Faking It Page 2

  I woke the next morning with a case of bedhead and a tennis ball-sized rug burn on my tailbone. What would Saint Vivia have said if she looked down from her celestial perch to witness my walk of shame? I had to walk the five miles from Travis’s house to the dorms, heels in hand, pride in shambles.

  Travis and I hooked up a few more times, but I was never able to get over the way we had met. My shame was that huge. Little did I know, my naughty night with Travis would come back to haunt me like a Kardashian sex tape.

  I vowed to abstain from sex, graduate college, and channel my energies into my Journalism career. I worked freelance until I landed a job at San Francisco Magazine writing fluff pieces for the Style Section—ironic, since the bulk of my wardrobe consisted of heavy metal band Ts and jeans. Fashion was not my forte. Once, I bought a fake Prada from a sketchy boutique near Chinatown. A burgundy satchel in buttery soft leather, with braided biker chain handles. Later, Fanny pointed out the shiny emblem read Prado instead of Prada.

  The editor who interviewed me said she dug my “edgy youth on the verge vibe” and hired me on the spot. Since then, I’ve been assigned pieces titled Out of the Recycle Bin and Into Your Closet and Fabulous & Faux: How to Rock a Fake Fur.

  It isn’t hard-hitting, investigative journalism, but I like to think my work at San Francisco Magazine serves an educational purpose. Besides, if I hadn’t gotten that job, I might not have met Nathan. Nathaniel Edwards, III.

  Nathan’s family owns Opulent Style Publications, the publisher that produces San Francisco Magazine and a slew of other upscale monthlies devoted to culture, art, and posh living. He is a junior partner in one of the largest law firms in the Bay Area, but also serves on Opulent Style’s Board of Directors. He is smart, driven, stable, respectable, and honest. He would make any woman the perfect husband. In fact, in seventy two hours and thirty four minutes he is supposed to become my perfect husband.

  Chapter 3

  The Sexy Texan Returns

  “What do you mean you think the wedding is off?”

  I barely open the door before Fanny rushes in, an impeccable vision in knee high black leather boots and a fuchsia Burberry trench. She takes one look at my puffy, tear-streaked face, shrugs out of her trench, and engulfs me in a hug. I must look a wreck because Fanny is not a hugger.

  “Tell me what happened, ma chérie.”

  We stop hugging and snake our way through a labyrinth of packing boxes until we locate my couch. Fanny sits with her legs crossed, hands folded in her lap, while I assume a fetal position, knees tucked under my chin, a wad of soggy Kleenex clutched in my hand.

  Fanny waits patiently until I begin my story.

  “I met Nathan at Snob tonight.”

  Snob is this super swank wine bar/art gallery in the Mission District. Each month they feature the work of a different local artist. One month, marionettes hung from the ceiling, and the next month, mixed media collages depicting the conflicting patterns found in nature, chaos versus order, covered the walls. I don’t really like wine all that much, but Snob has this hip, laid back vibe that stimulates my creativity. And they serve the best tapas. Nathan thinks the artwork is “weird” and the tapas overrated, but he waxes poetic about Snob’s impressive selection of wines. As I see it, Snob is the perfect place for us.

  Make that, was the perfect place for us.

  “I wanted to spend a little alone time before the wedding chaos began,” I say, resuming my story. “Just relax. Be our single selves. I thought it might be our last chance to be plain old Vivia and Nathan, before becoming Mr. and Mrs. Edwards. You know?”

  Fanny nods, encouraging me to continue.

  “I got there before Nathan and grabbed a table. I noticed this guy staring at me. He looked familiar, but I wasn’t sure how I knew him. Guess who it was?”

  “Who?”

  “Travis Trunnell.”

  Fanny squints, and then her eyes snap open.

  “The sexy Texan?”

  I nod.

  “Is he still sexy?”

  I nod again, and tears of shame fill my eyes. I want to tell Fanny that Travis is as gorgeous as ever, that seeing him made my heart skip a beat, but I don’t because it feels disloyal to Nathan.

  “Mon Dieu!” Fanny puts her hands to her face, peeking at me through her fingers. “I think I know where this is going.”

  “We were talking when Nathan arrived.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “I introduced Travis as a friend from college, and Nathan invited him to join us for a glass of wine. ‘A toast to our impending nuptials,’ he said.”

  Fanny removes her hands from her face. “Travis politely declined, right?”

  “No! He slid into the booth beside me and smiled.”

  “Fils de pute! Did he mention the night you spent together?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “Thank God!”

  “His friend did, though.”

  “What friend? You didn’t mention a friend.”

  “Travis was there with his college roommate, douchebag Drew. He stumbled over, spilled his drink on Nathan, slid into the booth with us, and said, ‘Wasssup?’”

  “Oh my God.”

  “When Travis introduced me, Drew slammed his drink on the table and said, ‘Vivia? Wait a minute. I remember you! You’re the girl who spent one night with m’boy Travis and then broke his heart?’”

  “Shut up! What did you say?”

  “I didn’t say anything. Travis told Drew he was thinking of another girl, but Drew wouldn’t shut up.”

  I tell Fanny the rest of the story, about how Drew accused me of being the virgin who spent one night with Travis and then walked barefoot for five miles just to escape him.

  “He was oblivious to Nathan’s furious expression and my tears. He just kept blathering about how much Travis had liked me and how upset he’d been when he woke to find me gone.”

  “What did Nathan say?”

  “Nothing at first. He waited until Travis hauled douchebag Drew out of the bar and then he asked me if I had lied to him about being a virgin.”

  “Please tell me you said no.”

  I stare at Fanny.

  She throws up her hands in exasperation. “Vivian!”

  “I tried, Fanny, but I just couldn’t lie.”

  “Vivian, you had already lied. What were you thinking?”

  “I don’t know! I just felt so guilty. I didn’t want to start our marriage with a big black cloud of deceit hanging over us.”

  “You created that cloud, Vivian, because you have some foolish notions about chastity.”

  “I know. I know.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I confessed everything.”

  “Everything?”

  I nod.

  Fanny drops her head back and lets out an explosive breath.

  “We’ve been to Snob dozens of times and never run into Travis. So why did we have to run into him tonight? Why? Oh God!” I bury my face in my hands and sob.

  Fanny sits up, scoots closer and pulls me into an embrace. She holds me until I stop crying, until I am forced to draw a deep, shuddering breath.

  “Have you tried calling Nathan?”

  “Yes, but it goes straight to voicemail.”

  “Send a text.”

  “I sent fifteen already!”

  “You should explain in person.” Fanny stands and grabs her purse. “Let’s go over to his place, right now.”

  “I went to his apartment after I left Snob.”

  Fanny sits back down. “And?”

  A lump has suddenly formed in my throat and I have to fight to get the words out. “His doorman wouldn’t let me enter the building.”

  “What do you mean he wouldn’t let you enter the building? That’s ridiculous.”

  “He said, ‘I’m sorry Miss Grant, but Mister Edwards has added your name to the Do Not Permit Log.’ Then he asked me t
o leave the premises.”

  “Did you?”

  “Of course.” My cheeks sting. “He threatened to call the police.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  I shake my head, and we sit in stunned silence, staring blankly at the jumble of boxes and suitcases cluttering my living room. I can’t help but feel the mess is a metaphor for my life. I make a ball with my shredded Kleenex and toss it into an empty packing box.

  “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.”

  Chapter 4

  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.”