Faking It (3 page)

“Nathan will calm down, Vivian. His male pride has been wounded, but once he has had time to recover, he’ll forgive you. I am sure of it.”

I remember the way Nathan looked after I admitted I lied to him about losing my virginity to him. The cold as Martinis look in his eyes and tone of his voice as he said,
“What else have you lied about, Vivia? Who are you? Do you even love me or was this just some façade so you bag a rich husband?”
He pulled a twenty out of his wallet, tossed it on the table, and left me sitting in Snob. He never even looked back. My head tells me Fanny is wrong and Nathan will never forgive me, but my heart grabs onto her slender ribbon of hope, refusing to let go.

Fanny suppresses a yawn and I glance at the clock on my microwave. The arctic blue numbers indicate it’s well past midnight. It’s been three hours since Nathan left me sitting at Snob. Three hours without a single phone call or text.

Desperate, I reach for my iPhone in hope that Nathan has sent me an e-mail, even one of his succinct e-mails signed with his standard signature block:
Respectfully
,
Nathaniel Rutherford Edwards III, Partner, Bauer, Nelson & Edwards, Corporate Litigators.

My wedding planner sent an e-mail confirming the time and location of the rehearsal dinner. My mother sent an e-mail reminding me to wear my Grandmother’s antique glass rosary as my “something old.” I have several Facebook notifications, including a friend request from
Travis Trunnell.
I check my SPAM folder, just to be sure, but nothing from Nathan.

Fanny reaches over and snatches my iPhone from my hand.

“Go to bed, Vivian. You look wrecked.”

“I am wrecked.” I sniff, batting fresh tears from my cheeks. “I don’t know what I’ll do if Nathan doesn’t forgive me. I will never find a more perfect man for me.”

Fanny rolls her eyes.

“What does that mean?”

“What?” Fanny says innocently.

“The eye roll. What did that mean?”

Fanny nibbles her bottom lip. It’s one of her signature mannerisms. It means she has something to say but is biting back the words.

“Nothing,
chérie
.”

“Are you sure?”

There it is! Another lip nibble.

“It’s late. We’ll talk in the morning. For now, do you think I could borrow a pair of pajamas?”

“Why?”

Fair warning. Fanny prefers to sleep
sans
clothes.

Fanny once dated this gorgeous proctologist. What man would make a profession out of sticking his finger up other men’s bungee holes? Wait for it.

About six months into their relationship, she found out he was cheating on her with Dr. Johnson, Oral Surgeon. Dr.
William
Johnson. It is a strong testament to my deep affection for Fanny that I refrained from making a crude joke in the months following the break-up. I mean, Willie Johnson? Come on. To take her mind off the break-up, I invited her over for Raspberry-Tinis. Several large ’tinis later and she was face down on my sofa. A position she must have felt safe adopting since her faithless proctologist lover was out of the picture. I woke later to find Fanny standing in my kitchen, washing dishes, wearing only a pair of yellow Playtex gloves. Oh yeah, she sleepwalks, too.

“Vivian, do you have a pair of pajamas I could borrow for the night?” Fanny repeats, snapping me out of my reverie. “I’m not leaving you alone.”

This is why I love Fanny. She’s not only willing to spend the night sleeping on a mattress on the floor, but she’ll wear pajamas, too.

I rummage through several boxes of pajamas.
Hello, my name is Vivia Perpetua Grant and I have an untreated pajama addiction
. Finally, I find what I am looking for: a nightshirt with an image of Marie Antoinette standing on the scaffold, a shocked expression on her face, a smudge of frosting on her cheek, and the tagline, “What? All I said was, ‘Let’s eat cake.’”

Fanny looks at the cartoon queen and groans.

“The things I do for you, Vivian,” she says, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

She takes the nightshirt and disappears into my bathroom, emerging a few minutes later with her face scrubbed clean. I am several inches taller than Fanny, so my thigh-length nightshirt hangs to her knees.

