Page 45 of On the Edge

“I see that you don’t feel well,” he says, hesitating just a second for me to anticipate abut, “but we need to talk. It’s important.”

The worried note in his voice gives me pause, but my bladder makes its immediate needs known. “Okay. I’ve just got to use the bathroom first.”

“Take your time,” he says. But I don’t have time. I have a lot to do to pack up and get ready to fly, and I can’t be late when the airport transport vans arrive.

When I come out of the bathroom, bladder empty, teeth brushed, and face washed, Marco is sitting on one of the two chairs next to the window.

“You could have told me I looked like a clown,” I say. My reflection in the bathroom mirror had been nothing less than terrifying—mascara streaks down my cheeks, blotchy red skin, and my dark wavy hair tangled and ratty.

He ignores my clown comparison. “You need to see this,” he says, holding out his phone.

“Is this about the picture you posted last night?” I ask as I walk across the hotel room. I really don’t care how many likes the photo ended up getting. Unless Nate responded? And that’s what I’m expecting to see as I take the last few steps to him.

“Swipe through them,” Marco says as he hands me his phone. The screenshot shows the front page of an Italian paper, and under the headlineHas Marco Antonio Finally Found Love?is a short paragraph outlining certain “facts” about last night. As best I can read the Italian paper, it says:Perpetual bachelor Marco Antonio, best known as the reigning world champion of men’s alpine racing, posted this photo of himself and former US gold medal skier Jackson Shanahan. Witnesses claim to have seen them leaving a hotel bar and heading upstairs together. Despite his playboy status, Antonio keeps his love life extremely private, until now.

I scroll to the next screenshot. And the next. And the next. They all include the photo Marco posted last night, and a grainy photo of us walking across the lobby with his arm wrapped around my waist. They also all include varyingly alarmist headlines.

I zoom in on the photo, and I see what I should have seen last night, but likely missed because of the alcohol. With our heads less than a foot apart and our eyes locked in a gaze, it looks like we’re about to head to the bedroom.

“Shit,” I say, sitting on the chair across from him and handing him back his phone. “I should never have taken that stupid photo. My job could be at stake here, Marco. I work for the US National Ski Team and you’re the competition. If people think we’re secretly together ... it’s bad.”

“Everyone knows you’re my best friend. Do they object to that?” he asks.Why is he so freaking calm about this?

“I mean, sometimes they give me crap, but it’s not a problem.”

“Then why would it be a problem if they think we’re dating?” Marco rubs his hand across the dark stubble on his jaw, the rough sound is like sandpaper across wood in the silence of my hotel room. His lips turn down at the corners as his eyes sweep over me. Sometimes looking at Marco, I can’t believe I’ve never felt more than friendship toward him. He’s devastatingly handsome—the kind of man that women throw themselves at—but he’s always been more like a brother to me.

“I don’t know.” I sigh. “Maybe it wouldn’t be. But if the people I work with think I’ve been dating you andlyingto them about it ...”

“The media clearly thinks something is happening between us, and I think people are likely to believe it,” he says.

“But we can just tell the truth. We’ve been friends for almost a decade.”

“You want to engage the media in speculation about what’s happening behind closed doors? Because I think you know how that goes.”

Damned if he’s not right. I went through the media circus before, during my breakup with Nate. The more you try to convince people that something didn’t happen, the more the media spins a story, vicious in their quest to get readers despite the personal cost to the subject of the story.

“I may need a favor?” he says more to the floor than to me. He sounds unsure—like either he’s not sure if he needs a favor, or he’s not sure he wants to ask.

“Go on,” I suggest, and suddenly he’s rambling away in Italian. I’m pretty much fluent, but not nearly able to keep up with the speed of his rant. Something about a secret relationship and needing to protect his best friend Christian, and needing my help.

“Can you just ... rewind and say that again, either slower or in English?”

“I need you to pretend to be my girlfriend.”

“To protect Christian?”I am so confused.

“Yes.”

“I don’t understand,” I tell him, wishing I wasn’t so groggy because obviously I’m missing something here. “How does me pretending to be your girlfriend protect Christian?”

He gives me wide eyes, like I should understand and he shouldn’t have to explain it. “Christian’s family is extremely conservative and also extremely Catholic. His uncle is a cardinal. His family knows the Pope. They are starting to be suspicious of all the time we spend together. But if I had a girlfriend, they wouldn’t worry.”

“Wait ...” My stupid brain must not be working right because it sounds like Marco Antonio, who has been donned “God’s gift to women” by the Italian media, is secretly dating his male best friend? My eyes widen at the realization.

Suddenly about eighteen different memories from over the years click into place, like the enigma machine breaking a code deep in the recesses of my mind. I definitely should have seen this before, and I’m pretty sure I’m a terrible best friend for not catching on sooner.

“But, why do you want to hide this about yourself? There’s no shame in it.”

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