Playing Pretend Box Set

by Natasha L. Black

  "I was going to," Jen said. "But I'm sure you've got a pretty good idea. See you soon."

  ‘Soon,’ in Jen's book, was thirty minutes later. She didn't live too far away, so it was likely that she had probably just been agonizing over her own outfit. Not that Jen had ever been very timely. It was usually a good day if she was only ten minutes late.

  Anyway, with Jen and I positioned in front of my mirror, like two generals on the battlefield, we charged.

  The first wave of opposition was my unruly hair, curling and snagging in defiance of getting any type of comb through it.

  Luckily, Jen had a solution.

  "I swear, I don't know how you survived in Shanghai without a Chi," she said, revealing her long, sleek, black straightener. She plugged it in, dividing my hair in preparation to conquer it, the heat in the black weapon needing a few minutes to reach a searing temperature.

  "Probably because it would take an hour for me to straighten my own hair every morning," I said.

  Jen stepped back, already finished, and looked at my straightened locks. She groaned, moaning, "But Kandy, it looks so good!"

  "Yeah," I said. "And getting enough sleep so I don't look like Edward Norton from Fight Club with two black eyes also looks great."

  "You saw that movie?" Jen said. "Bit weird, right?"

  "I liked it," I said.

  "Just how you like Giovanni?" Jen asked innocently. "Come on, I can see you mooning over him already. I mean, letting me straighten your hair was a dead giveaway. Don't you remember when I begged you before our grade six dance, chasing you around until you finally let me?"

  "Oh yeah," I said. "I forgot why we didn't talk for months that year."

  "You were just being overly sensitive," Jen said stiffly. "Your hair looks great when it's straightened."

  "No," I said. "It looked laugh-worthy, which was what everyone did when they saw that you'd only straightened one section of my head!"

  "How was I supposed to know that my straightener would die halfway through? But—I am right about Giovanni," Jen asserted. "And soon I get to meet him in person!"

  "Glorious," I said deadpan. "Just how soon I get to meet the miracle of a man that is Gino. So long as he doesn’t run scared from whatever this turns out to be."

  I glanced at Jen expectantly, but she just shrugged.

  Clearly, she didn't think my description of him to be over the top in any way.

  In any case, after we had won the war against my hair, Jen went to work on my makeup. The first two attempts were total failures. The first I looked like a modern Geisha, and the second, like something from a K-Pop video, but finally, Jen managed to apply just enough of a few things to make me look… Beautiful.

  "I told you," Jen said. "It's all in the arch of your brows. I'm a master."

  "Jen," I said. "You didn’t touch my eyebrows."

  She shot me a look, “I contoured.”

  Ten minutes later, just as I was slipping into my ballet, Giovanni called.

  Jen and I sailed down the stairs, the elevators in this place leaving a lot to be desired. One was broken and the other was not only incredibly slow, but also completely unreliable. Pressing the button for the lobby could sometimes leave you stranded on the tenth floor.

  We broke through the door into the lobby, arms intertwined, giggling loudly.

  Giovanni turned, surprised.

  "Hello," he said. "I didn't know..."

  "Jen," Jen said, holding out her hand. He took it after a brief pause, assessing her. "And don't worry Giovanni, I may know all about your arrangement, but it should be an actual thing, if you ask me."

  I elbowed her.

  "Ow," she said, and rolled her eyes. "Whatever. You guys know it's true."

  "Jen is a romantic," I explained to Giovanni. "She's seen the Notebook no less than twenty-four times."

  "And I would have watched it again if you hadn't changed your mind at the last second," Jen said spitefully, crossing her arms across her chest.

  "Forgive me for not wanting to watch you quote Ryan Gosling's soliloquy for the sixth consecutive time," I said. "Anyway, we better get going."

  "We're okay for time," Giovanni said. "Everything is already set up at the house. Mama and Maria have been going nuts with decorations. I had the caterers set everything up already, all we have to do is be there for when the guests arrive in," he consulted his Rolex watch, "thirty minutes."

  "Oh," Jen said. "So, we could pick up my favorite alcohol on the way?"

