What I don’t understand is how to navigate buying a fake engagement ring with my best friend without making things weird between us.
My phone buzzes with a text from Freya: “Running 5 minutes late. Don’t leave without me, coward.”
I smile despite my nerves. Nobody else in my life dares to call me a coward. My employees treat me with careful respect. My business associates either fear me or want something from me. My parents… well, my parents are retired in California, living their perfect picture-book life where everything looks successful from the outside.
But Freya? Freya still sees right through all of it.
Another buzz: “Also, I hope you brought your credit card. I have expensive taste.”
This makes me laugh out loud, drawing a curious glance from a woman walking past with designer shopping bags. Of course Freya would joke about this. It’s exactly what I need, someone to remind me that this doesn’t have to be as complicated as I’m making it.
Though in reality, I’d buy her any ring she wanted. Price has never been an object where she’s concerned. When she needed a new laptop for her design work two years ago, I had one delivered to her apartment the next day. When her car broke down last winter, I had my mechanic pick it up and fix it while she was at work. She always protests, claims she can take care of herself, but the truth is, I like taking care of her.
It’s one of the few purely good things I do that isn’t calculated for business gain.
“Ben!”
I turn toward the sound of her voice and immediately forget how to breathe.
Freya is walking toward me in a flowy green dress that brings out her eyes, her hair catching the afternoon sunlight. She looks… wow, she looks beautiful.
“Sorry I’m late,” she states, slightly out of breath. “I couldn’t decide what to wear to go fake engagement ring shopping. Turns out there’s no etiquette guide for this situation.”
“You look perfect,” I respond, then immediately want to take it back when I see her eyebrows raise.
“Perfect for pretending to be your fiancée, you mean,” she corrects, but there’s something in her expression I can’t quite read.
“Right. Of course.” I stand up, suddenly feeling awkward in my own skin. “Should we… should we head to the jewelry store?”
“Lead the way, fiancé.”
“So,” she continues as we approach the store, “what’s our story? How did you propose? Where? When?”
I stop walking. “Our story?”
“Ben.” She gives me the look, the one that indicates I’m being particularly dense. “We’re about to walk into a jewelry store and ask to see engagement rings. The salesperson is going to ask questions. We need to have answers that match.”
“Right. Of course.” Why didn’t I think of this? I plan everything, except apparently the most important details of my fake engagement. “What do you think we should mention?”
“Well, when did you tell Red we got engaged?”
“A couple months ago.”
“Okay, so March.” She taps her finger against her lip, thinking. “What about… we went away for a long weekend, you proposed somewhere romantic.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. Where would you take your girlfriend for a romantic weekend?”
The question stumps me. Where would I take a girlfriend? I’ve never had a relationship that lasted long enough for romanticweekend getaways. The closest I’ve come is taking business associates to my place in the Hamptons, and somehow I don’t think that’s the vibe we’re going for.
“Napa Valley?” I suggest weakly.
“Perfect. You proposed at a winery. Very you—successful, sophisticated, probably cost a fortune.”
“I’m not that predictable.”
“Ben, you once mentioned your favorite restaurant because they have the most efficient service in the city.”
