s trying not to laugh.
“Shirt is good,” I say. “I’ve learned my lesson: Don’t wear it out into the world no matter how much luck I need. It might be unlucky, actually, so in its box it will stay.”
“Probably for the best given your track record,” James says.
There is a smaller thump, like he’s trying to hide it and so that I’ll forget to ask about it. He’s being so…Not Annoying—and he called me —that I decide not to bring them up again, the mysterious sounds.
“Are you ready to tell the world about our relationship?” I ask instead, flopping back onto my bed.
“We should probably go ahead and film some sort of grand reveal ASAP. It’s going to be the perfect transition to the new campaign.
I’ve started making a list of some scenes we can re-create and other Meadow activities, but I already have enough for us to post two or three times a week until the end of our recording schedules. ”
James still sounds amused when he answers, “However you’re planning to announce, I’ve got a better idea.”
“Which is?”
I’m certain he’s smiling.
“You’ll see.”
“Should I be concerned?” I ask. I un-flop from the bed and walk to the closet to dig out pajamas. “Because even if you say I shouldn’t be, I’m going to be. Why are you willing to help out all of a sudden?”
The thumping stops, or maybe it’s too quiet to be heard over James’s loud sigh.
“I don’t know,” he whispers, like it’s a confession. “Probably because my idiot cousin says it’s a good idea. That it would be good for me. And for the project, of course. He is one hundred percent on your side, by the way. He thinks the whole thing is genius.”
“I’m not sure whether to be glad that your cousin is clearly a man of reason or fearful that the man who created Foie Goldfish thinks my plan is going to work.”
“Guess we’ll just have to trust him either way,” James says.
I shouldn’t push my luck, but I do anyway. I can’t help it.
“As your girlfriend—your fake girlfriend—can I ask you something?”
His hesitation is so apparent, I’m surprised it doesn’t materialize in my bedroom like a ghost.
“You don’t have to answer,” I remind him. “But…can I ask?”
The thumping resumes again, and it suddenly dawns on me that this man is lifting weights while talking to me.
“Shoot,” he says.
I pleat the T-shirt in my hands, suddenly conscious that I’m basically talking to him while naked and he’s probably half naked if he’s working out. I drop the shirt on my bed to tuck the towel more securely beneath my arms, because I am ridiculous.
“ Why does your cousin think it will be good for you?”