  "Don't encourage her," I told Giovanni. "Jen is a lovely friend, but not the greatest with time. We could get sucked into the black hole that is my best friend’s sense of time."

  "We also have an open bar," Giovanni informed her.

  Jen's eager face became modest, her body crumpling like a Southern belle. "Oh Mr. Bruno," she said. "I guess free alcohol is the best kind of alcohol, isn’t it? I wouldn’t want to be rude."

  I gave my friend a pat on her shoulder. "Spoken like a true lady."

  That reminded me... I hadn't yet gotten around to asking Giovanni if he knew if his brother Gino was in town. I knew it was a long shot, that his Gino was the same as Jen's, but still. I had to be sure.

  But now that Jen was with us and had tucked her phone in her bag, apparently already having set up wherever she was going to meet Gino, I couldn't ask Giovanni without being obvious.

  In any case, we'd find out soon enough at the party.

  Pulling up to Giovanni's home, I found myself sitting in the car a few seconds too long. I just stared at the structure.

  Knowing someone was rich, seeing the numbers and styles of cars, clothes, even the easy grace that often came with having money, was one thing. Seeing a house, a palace actually, plopped at the end of a massive, sprawling property, every brick and blade of grass screaming money, was something else.

  Giovanni's house looked like a mix between an Italian castle and... Well, an Italian palace. It had to have at least five floors and was in a Tudor style that I wasn't sure was genuinely Italian, but that I loved, nonetheless.

  "We could just stay out here and stare at the house all day," Jen teased.

  I shook myself out of it. "Sorry," I said. "I didn't mention that I love architecture, too. If I hadn't become a journalist, that was my next choice—to become an architect. I'm glad I stuck with journalism, though—much easier."

  "Oh, I don't know, it depends," Giovanni said thoughtfully, casually taking my hand in his. "For instance, I've always been fine at sketching, and even the engineering side of architecture. But ask me to write an article? I would probably write something so bad, you'd question my intelligence."

  As we neared the house, Jen whispered to me. "Is there anything I should or shouldn't tell people?"

  I tapped a finger against my bottom lip thoughtfully. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe avoid telling people that our engagement is fake?"

  Giovanni made a thoughtful face and shrugged.

  "That's probably a good idea." He appeared lost in thought too. "I’d also avoid discussing the details of our night at the club, or in the limo."

  Jen's incredulous gaze snapped to me. "He knows that I know?"

  "Jen, he was there. And he assumes I tell you everything, which I do." I said, and, looking at Giovanni, continued, “That was like, two nights ago, anyway. She would have forgotten since—”

  Jen was lost in a far off, dopey gaze, a smile plastered to her face.

  That had been the night she’d met Gino. I cast a look around to see if her mystery man had shown up, but not yet. I guess it made sense, we were showing up early.

  Inside, the mansion was one jaw-dropping—literally, my jaw dropped—sight after the next. Inside the entrance hall was a smooth grey-stoned fountain, complete with a seal statue that appeared to be carved by Michelangelo himself.

  Further in was a dining hall that looked fit for a king, with a table that had to be twenty feet long, and enough chairs for two or three entire families of ten to sit together.


  Further still, through the double doors, we emerged onto the cobblestone patio and the grassy expanse of backyard, where the party was to take place.

  As I fell in step with Giovanni, my gaze continuing to jump from one incredible sight to the next, I was glad that I hadn't asked him any questions about the party in advance.

  This was the most amazing, most wonderful of surprises.

  There was a chocolate fountain, the liquid bubbling and frothing out gilded golden fish mouths, and beside that, a bronze grinning monkey held a tray filled with so many tropical fruits that I’d bet all of the local grocery stores were now sold out.

  The Bruno gardens were luscious riots of color, obviously well-tended all year round, a pride of Mama Bruno’s that I remembered her telling me about over brunch. I had to tear my gaze off each new flower in order to admire the next. There was a white-painted wooden gazebo with a band set up in the corner, the area surrounding it designated for dancing.

  Two long buffet style tables flanked the other side, one covered with platters of food, the other staffed by two surly looking bartenders.

