Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend

by Lauren Blakely

  “Indeed it does. I should have known better,” she says with so much contrition that I almost feel bad for my fib.

  Almost.

  When I hang up, I call Summer and tell her to meet me straightaway. Then I leave, telling Jane I’ll be back soon.

  “Don’t forget you have a one o’clock with Hanover Media,” she tells me. “Prospective new client. Helen Williams Designs referred them, since she loved your work so much on the last deal.”

  “And I love word of mouth.” Word of mouth is exactly why I need to stop this shitshow from snowballing.

  Loosening my tie as I go, I head to Fifth Avenue, walk up a few blocks, texting my cousin in Paris as I go.

  * * *

  Oliver: Remember that time you engineered a marriage of convenience to save your company?

  * * *

  Christian: Hmm. Sounds a bit familiar. Care to elaborate?

  Oliver: It worked brilliantly, right?

  * * *

  Christian: What sort of hot water have you gotten yourself into, cuz?

  * * *

  I stare at the text thread. Yeah, this might not be helpful right now.

  * * *

  Oliver: I’ll update you later.

  * * *

  Christian: Spare no details. I need a good laugh.

  * * *

  Yes, a laugh. This is funny. This is something we’ll all look back on and laugh. Putting my phone away, I find Summer outside the entrance to the park, waiting at a bench and wringing her hands.

  She looks devastated, her big brown eyes brimming with worry. “I am so sorry. I am the worst friend ever. I never thought that would happen. Those people are dickheads.”

  “Yes, and Twitter is the biggest dickhead of all.” I’m not in the business of holding grudges or staying pissed. There’s no point. Besides, I’m about to call in a big favor now. “But I knew what you meant. I know what you were trying to say.”

  “You do?” she asks, and her voice is small, fearful. “You’re not pissed at me?”

  I hold up my thumb and forefinger, showing a sliver of space. “Maybe a little at first. But not for long.”

  “Oh, Oliver. I feel terrible,” she says, her brow knit with worry. “I thought it was a nice little way of saying thank you, but in a way where only you would know it was you.” She presses her palms together as if in prayer. “Tell me how I can help. I meant it when I said I’d do anything.”

  I shoot her a wry grin, take a beat, then call in a your-turn-to-scratch-my-back. “Here’s what I need for the next three weeks.”

  “Anything. Please. I’m dying to make this right.” The look in those puppy-dog eyes is a desperate plea. I sort of hate that she feels that way, but sort of not.

  Because it’s going to make my outlandish request much easier.

  “Good,” I say, with what I’m sure is a slightly evil grin. “Because I’m cashing in on the prom promise. Your sexy ex-boyfriend is about to become your fake fiancé.”

  14

  Summer

  Thirteen years ago

  * * *

  We huddled in the teen cave, the sprawling basement of Oliver’s home, music blasting, hands dipping into the popcorn bowl as the four of us plotted—Logan, Oliver, Phoebe, and me.

  The mission? Prom-posals for my twin brother and the guy next door.

  We’d already mapped out a plan for Logan to ask the foreign exchange student in his history class.

  Now it was time to assist Oliver in asking Emily.

  As for me? I planned to go with my friends, a big group of girls in pretty dresses and sparkly shoes, dancing with each other.

  “How about I ask Emily when she goes for her run in the morning?” Oliver suggested, grabbing a handful of popcorn and munching.

  Logan pointed his finger approvingly as he grabbed some kernels then headed to the Ping-Pong table. “Dude. Yes. You just get some Sharpies, write it on a sign, and boom. In like Flynn.”

  I scoff-laughed. “I don’t think it’s that easy.”

  From her spot in the corner of the couch, Phoebe shot her younger brother a look that said he was a dolt. It was a look she’d perfected with him. “Promise me you’re not going to do that, Ollie. Just promise me.”

  Oliver turned to his sister, now nineteen. It was one of her good days. They were fewer and farther between, but she tried to embrace them when they came.

