Faking It

by Leah Marie Brown

  “I never expected you to be perfect, Vivia,” Luc says, turning the key in the ignition. “Just honest.”

  And there it is: the knock-out blow.

  I want to tell Luc that I have been honest with him, painfully, embarrassingly honest. My Poggibonsi prank was just that—a prank. It didn’t really mean anything. Did it?

  Luc throws the van into reverse. I take a last look at San Gimignano glowing in the golden moonlight like a mirage, shimmering and then finally fading away. Is that what’s happened to Luc’s feelings for me? Did they burn bright and fade away?

  We don’t talk on the way back to the Agriturismo. Luc stares at the road, his jaw clenched, his lips pressed together in a grim line. I look out the window and hear a playlist of sad break-up songs in my head. I play Christina Perri’s “Distance” over and over, especially the part about broken heartbeats. My chest aches with my own broken heartbeats.

  Broken heartbeats are all I have left to give. I sound melodramatic, don’t I? I’ve only known Luc for two weeks. It’s not like I’m in love with him.

  But if I’m not in love with him, why do I feel as if I have been shattered into a million jagged pieces that can never be put back together again?

  Luc turns into the Agriturismo’s private drive, follows it around the hamlet, and pulls to a stop in front of the castle. He gets out, comes around the car, and opens my door for me.

  There’s nothing for me to do but grab my shoes and get out.

  “Bonne nuit, Luc.”

  “Bonne nuit, Vivia.”

  He gets back into the van and drives away, leaving me standing on the curb holding my muddy cycling shoes to my chest.

  Chapter 29

  Riding into the Sunset

  Ronnie Radke reaches into my dreams and drags me out of my lovely netherworld. Reluctant to face reality, I keep my eyes closed and my mind focused on the wispy images of my dream. Something about Josh Todd begging me to star in Buckcherry’s new video.

  It takes me a while to realize my mobile is ringing, not my alarm.

  “Sorry, Fanny,” I say, blindly groping for my wailing iPhone. “I’m getting it.”

  By the time I locate my offending iPhone, it’s stopped ringing. I’ve missed the call.

  “Who’s calling me this early?”

  Fanny doesn’t answer. I reach over to shake her awake, but find an empty spot where my best friend should be. I’m alone.

  I look at the clock on the nightstand. 9:12 a.m.

  Shit!

  I must have overslept. It’s our last day in Italy and we were supposed to meet in the lobby at eight for an architectural and historical tour of Florence. Why didn’t Fanny wake me? How could she abandon me?

  A note is propped against the alarm clock.

  V,

  You’re pissed at me because I didn’t wake you up, right? You’ll get over it by the time you finish reading this note. I promise. Jean-Luc called while you were still asleep. He wants to take you on a date (Use protection and obey your curfew). He’ll meet you in the lobby at 10:00. I turned your iPhone on and set your alarm for 9:30. I left a fiber bar and an orange on the mini bar. Have fun and remember: No more tattoos!

  Fanny

  I read the note two more times just to make sure I’m not wishful reading. Jean-Luc called and wants to take me on a date?

  Hold on. Did I miss something?

  How did we get from disappointed to date? Luc literally kicked me to curb last night, but this morning he wants to take me on a date?

  Unexpected phone calls. Luc’s sudden change of heart. It’s proving to be a morning of mysteries.

  I look at my missed call log to see determine the identity of my mysterious morning caller. Mum!

  I play the message.

  “Hello Vivia. Mum, here. Did you remember to sign up for the international plan? I hope so or you’re going to get a dreadful bill and end up in debtor’s prison. Frightening thought, that. I don’t want to visit you in the pokey—”

  Since when did my mum start calling prison the pokey?

  “—Anyway, I’m calling to see if you would like me to pick you up from the airport. You arrive Tuesday at 10:30, right?”

  My mum asks a question and then pauses for the answer, as if she’s not talking to my voicemail. She’s quirky and sometimes annoying, but her message makes me suddenly homesick.

