Screen-printing a vintage-style “Beer T*ts for President” T-shirt and wearing it to brunch with Nix the Sunday before he left was pretty out there for me, but the NOLA society blogs ate it up. Not to mention that owning it seemed to take the wind out of thecritics’ sails. By the following Tuesday, the internet had moved on to other things, my shame forgotten.
“It was past time I had a personal account anyway,” I add. “Not everything in life is appropriate for the business page.”
“And there’s more to life than work,” Frederica adds.
“Agreed.”
She gives my arm another squeeze. “Okay, I should probably get back to circulating, but please tell Nix thank you from Dean and me for that intro. We really appreciate it.”
“Of course,” I say, lifting a hand as she steps away.
I should probably mingle again, too, but I like it here on the sidelines. It’s peaceful after a chaotic week.
Ever since the night of the opening game, when I made a brief appearance on national television, followed by local blog coverage of Nix and me making out at the pizza parlor, my phone has been blowing up. Old friends, new friends, people I met once at a planning committee meeting, all of them have been texting to congratulate me on “getting my groove back.” On “landing such a hottie” and “showing that dick Teddy what he’s missing.”
Even my usually “we must keep things classy, Char” mother called to assure me that my shirt was a “modern solution to a modern problem.” And that my suede fedora, designer jeans, and loosely crocheted vest put a “tasteful spin” on the look.
The pity fallout from the engagement article is gone.
I should feel victorious.
Idofeel victorious.
Mostly.
When I’m not tormented by a creeping certainty that I’m in way over my head with my fake boyfriend…
As if summoned by my thoughts, the man currently coaxing me into the deep end steps back into the ballroom from the terrace. His eyes catch mine across the room, and he lifts a brow, silently asking, “Everything okay?”
I nod and smile, signaling I’m fine.
I’m about to start his way to relay Frederica’s message, when a hand on my elbow makes me turn.
It’s Keely, the Voodoo’s PR rep, looking sharp in a black pantsuit with her nearly white blond hair pulled into a sleek bun. “Hey, Charlotte. I wanted to say thank you again for the hook-up with the valet company. When the other one said they had no record of our reservation tonight, I was totally thrown for a loop.”
“Of course,” I say, shifting back into professional mode. “I’m so glad you reached out. I’m happy to help any time.”
“Thank you. Seriously. I’m so glad I remembered that Nix was dating an event planner.” She lowers her voice conspiratorially as she adds, “Not to get too personal, but… I don’t know what kind of magic you worked on Nix, but management is thrilled. He’s been a model citizen, and the press has been next-level fantastic. Not to mention his play is even more on-point than last season. Honestly, you two are gold together.”
Gold together…
If only she knew it was fool’s gold.
Fake gold.
But it didn’t feel fake when Nix texted me at eleven p.m. from his hotel room in Dallas, because he was reading Kierkegaard and wanted to talk about whether he predicted the performative emptiness of modern social media. It didn’t feel fake when he sent me photos of terrible airport food with funny captions or told me my “morning meme of the day” messages made him laugh harder than he’s laughed in years.
It just…
Argh, it justdoesn’tfeel fake, and I don’t know what to do about it!
Forcing a smile, I thank Keely, assuring her, “It’s all him, really. He’s a great guy. He treats me very, very well.”
“Aw. Good. That’s so great to hear. Maybe there are some good ones left out there, after all.” Her expression softens with a soft, sappy longing I know all too well.
I don’t let that kind of longing show anymore—I’ve been burned too many times to reveal my underbelly in public—but I feel it.
“I think there are,” I say, not having the heart to tell a younger woman just starting her hunt for “Mr. Right” that they are terrifyingly few and far between. Or that her chances of being born with a third nipple and scoring a winning lottery ticket days before she also hits the Billboard 100 with her latest pop single are likely statistically higher than the odds of her hooking up with a truly “good one.”
