Page 28 of Minted

“I’m not lying,” he says. “Your brain’s the one that’s lying to you. The media’s lying to you, too. You look great, and you’re healthy, and you should not feel bad about how you look. Do you hear me?”

I hear him. I just don’t believe him.

But this time, I’m able to fake a convincing nod, at least. Enough to get us back on the road. I use the rearview mirror to wipe off and reapply my under-eye concealer and touch up my mascara, though I almost poke my eye out when Bentley exits the freeway. “Dude, really?”

“There was a tire,” he says. “Sorry.”

But then we’re there. The party. And it’s time to pretend that this Greek god is my boyfriend. Whatever he thinks, I brace myself for everyone at the party to believe that he’s either an escort or that we’re lying.

Which, of course, we are.

“This might have been a dumb idea,” I say, as I climb out of his car.

But then he’s standing in front of me, and he offers me his arm. “It was a brilliant idea, and I’ll prove it to you.”

As we walk inside the hotel, I can’t help relaxing a little. There are enormous wreaths made of fragrant pine boughs and holly berries. A tall, brightly lit tree stands at the center of the entryway, and white doves tie everything together. “The best thing about holiday decorations are the lights,” I say. “Why can’t we use twinkle lights in our decorations all year?”

“If we did, you’d stop appreciating them,” Bentley says. “No matter how beautiful, no matter how impressive, they’d just become more noise. That’s how it works. Unless it’s new, unless there’s a change, as humans, we just stop looking.”

“So to enjoy the holidays, we need the other eleven months out of the year to be dull?”

“Exactly.” He nods. “You can’t like sugar without also having salty stuff. You can’t appreciate pleasure without pain.”

“You’re more of a philosopher than I expected,” I say.

After following the signs to the rear ballroom, I try to intentionally relax a little. I won’t be helpful to my company whatsoever if I act like a complete nutjob tonight.

“Barbara.” The woman in charge of color makeup waves me over.

Why can’t I remember her name?

“When I heard about your divorce,” the woman says, “I was shocked. I thought you and James were the perfect power couple. I was actually ready to take that man down a peg.” Her eyes lift up. “But.” She widens her eyes and looks back at me. “You definitely won.”

“Won?” Bentley asks as he finally catches up to us.

“I’m Tawnya,” she says. “I’m the director of color makeup for Clinique.”

“You’re the—what?”

“Color makeup—it’s like, eyeshadow, lipstick, you know.”

“Not their skincare line,” I say. “Or not perfume and that sort of thing.”

“Gotcha,” Bentley says. “Well, I know it was a rough year for our girl.” He slides his hand next to mine and intertwines our fingers. “But I’m actually glad that James was such a monumental—”

Bentley cuts off.

James and Kristy are walking behind Tawnya, coming from the refreshment table.

Bentley waves.

“Let’s not even talk about them.” Tawnya giggles. “I want to hear all about this guy.”

Oh, boy.

“Well, you’re about to get your wish.” Apparently, when Bentley’s lying, he skews just a little effeminate. It makes me grin. “We met fifteen years ago, when I was set up with her best friend.”

“You’re kidding.” Tawnya’s talking so loudly that several other people have stepped closer, and now they’re all listening.

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