  We all did. She’d been fighting cancer since the family moved from England a few years ago so she could undergo an experimental treatment at a nearby hospital. It had worked . . .

  For a while.

  “Why not? Emily likes to run. She’s captain of the cross-country team. It seems perfect for a prom-posal,” Oliver said, being all boy-logical as he rose to join Logan at the table.

  But boy logic didn’t always sway teenage girls.

  Phoebe turned to me. The look in her crystal blue eyes said, Boys. You can’t train them to do anything. “What are we supposed to do with him, Summer? He’s hopeless. Utterly hopeless.”

  “It’s a condition of being male,” I agreed dryly.

  Oliver lifted his chin, standing his ground. “I think it’s brilliant.”

  “You would,” Phoebe said, reaching for some popcorn and tossing it at her brother. The kernels landed a few feet from Oliver. Her strength was waning.

  He bent to pick them up, but their corgi mix, Gloria, raised her snout from the floor and gamely trotted over to hoover up the spill as Logan served the white ball across the table.

  Oliver darted up in time to smack it back, and the rhythmic sound of the plastic ball hitting the table punctuated our romantic war room machinations.

  “Anyway,” Phoebe added in her best arch I’m your older sister and I know better voice, “I would strongly suggest something a bit more creative. Right, Summer?”

  “Perhaps balloons spelling out PROM,” I offered. “Or get a T-shirt for Gloria to wear with Will you go to prom with my person? written on it.”

  “Excellent idea. Dogs are perfect wingmen. Or wingwomen, in Gloria’s case. Another option is to rent the marquee at the local cinema and put a sign up there asking her.”

  Logan slammed a ball across the table. “No way. That’s megabucks. We don’t even know if Emily likes him.”

  Phoebe stroked her chin, brow furrowed. “Fair point. It’s hard to imagine anyone would, truly.”

  I held up a hand to high-five her.

  “You’re a little stinker,” Oliver said to her as he backhanded a ball. “But I’ve no doubt she’s into me. She has excellent taste.”

  “Then I bet she’ll go for that bloke who looks like Jude Law,” Phoebe offered.

  My gaze snapped in her direction. “You mean Colton Davis? The guy who plays guitar? Senior? He’s yummy.”

  “So yummy,” Phoebe said dreamily. It was the first thing that had come out of her mouth that afternoon that wasn’t laced with sarcasm or sass.

  Logan missed the shot, Oliver lowered his paddle, and I simply stared at her. Phoebe rarely talked about boys. With a determined look, Oliver walked over to his sister, sat next to her, and took her hand. “Do you want to go with him? We could ask him to go with you.”

  The sound that emanated from Phoebe was the most derisive snort to emanate from any person ever.

  “No!”

  Instinctively, I turned to the door, looking for Oliver’s parents to come running to see if she’d fallen, to see if she was okay. But she was more than fine, and they were out, their dad at work, their mom running to the pharmacy to pick up meds for Phoebe.

  She jerked her hand away from Oliver and pointed a stern finger at him. “Do not ever do that. Do not do something because you feel sorry for me. I mean it. I don’t want to get dressed up. I don’t want to wear stupid makeup, and I definitely don’t want to wear a hideous fucking wig. No, thank you. I’d rather stay home with Gloria than have everyone stare at me because I finally got to go to prom.” For a second, her voice trembled, but she swall
owed and raised her chin. “Besides,” she said, collecting herself, a twinkle in her eyes, “I’d rather help Summer get ready, do her hair, and snap the photos when she has to take you as a pity date after Emily turns you down.”

  Her smile was slow to spread, mischievous and thoroughly Machiavellian.

  Logan mimed shooting a slam dunk. “Ohhh! You’ve just been burned.”

  We all laughed. Phoebe was still Phoebe—always finding ways to poke fun at her little brother.

  I joined in the laughter, knowing full well Phoebe’s prediction would never come true.

  Emily would say yes, Oliver would take her to prom, and I’d go with . . . well, a group of friends.