I pad into the bathroom. A pair of Nathan’s Harvard Crew sweatpants are hanging on a hook. They’re old and gray, with the crimson Harvard logo emblazoned on the hip. I trace the interlocking oars with my finger. Taking the sweatpants from the hook, I press them to my face and inhale the last traces of Nathan’s expensive cologne. I know the pathetic picture I will paint, yet I can’t stop myself from slipping out of my skinny jeans and into Nathan’s sweatpants. I pair the sweatpants with a T-shirt featuring smiling cartoon sushi rolls and the logo, “I like it Raw.” Raw is the name of a sushi place I worked at while I was in college. The T-shirt was part of our uniform. Nathan hates my Raw T, but it’s super soft, and even though it’s juvenile, the naughty tagline still makes me giggle. I look in the mirror at the smiling sushi rolls and wait for the laughter to come. Nothing. Not a chuckle. Not even a snort of humor.

I squirt some toothpaste on my tongue, rub it around the inside of my mouth, spit, and leave the bathroom without washing my face. I don’t care about clogged pores. I am that exhausted.

I collapse face-first onto my bed and listen to the city’s nocturnal lullaby—the whir of distant sirens, the gentle patter of rain against my windows, footsteps on wet pavement, and the splash of passing cars. I flip onto my back and count the green stripes across my ceiling caused by the light from Leaning Tower of Pizza’s neon sign.

I live on the second floor of an old Victorian building, just above a New York style pizza parlor. Nathan tried to talk me into finding a new place, but I like the charm and character of my old building. Besides, is there any better air freshener than bubbling cheese and tomato sauce? I don’t think so.

Even though I am zombie tired, so many thoughts are whizzing through my brain I find it difficult to fall asleep. Does Nathan still love me? Is he going to call off our wedding? If he does, what will I tell my parents? Mum will be devastated
.
Where will I live? I gave notice to my landlord and the new tenant is set to move in next month. Who will teach me about wine and rub my head when I can’t fall asleep? Who will love me with my frizzy red hair, chocolate addiction, and verbal diarrhea?

I flip onto my side, reach for my iPhone, and check for messages, e-mails, and texts. Nothing from Nathan. I open Facebook just to be sure he didn’t post something on my wall. Nothing.

My heart sinks.

Fanny is breathing slow, measured breaths beside me. How can she have fallen asleep so easily amidst the clutter of my mistakes?

I open my Soothing Sounds app, choose the grandfather clock icon, and watch the animated pendulum swing back and forth. The hypnotic tick-tock echoes in my empty apartment.

Fanny reaches for my hand in the dark and gives it a reassuring squeeze.

“Go to sleep, Vivian. Things will look better in the morning.”

“Promise?” I sniffle.

“They always do.”

I do…NOT want 2 marry U

The text arrives the next morning, waking me with its ruthless bling. I grab my iPhone and stare at the message on the screen. It’s from Nathan.

I can’t abide liars. Therefore, I must insist on a termination of our impending contractual relationship.

Heart racing, I quickly tap out my response.

I love u Nathan. Won’t u pls let me explain?

I hold my breath and wait for his response.

No. My trust in you is irreparably ruptured. It is over, Vivia. Goodbye and good luck.

I let out a strangled cry.

Fanny comes rushing into the room, carrying two steaming paper cups with the Teavana logo on them. She has slipped out to bring me my favorite Samurai Chai Maté. Fanny hates tea. She deposits the tea on a box and comes to sit beside me.

“What is it, Vivian? Did you hear from Nathan?”

I nod, and tears spill down my cheeks.

“What did he say?”

I hand her the phone. Fanny reads Nathan’s text and her lips press together to form a sharp slash across her face. It’s her angry look.

“
Bâtard!
” Fanny directs a barrage of French oaths at the iPhone before switching to English. “He speaks of your engagement as if he were negotiating one of his mergers. What sort of man ends an engagement through a text? Was he born without a heart?”

I shrug because I can’t think of a response. It’s as if someone has jammed a needle into my brain and injected it with Novocain.

“I’ll tell you what sort of man,” Fanny snaps, punctuating her words with sharp jabs and wild waves of her manicured hands. “A sanctimonious mouth-breathing cave dweller who is more concerned about what the other knuckle-draggers will think of him than your feelings!”

I scoot to a sitting position and stare at my best friend through my thick tousled bangs. Her outburst stuns me, not because she is immune to such displays of violent emotion—quite the contrary—but because she has never expressed a negative opinion about Nathan.

“
Je suis desolée
, Vivian.” Fanny draws a deep breath and exhales. “But this is typical of Nathaniel Edwards III, is it not?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,
ma chérie
”—Fanny ducks her head until she catches my gaze behind my bangs—“Nathan cares only for himself.”