  “I have my Hip Hop Abs class then, but I can miss a day. Just let me know, Luv. Okay? I’ll let you go. Oh, wait! One more thing: an editor from some magazine called looking for you. I gave her your e-mail address so be sure to check your e-mails. Ta, Luv!”

  I’m probably the only twenty-five year old with a mother who goes to Hip Hop Abs classes and liberally sprinkles her vernacular with words like pokey and jiggy. I would be embarrassed if I didn’t feel sorry for her. Ever since my dad left her, Mum has been trying to forge a new independent identity. One week, she’s hanging around City Lights, sipping coffee and writing poetry. City Lights is a San Francisco institution. The bookstore/publisher was beatnik center in the fifties and hippie headquarters in the sixties. The next week she’s volunteering at a shelter in Oakland and taking Hip Hop Abs.

  Meanwhile, Dad is shacking up with a vegan Professor of Agriculture, who collects creepy porcelain dolls with soulless eyes. She tries to foist her carob and bean paste brownies off on me, but I’d rather bust a move with mom in Hip Hop Abs than eat one of those bricks.

  My alarm goes off, reminding me that I have only thirty minutes to fire up my flat iron and fix my face before meeting Luc in the lobby.

  Curious, I quickly open my e-mail box and scroll through the messages until I come to one from Louanne Collins-London at GoGirl! Magazine. My breath catches.

  Subj: Travel Correspondent Job Offer

  Dear Ms. Grant,

  Please forgive me for my unorthodox approach, but numerous failed attempts to reach you via your previous employer has forced me contact you through e-mail.

  I am the managing editor of GoGirl! Magazine. We are a sexy, sassy new publication aimed at the young, hip, professional woman. Our demographic is interested in sex, career, friends, fun, travel/adventure and love. Our readers want to push the limits—or live vicariously through other young women pushing the limits.

  I have reviewed your work at San Francisco Magazine and would like to offer you a position as our travel columnist. The GoGirl! staff has been following your Twitter feed and we love your honest, self-deprecating, but also irreverent and daring voice. We want to capitalize on your sudden popularity and brand you as the voice of travel at GoGirl! Magazine.

  I realize you are still in Europe and might not get this e-mail for several days. Please feel free to respond via e-mail or by calling me directly here at the GoGirl! offices.

  Sincerely,

  Louanne Collins-London,

  Managing Editor

  GoGirl!

  She Publications

  New York/London

  Holy Hemingway! I went to sleep as unemployed, homeless, and romantically-rejected Vivia Perpetua, but I’m waking up in some alter-world as hot, happening, and hip Vivia.

  This is not happening!

  I look at my iPhone screen and then at Fanny’s note. It is happening. Louanne “Super Cool and Smart Future Boss” Collins-London and Luc “Crazy Hot Monkey Sex Partner” de Caumont want me. They really want me!

  I don’t know what nocturnal wormhole I slipped through, but I am not looking to slide back in. I like this alter world.

  My iPhone alerts me of new texts, and I take twenty seconds to read the most titillating ones.

  Text from Alexis:

  Remember that Chi-Chi new spa that opened in the FD? Well get ready for some rubbing and waxing, girl. My treat. I’ve booked 53 bike tours because of your tweets. Don’t tip the guide. Aventures Caumont owes you big time!

  Text to Alexis:

  That’s great! Can’t wait for the waxing�
�but don’t worry about the rubbing, Aventures Caumont’s sexy guide has already taken care of that ;)

  Text from Travis Trunnell:

  You have been gone forever. Please tell me you haven’t been seduced by some smooth talking European playboy. You’ll break my heart…again.

  Text to Travis Trunnell:

  Stop trying to charm me. It (might) won’t work.

  Text from Nathan Edwards III:

  Received the ring today. C.O.D., Vivia? Really?

  Text to Nathan Edwards III:

  Really.

  I toss my iPhone on the bed and spend the next twenty-eight minutes and thirty-seven seconds washing, drying, perfuming, ironing, and beautifying myself. I slip on a chic but sexy sundress, strappy sandals, black sunglasses, and a spritz of Fragonard Miranda. I’m having a thong-no thong debate when a horrible thought occurs to me: what if Luc hasn’t really forgiven me but just doesn’t want to end our affair on a bad note?