  Which would be fine.

  I liked my girlfriends.

  I didn’t have a crush on the handsome British boy next door.

  I didn’t long for my brother’s best friend.

  For my good friend.

  Not at all.

  At least, not very much most of the time.

  But enough, apparently, that butterflies flickered through my chest two days later when Oliver pulled me aside after fifth-period calculus, scratched his jaw, and said, “Listen. Turns out Emily’s involved. Dating some wanker in community college who’s taking her to prom.”

  “He’s definitely a wanker if he’s dating a high school student,” I said, quickly concurring. “What kind of college student dates a high schooler?”

  “The wanker kind.” His grin faded, his expression turning serious. “But I was thinking about what Phoebe said.”

  “Which part?” I asked, ever so casually, as if the details of the prom planning weren’t seared into my brain.

  “The part where she mentioned you getting ready. I think she really wants to help you get ready. Do the whole girly thing. And look, I know it’s not your thing. I know you’re more into sports and Phoebe was always more of the frilly one, but would you want to?”

  My heart sped up, beating a wildly fast rhythm. That was weird. Why would my heart trip over itself? I didn’t like Oliver like that. I truly didn’t. Fine, now and then I’d entertain little crush-like thoughts, but that was it, that was all.

  But I wanted to be sure I understood. “Would I want to go to prom?”

  “Would you be my pity date?” His lips curved into a grin as he repeated Phoebe’s words.

  “You make it sound so appealing,” I teased, but we both knew what the date was about.

  It wasn’t about us. It wasn’t about this skip in my heart.

  It was about Oliver giving something to his sister that she’d never ask him to give. Something small that he could do if I said yes.

  Of course I said yes. I didn’t say it for me, though, in spite of those butterflies.

  I said it for him and, most of all, for her.

  A few weeks later, Phoebe did her best to help me with my hair, flat ironing it until she was too tired to hold the iron.

  She applied my blush, then regarded me with the intense stare of a reality show judge. “You look smashing,” she declared, appraising my simple blue dress. No frills, no satin, no lace.

  “She does,” Oliver seconded, shooting me a smile that warmed me all over.

  Was the smile for her? Or was the smile for me?

  I didn’t know, and it didn’t matter. Phoebe mattered.

  Oliver gave his sister a hug at the door, and Phoebe said, “That Emily doesn’t know what she’s missing, Ollie.”

  He simply laughed, soft and light. “I told you not to call me that.”

  “Oh, you love it,” she said, waving a hand dismissively.

  “No. I don’t at all,” he said, but his grin gave him away.

  “Then grumble every time someone calls you that, just like you do with me. It’ll be your way of remembering me when I’m gone.”

  His smile disappeared. His eyes narrowed. “Oh, shut up now.”

  “Just do it,” she said, and she wasn’t mad. She was simply . . . Phoebe.

  Especially when she turned to me and said, “Summer, call him Ollie now and then to get a rise out of him. Do that for me, okay?”

  Laughing, I gave her my oath. “I solemnly swear to call him Ollie every now and then.”

  “You’re a gem,” she told me.

  “And you’re a little stinker,” Oliver told her.

  She preened. “I know.”

  “So stop talking about when you’ll be gone,” he said, a hitch in his voice.

  “It’s the truth. I’m used to it. I’m fine with it.”

  “I’m not,” he said fiercely, then dropped a kiss onto her forehead and wished her a good night.

  As we left, he seemed to collect himself, to shift away from that tug I was sure he felt in his heart, that wish that things were different.

  “I love Phoebe,” I blurted when we slid into the limo, just the two of us.

  He offered a sad smile. “Join the club.”

  “It is not fair,” I said, my lip quivering, but I swallowed the threatening tears. It was his hurt, his pending loss. I didn’t want to co-opt it.

  “I know. Some days that’s all I think about.”

  “I wish everything were different,” I said, my voice catching once more.

  “You have no idea how much I want that. How much I hope for . . .”

  “For a miracle.”

