Either way, her absence is a blessing given the delicate nature of the things we need to discuss.
“How’s the first one coming along?” I call through the velvet curtain.
“It’s doing weird things to my chest,” Emily calls back.
“Well, Christ, can’t have that. That’s my job,” I joke without thinking, then catch myself.
Fake relationship, Featherswallow.
Boundaries. Etcetera.
“Sorry,” I add, “I was just?—”
“Just joking, I know,” she cuts in. “Don’t worry about it. That was my fault. I set you up too perfectly. But here, you can see what I mean.”
The curtain swishes open, and Emily emerges in what can only be described as a catastrophe in beige. The dress appears to be attacking her from all angles—crushing her chest while simultaneously adding volume to her hips, with sleeves that could double as shriveled bat wings.
“Oh, dear, Darling,” I mutter, making her laugh. “How tragic.”
“I know,” she agrees. “I look like an accountant on my way to the ball.”
“No, you look like my Year Three headmistress,” I counter. “Mrs. Broombottom. She dressed exclusively in beige and smelled of cold turkey. Which is a very beige smell, if you think about it.”
Emily laughs. “It is.”
“She loathed me. Made me write ‘I will not put frogs in the fountain’ three hundred times after class on multiple occasions. Very unfair.”
She arches a brow. “Didyou put the frogs in the fountain?”
“Well, yes, of course. Repeatedly,” I confess without hesitation. “In the fountain, in the gymnasium, in the cook’s pantry by the flour bins. I was quite committed to amphibian relocation as a boy.” I wave at the dress. “Point is, we can’t have you going about looking like a Broombottom and giving me flashbacks. Next, please. We’re scandalously short on time.”
“Right.” Emily retreats behind the curtain.
The rustling of fabric fills the small space as she changes, and I try very hard not to think about the fact that she’s naked just a few feet away.
Try and fail, but hell, at least I tried.
“Speaking of being short on time,” she says, her voice muffled by the velvet, “We should get our story straight. At least the basics, so we’re not scrambling to answer questions on the fly. So, how did we meet, how long have we been dating, etc?”
“We met at a cocktail party while I was in New York in September,” I say, having already thought this through on the walk to her hotel. “I was in the city for three weeks, so that provides the perfect time frame. We met my first weekend there, clicked instantly, and spent every spare moment together. Things were going so swimmingly, we decided to give a long-distance relationship a go.”
“But we decided not to tell our parents or friends because…we were worried it might not last?” she poses.
“Yes,” I agree. “We were absolutely made for each other, of course, but neither of us had ever pulled off a long-distance relationship before. Does that track for you?”
“Absolutely,” she confirms. “I’m not a long-distance girl. I have a hard enough time keeping a relationship going when we’re in the same time zone.”
“Right. Same,” I agree, my stomach sinking at the reminder that more than pretend likely isn’t in the cards for us.
But she’s in London now, and Iwasin NYC in September…
Seems like two savvy travelers might be able to manage long-distance without too many headaches if properly motivated by good times and hot sex.
“All right, that was easy. On to the rules of fake dating engagement, I guess,” she adds, pulling me from my hopeful reverie.
“Ah, yes, the parameters of our deception.” I lean against the wall. “What did you have in mind?”
“Well, obviously, we keep the fact that it’s pretend a secret. Only Maya knows the truth. I hate lying to my family, but if my mother or sister knows that I’m fibbing, they’ll accidentally spill the beans. They’re wonderful people, but very bad at keeping secrets.”