“That’s not true!”

“Be honest, Vivian! Think of all the times he disregarded your feelings, your wants, because they did not fit neatly into his agenda.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Really?” Fanny pushes up her sleeves.“Don’t you remember the night you met Nathan at Snob to plan your honeymoon?”

I arrived with a stack of glossy travel brochures of the art capitals of Europe. Paris. London. Rome. Vienna. I bounced through the bar, as buoyant as Kate Upton’s boobs. Nathan listened, nodded, and then went out the next day and booked a bike and wine tour through Provence and Tuscany. A rigorous bike tour. Not like the time Fanny and I visited her Grandma in Normandy and rode pink Schwinns to a café for hot chocolate and croissants.

I throw back the covers and bring my knees up under my chin. Nathan’s expensive musky cologne floats around me, a ghostly reminder of his absence. I am ashamed for thinking of the man I love in less than charitable terms.

“Okay, so he booked a honeymoon that catered to his interests instead of mine, but that doesn’t make him a selfish son-of-a-bitch. Does it? A honeymoon in Europe is still a honeymoon in Europe. Did it really matter if we filled our days cruising on the Seine or biking through the French countryside?”

Fanny stands and walks to where she deposited our tea, grabs a cup, and holds it out to me like a peace offering.

“I am sorry, Vivian. I should not have jogged off at the mouth like that.”

“
Run
.”

“What?”

“Run off at the mouth, not jogged.”

The spicy scent of chai teases my nostrils, and I take a sip of my tea.

“Run, jog. It does not matter.” Fanny takes a sip of her tea and shudders. “I shouldn’t have said those things about Nathan. Not yet. It’s too soon.”

I get out of bed and pad into the kitchen, rummaging around in the cabinets until I find an old box of Border’s Strawberries and Cream Shortbread Biscuits courtesy of my mum. Fanny follows me into the kitchen and I offer her a cookie. She shakes her head. Normally, I would take Fanny’s refusal to indulge as a cue to resist the temptation of the evil glutinous goody, but not this morning. I am basically sticking a tub of butter in my mouth and I don’t care. They taste good. Besides, what does it matter if I blow up like Violet Beauregarde, the bratty gumball thief in
Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory
? I’ve been jilted, practically left standing at the altar. I might as well buy a herd of cats, don the flannel pajamas, and call myself Perpetual Spinster.

If I could have a quart of Haagan Dazs White Chocolate Raspberry Truffle administered to my veins via IV, I swear I would do it.

I polish off two more cookies, take a seat on one of my kitchen chairs, and drop my forehead to the table.

“What am I going to do, Fanny? My life is over.”

“Nonsense!” Fanny says. “Your life is not over.”

“It feels like it is.”

Fanny rests her hand on my shoulder. “Of course it does,
ma chérie
. Your heart has been broken. Your dreams have died. You are in mourning.”

Queen Victoria mourned the death of her husband for forty years. She dressed in black and cultivated a talent for taxidermy. Will I mourn the loss of Nathan for that long? God, I hope not. Dead animals really creep me out, even if they are stuffed and confined to glass domes.

“These feelings will not last forever, though,” Fanny says, reading my thoughts. “You will forget all about Nathan.”

With effort, I raise my head and look up at my dear friend. “How?”

“Do what French women do.”

“What’s that?”

“Replace him with a new lover.”

Fanny never refers to men as boyfriends, only lovers. It’s so cosmopolitan.

“Ugh.” I groan, imagining myself sitting at some pathetic speed date making small talk with a stranger. “I don’t have the stamina for all of that. My heart is broken.”

“Not now, but you will. Maybe you might consider revisiting someone from your past?”

“It’s not like I have many to choose from.”

“Think, Vivian,” Fanny urged. “What about that SCUBA instructor, the South African with the hazel eyes?”

“He only wanted to go down.”

“How is this a problem?”

I laugh through my tears. “He only wanted to SCUBA dive. It’s all he ever talked about.”

“What about that boy you had a crush on in high school?”

“Jason Thomas?”

Fanny nods.

“I saw him a few months ago at a function in Napa.”

“And?”

“I grossly miscalculated the trajectory of his hotness. He was fat, had three chins, and no neck. And he was bald. He looked like a giant toe.”