  Glancing out the window, he nodded, swallowing tightly and swiping a finger across his face before looking back at me with a helpless shrug. “I’ll miss her so much,” he whispered.

  I set my hand on his, squeezing. “I’ll be here for you.”

  He pressed his shoulder against mine. “I know.”

  “Always. I promise.”

  “I know that too, Summer.”

  He squeezed my hand in return, and that contact was like a seal on our friendship. A promise that we’d look out for each other. That we’d have each other’s backs.

  We had a blast at prom, dancing, drinking punch, laughing, and hanging out with friends.

  Later, we lounged in our chairs at our table, watching the disco ball swirl its squares of light on the floor as others swayed and we talked.

  He lifted a brow in a question. “So, tell me, Summer. How was your first pity date?”

  “You’re assuming it’s my first,” I teased.

  “Oh, is this a service you offer other sorry boys?”

  “Only the sorriest.”

  “How lucky am I?”

  “Very lucky,” I said.

  “In that case, let me know if I can return the favor. Down the road, when you’re twenty-five or thirty, if you ever need a pity date, you call on me, okay?”

  I patted his knee. “You’ll be the first one I call. I promise. And same goes for you if you need my services again.”

  “It’ll be our prom promise,” he said.

  “A solemn vow,” I said, wiggling my brow and pursing my lips before I added with a smirk, “Ollie.”

  He narrowed his eyes, growling at me. “You’re evil. But even so, I doubt you’ll need to cash it in. You’ll have no problem getting dates . . .” He trailed off like he was waiting for me to say something more.

  Was I supposed to say something? Something clever or romantic?

  I didn’t know, wasn’t sure what he was getting at. Teasing him was easy. Understanding him was hard in moments like these.

  And deciphering my own tangled knot of emotions—friendship, a dash of attraction, a close family connection, and that terrible kernel of pending grief, cresting like a wave not far from the shore—was impossible. Best to not even try.

  So I simply laughed and said, “You’ll have no problem either, Emilys of the world aside.”

  The odd thing was that Emily didn’t go to the dance. She wasn’t there with her wanker boyfriend.

  The next week, I overheard her in the cafeteria line talking to a friend as she scooped salad onto her tray. “It’s strange,” she said. “I was so sure Oliver Harris was going to ask me to prom. He never did.�
��

  I blinked, my face flushing as she unwittingly revealed his secret to me.

  He’d never asked her.

  I never let on that I knew he hadn’t.

  It didn’t really matter anyway.

  I was his pity date, and Phoebe was the happiest we’d seen her in a long time.

  15

  Summer

  Present day

  * * *

  All day long, all the time, all across the world people say, “I’ll do anything.”

  But it’s just a saying, like “I’m dying to see your dress” or “This song is the worst.”

  So when Oliver takes me up on my offer to do anything, my jaw comes unhinged. My brain buzzes with static, a radio stuck between stations.

  Did he just say “become your fake fiancé”?

  That’s the anything?

  Cashing in on our prom promise? Isn’t that what we’ve always done? First with Emily, and later with Drew the third and his pens, with Hazel and her tea, and with all the other douche exes we’ve both had.

  But not for three weeks.

  More like for a few minutes, an hour, a night.

  And now we’re making believe for twenty-one long days. I should be dreading it, like a twenty-one-day paprika-infused juice cleanse.

  When someone cashes in a voucher for a debt you owe, it’s not supposed to be enjoyable.

  But being Oliver’s pretend fiancée doesn’t sound that bad.

  It sounds weirdly sort of fun, when he explains why he needs one.

  Like being immersed in a great romance novel.

  Hell, maybe, just maybe, a touch of pretend will eradicate those occasionally pesky tingles from my body. Satisfy a craving or my curiosity perhaps.

  I confirm I heard him right. “So, let me get this straight. I wrote a letter for a contest extolling your virtues as an ex, the internet misinterpreted it, your client freaked out, and your solution is for us to pretend we’re engaged?”