  Amidst it all, I saw a swing. It was tucked away from everything else, obviously not a rented piece for the event. It looked out onto the nearby lake and a vista of hills, trees and wilderness. Something told me this was a permanent fixture of the Bruno garden and yet, I felt that somehow Giovanni had been saving it for us. Felt as if, one way or another, that was where we would end up that night.

  Just then, a sharp ring disturbed our reverie.

  Giovanni's features set and became firm, the relaxed smile that had just graced his exquisite face disappearing.

  "That's it," he told me. "They're arriving."

  Thankfully, Maria and Mama were there to help us greet the first guests. The couple were delighted to see Giovanni again, and to meet me.

  "You look lovely," they declared, casting an approving gaze over my dress, a small black piece that I had chosen last minute. Everyone—Maria, Mama, and the couple—were delighted with Jen, too.

  As the well-coiffed dark-haired pair moved into the living room, Giovanni’s mother looked at Jen. "And you say that your boyfriend will be here soon, is that right?" Interest was evident in her sparkling eyes. She had probably been quite the matchmaker back home in her small village. "We'll just have to meet him when he arrives, then."

  Slowly, other guests filtered in. Many were relatives of Giovanni's and had the same tan, high cheekbones, and noble face structure as he, his mother, and sister. Others were work colleagues, some tall, some short. Some men, some women. Some looked morose, others brightened up as soon as they had a drink in their hand.

  All the guests, though, whether they were long lost friends, work colleagues, or family, all had one thing in common: they stared at me curiously, uncertainly. Not as if they knew, but as if they had their suspicions.

  Not that I blamed them. In the matter of two weeks, Giovanni Bruno, one of Miami's most eligible bachelors, had gone from just that—an eligible bachelor—to a married man. I would be suspicious myself, sniffing out a good story immediately. Not that any of these people would get very far.

  Giovanni was expressive, but if there was one thing I noticed about him, it was also that when he wanted to, he could be an extremely adept liar. I'd seen him lying to his own family after all. Sometimes, I could see a glimmer of the pain, or regret, flicker across his chiseled features, but as far as the face he put toward his family and the world, it was completely convincing. One hundred percent convincing.

  At some point, Giovanni and I were swept apart by different crowds, different groups demanding to meet me personally. I wasn’t sure how much time had passed when suddenly I heard him say, "Kandice, there's someone I want you to meet."

  There was something odd about his voice, and goosebumps prickled down my forearms. As I turned around, my breath left me. Who was...? But I could see why Giovanni sounded off. The resemblance between him and the man standing beside him meant that—

  Jen, standing beside me, had turned to look at Giovanni as well, and her face broke into the biggest smile I'd ever seen at the sight of the tall, well-cut man standing beside him.

  "Kandice, this is Gino. My brother," Giovanni said, looking at me.

  26

  Giovanni

  Trust Gino to show up, unannounced, pull me aside near the house, congratulate me as if nothing had happened over the past few weeks—let alone years, and then demand to be allowed into the party.

  All before I'd even had a chance to say anything. I'd almost had him thrown out, except... He was sober. I could see it in his eyes, his hands, and smell the absence of it on his breath. It probably hadn't been for long, considering the insane phone call we’d shared a week ago. But I couldn't deny that now, he was.

  I was suspicious, to say the least.

  "There you are," Kandice's friend said, approaching us and, to my complete surprise, throwing her arms around Gino as he delivered her a kiss on the lips.

  As they broke apart, Gino’s arm sliding around her shoulders, he said casually, "I told you I really needed to get in. I promised a friend."

  "Friend?" Jen asked.

  "Okay." His hands slid around her waist. "Girlfriend."

  I just stood there, my feet rooted to the ground in shock.

  I didn't even know where to start. My brother was going out with Kandice’s friend?

  "Before you freak, Kandice," Jen said to her quickly, "Gino has been sober for five days, and he's turned a new leaf. I know all about his dark past. He told me the other night."