  No thong.

  I’m walking on the road that leads to the lobby when Luc pulls up in a sleek silver convertible. The top is down, giving me a great view of Luc’s body. He’s wearing dark jeans, a black shirt, and aviator sunglasses. Heart-flippingly gorgeous.

  He looks at me over the top of his sunglasses. “You want to ride me?”

  Luc’s spot-on imitation of the Italian makes me laugh.

  He hops out, comes around the car, and opens the passenger door. “Would you like to accompany me to Florence today, Vivia?”

  Fuck yeah!

  “I would,” I say, sliding into the passenger seat. “Thank you.”

  Luc gets in the car, guns the engine, and the sporty convertible takes off down the drive, hugging the narrow road through every twist and turn.

  We have been driving a few minutes when Luc shifts to a lower gear and pulls off to the side of the road. He turns to look at me, but I can’t see his eyes through the dark sunglasses.

  “What’s wrong? Did you forget something?”

  “Yes.” He removes his sunglasses. “I forgot to tell you how incredibly beautiful you are this morning.”

  He puts his hand around my neck and pulls me to him gently, pressing a kiss to my lips. My head knows this is just a fleeting summer romance, a vacation flirtation, but my heart hasn’t gotten the memo. I’m falling flat-ironed head over sandals in love with Luc.

  When we finish kissing, Luc reaches behind my seat and retrieves a single sunflower from the foothold.

  “I wanted to get you flowers, but the markets weren’t open, so I picked this on my ride this morning.”

  I’ve always thought sunflowers were ugly, with their hairy stalks and brown heads, but the flower Luc hands me is the prettiest bloom I have ever seen. His simple, thoughtful gesture touches me more than any of the dozens of roses Nathan gave me over the course of our courtship.

  “Thank you.” I take the flower and stroke the yellow petals. “It’s lovely.”

  “It reminded me of you.”

  “Why?” I chuckle. “Because it’s tall, ungainly, and hairy?”

  Luc tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.

  “No,” he says seriously. “It reminds me of you because it is strong, unique, and always turns toward the light.”

  He shifts the sports car into gear and takes off. We slide around the curvy country roads, my face turned up to the Tuscan sun, my hair blowing in the breeze. It’s like a scene from a romantic movie. I am Grace Kelly in To Catch a Thief. I’m Reese Witherspoon in This Means War. I’m Renee Zellweger in Bridget Jones’s Diary. Wait! Scratch that last one. If I’m remembering the scene right, poor Bridg completed her zip through the country with a rat’s nest hairdo.

  Luc takes the autostrada to Florence, maneuvering the car as if he’s driven the route a thousand times. I can’t believe I am in one of the most beautiful cities in Europe with one of the most handsome men in the world! This is a magical dream that can’t last forever, but I am going to keep my eyes closed until I absolutely have to wake up. I am going to enjoy every second with Luc because tomorrow this—whatever this is between us—will be over.

  Luc turns down a narrow road running alongside a green square. A Romanesque church with an elaborate marble-inlaid façade looms over the square.

  “That is the Basilica of Santa Maria Novella,” he says, keeping his eyes on the congested road. “Cosimo the First held annual chariot races in that square in front of the Basilica.”

  “Wow! That’s awesome.” I warm when I realize how provincial I sound. So American. “That was a stereotypical tourist response, I know, but I can’t think of a more appropriate one. That square is older than my country.”

  Luc chuckles. “It is awesome.”

  He pulls into a small private parking lot, pushes the button to raise the convertible top, and turns the car off.

  “We’re here.”

  I look out at the sketchy parking lot. Trains rumble over tracks somewhere nearby. Where exactly is Luc is taking me?

  “Where’s here?”

  “We’re near the Palazzo Marini,” he says. “I thought you might like to see it, and then we can have lunch and tour the Uffizi Gallery.”

  I look at him blankly. I know the Uffizi Gallery is a world-famous museum, but I’ve never heard of the Palazzo Marini. Luc correctly interprets my ignorance.

  “Have you never heard of the Palazzo Marini?”

