Then, when I get to the part where we went up to the hotel room together, I look up to see her staring at me with an expectant grin.
“Holy shit,” she whispers, her voice low, “youfucked him!”
It’s so surprising coming from her that it makes me laugh, and Sienna laughs too, her hand flying to her mouth like she’s surprised herself.
“Uh, excuse me,” a customer says, his eyes going wide. He clears his throat when Sienna turns to him. “…I was hoping to get a candle for my mom.”
Sienna helps him pick out a candle that’s scented likeChristmas Peace, then packs it with glittering tissue paper and hands it over to him. The moment he’s gone, she turns back to me. “Hopefully he doesn’t report me to the organizers.”
“I don’t think he will,” I offer, though I have no idea. They’ve told us to limit profanity, since the market is meant to be child-friendly.
We work in silence for a few minutes, then she asks, “So…were you planning on sharing details?”
I flush—Sienna and I don’t normally talk about this kind of stuff, and her cheeks are just as red as mine. “Do you really want them?”
She shrugs, “Nothing better to do.”
So, I tell her, running through most of it—leaving out the best parts, of course—but saying enough that she gets the idea. Can see that it was really,reallygood.
“Hmm,” she says, shaking her head, a piece of her hair falling out from under her reindeer headband and onto her forehead.
“Hmm,what?” I prompt, and she shoots me a look and another sly smile.
“Nothing. I mean—when he came here the other day, I kind of thought this might happen. Especially when you told me about thefake relationship.Didn’t think you could spend that much time around a man like that and not want more?—”
“Well, notmore,” I clarify, something thickening in my throat. We go quiet as another round of customers comes through, and it’s an hour later before we can rest, and I turn back to her, picking up right where we left off. “Like, it’s just platonic. Sexual, not emotion.”
Sienna snorts, “Yeah, sure. Non-emotionally-invested men are definitely in the habit of buying Dior dresses for their girls.”
“I’m nothis girl,” I hiss, though technically, I suppose I am his fiancée. “And he just wants me to look the part. It’s a good thing he thought of it, because his cousin was clearly already suspicious of me. If I’d come in a borrowed dress that didn’t fit me, I don’t think he would have ever believed Russell and I were together.”
“I’m just saying—” Sienna starts, but we stop when another customer approaches the stall, this time a tall, handsome man with deep brown skin and a wide, flashing smile.
“Orie,” I say, surprised to see him, my mind catching up to match that previous reality—in which I’m wearing Dior and on Russell’s arm—with this one, in which I’m wearing a sweater dress with tinsel and wrapping up tiny soaps in shining green, red, and gold tissue paper.
“Jules, right?” he asks, his eyes widening in recognition. If he seems confused about me working this booth, he doesn’t show it. “It’s great to see you again. Russ around here?”
“Oh, no, I just—” Sienna has gone completely still at my elbow, her eyes locked on Orie. “This is my friend, Sienna. We’re running this booth together.”
“Can I help you find anything?” Sienna asks, but because of her not-to-warm intonation, it kind of comes out liken buy something or fuck off.
Orie takes it in stride, his grin widening, “I don’t know, what’s going on here?”
“Everything on the displays is handmade,” Sienna says.
Orie picks up a little tin, reading the label, “Sienna’s Soaps. Looks like a lot more than soap, huh?”
“Yes,” Sienna deadpans. “What are you looking for?”
“Well, I feel like I have to go for the original.” I’m watching this exchange with wide eyes. Normally people are scared awayby Sienna’s spikey exterior. But Orie seems almost…charmed? “What do you have for soap?”
Sienna helps him select a cedar-spice blend, and while she’s wrapping it up, he looks back to me. “It was great meeting you,” he says, sticking his hands in the pockets of his olive coat. “You know, Russ would kill me if he heard me say it, but I’m glad he met you. Thought the guy was never going to let himself be happy. But when he proposed to you—I just thought, damn, he’s changed so much after his dad—you know.”
I’m nodding, but my smile is tight. Orie has no idea that this thing between me and his friend is fake. Has no idea that the proposal was monetarily motivated. That already makes me feel shitty, but what’s even worse is that Orie bought the performance, and by his measure, since none of this is real, Russell’s still “never going to let himself be happy.”
Or maybe, after getting his inheritance, he’ll let himself be happy with some other woman.
I push away the kernel of bitter jealousy that lodges in my throat at the thought of that and shake my head, “I was so happy,” I say, because that much is true, and I can’t stomach lying to this man.