  "Great," Kandice said, unenthusiastically. She did not reach out to take his hand, but from the look of it, she hadn’t even noticed it was out, frankly. I watched, shocked, as he lowered it but didn’t react negatively.

  "Hey, if you don't trust me, I don't blame you. I'm going to have to prove myself to you and Giovanni—and myself. That's fine. I have to prove it to Jen, too."

  He patted Jen’s hip a little, with an oddly strained smile. "This one..."

  Jen elbowed him, "Go on, tell them what you told me last night."

  "Come on," Gino said, looking a bit panicked, "I don't need to tell them that—"

  "You said I make you a better man," Jen finished for him. She smiled up at him evilly. Her gaze moved to me, her face in a bright, confident smile, then she swiveled back toward Kandice, her smile falling quickly. She swallowed, "Um... Kandice.”

  I turned, following her gaze, over to further into the party—and froze.

  That man and woman, they almost looked like…

  A glance back at Kandice found that she was equally as shocked, and that my impression had to be right. Those were her parents in the itchy-looking tweed outfits.

  "You must be Mr. and Mrs. McArthur!" Mama said, reaching them first.

  She had made the invitation list for the party. She would know who she'd invited and must’ve figured out who they were.

  “I am so, so happy you came! All the way from Orlando! So happy!” Mama moved to hug them both.

  "Yes." Mrs. McArthur shot a glance our way, "We did find out very recently, but of course we couldn’t pass up meeting our entirely new extended family."

  "Oh?" Mama said, then threw her head back in a laugh that sent her grey-brown curls splaying out, "Giovanni did the same to us. We were so upset about my Antonio’s—" she shook her head. "Anyway, that crazy Giovanni just sprung it on us and just like that, it was sunshine and good news again."

  Kandice’s mother only nodded absently, her eagle-eyed gaze moving between us. I stepped closer to Kandice.

  "It was such a surprise," Kandice’s mother continued icily, her gaze now firmly stuck on me. "Kandice had always talked about the sanctity of marriage, the importance of waiting. Of being careful."

  Mama let out another huge belly laugh that Maria, who had wandered over to join us, echoed with Kandice’s father who looked slightly perplexed, "Young love. What can you do?"

  "Yes,"
Mrs. McArthur said, not appeased at all.

  Just then, Grandma Tatianna came out of nowhere, her hair the color of burnt caramel and spider lashes so long, they reached her eyebrows. I wasn’t surprised she wanted to pull me away.

  "I'd really like to hear why you, young man, Mr. Giovanni Antonio Bruno, the son of the late, great Antonio Francesco Bruno, have not decided to marry a nice Italian girl, but some Kand-something or other, some foreigner. Please, Giovanni, explain this to me," she said emphatically, yanking me off to the side.

  I absentmindedly listened to my Gramma talk, while I watched Kandice interacting with her dad. She was relaxed and looked happy. She laughed, even. He kept popping butter tarts in his mouth, avoiding the more exotic fare. Only once did he look over and glance at me in an assessing way. But even then, he smiled.

  I followed his gaze to Kandice and then, kissing Gramma Tatianna goodbye, I walked over to him.

  "I barely managed to escape," I laughed, placing my arm around Kandice. "Italians. They are so set on Italian-Italian weddings. She just doesn’t know how incredible your daughter is yet, does she, Mr. McArthur?” He smiled at me, mouth full of something he was chewing.

  I turned to Kandice. “Want to go get a breath of fresh air? Try out the swing?"

  "Sure," she said, "Who was that woman anyway?"

  "That was Gramma Tatianna," I said, "The family matriarch. No matter how many times, or in how many languages: French, English, even Italian, I told her that I didn’t want one of the bountiful Italian girls she tried setting me up with. Gramma wouldn’t accept it. Needless to say, she’s not happy."

  Kandice said nothing, and I continued, "When I turned eighteen, it felt like I'd gone on a date with just about every Italian girl in the state of Florida."

  "And...?"

  I eyed her severely. "It didn’t work. Do I really have to say it again?"

  By now we'd reached the bench and, sitting down, Kandice said, "Well, at least you are putting on a good show."