  I shake my head.

  He smiles. “Mary and Percy Bysshe Shelley lived in the Palazzo Marini; it’s where Mary gave birth to their son. They strolled around the square in front of the Basilica and toured the Uffizi Gallery. So today you will be walking in Mary Shelley’s footsteps.”

  Flowers, Tiffany engagement rings, chocolates, stuffed animals, expensive lingerie, handwritten poems, Cartier tank watches. I’ve been given many gifts from boyfriends, but none as thoughtful as the gift Luc is giving me today. He listened, actually listened, to my heart. He paid attention when I shared my dreams with him. He didn’t laugh or try to discourage me when I told him I wanted to write a novel about Mary Shelley. He listened, and cared.

  All I can do is stare at Luc like a witless idiot, my mouth agape, my eyes filling with tears.

  “What’s wrong, Vivia? Aren’t you happy?”

  “You take my breath away,” I whisper.

  “Then let me return it to you with a kiss.”

  Luc leans in and kisses me. A deep, toe-curling kiss that pushes me off the cliff of infatuation and into an abyss of hopeless love.

  Luc stops kissing me and wipes away my tears.

  “Last night,” I sniffle. “When you drove away… I thought I wouldn’t see you again.”

  “I was upset, but I thought about it all night, and do you know what I determined?”

  I shake my head.

  “I like you.”

  I do one of those psychotic laugh-cries.

  “Have you ever seen the movie Shenandoah with Jimmy Stewart?”

  “Are you about to quote a cowboy movie?”

  Luc nods. “I am.”

  “Okay, go ahead.”

  “Shenandoah. Jimmy Stewart has a daughter named Jennie, who is in love with a young soldier named Sam. Sam asks Jimmy for Jennie’s hand in marriage. Jimmy Stewart asks, ‘Why do you want to marry her?’ And Sam answers, ‘Because I love her.’ Do you know what Jimmy Stewart says?”

  I shake my head.

  “‘Love her?’ Jimmy Stewart barks, ‘But do you like her? There's some difference between lovin’ and likin’. When I married Jennie's mother, I-I didn't love her. I liked her… I liked her a lot.’”

  Luc holds my face in his hands like he's going to kiss me again, but he doesn’t. Instead, he looks deep into my eyes.

  “I like you, Vivia, I like you…a lot.”

  “You don’t even know me. Believe me, Luc, you do not want to fall in love with me. I am a mess.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re wonderful.�
��

  “How can you say that? You don’t really know me.”

  I’m crazy. It’s like I’m trying to talk him out of loving me.

  “I know who you are, Vivia.”

  “Who, Luc? Who am I?’

  “You are a smart, funny, strong, kind, exasperating woman. You wear ridiculous T-shirts, have an unnatural addiction to pain au chocolate, purse your lips when you are nervous, and look better than any woman has ever looked in one of those little riding skirt things—”

  “Skort.”

  “After a week in the saddle, you still don’t know how to properly attack hills. You don’t know the difference between a Shiraz and a Chardonnay, but when I’m not with you I feel like something is missing, and when you walk in the room, I feel like that something has been found. You, Vivia Perpetua Grant, are a terrible, wonderful, thrilling, beautiful mess. And I like you… I like you a lot.”

  Serendipity works in crazy mysterious ways, doesn’t it? I thought I was going to die when Nathan broke our engagement, now here I am on my honeymoon falling in love with another man.

  I don’t know that I’m ready for another serious relationship. I need time to sort out my baggage, and I’m not talking about Louis Vuittons. I need to find a new place to live. I want to take a crack at being a travel correspondent for GoGirl! and write my Mary Shelley novel. And then there’s Travis Trunnell…

  Here I go again, analyzing, analyzing, and over-analyzing a situation that requires the heart more than the head. There’s really only one thing to say to Luc, everything else will eventually work out.

  “I like you too…a lot.”

  Epilogue

  Text from Jean-Luc:

  Happy one year anniversary, mon amie. Can't wait to see you (naked) and hold you in my arms (naked). I'll pick you up at the TGV station (not naked).

  Text to Luc: