Mr. Nice Guy

by Jennifer Miller

  “Are you ready?” Carmen asked now, in the elevator.

  “I feel like it’s my birthday,” Lucas said.

  “More like your media cotillion,” she said with a smirk.

  The elevator came to a rest. Silence. Then the doors opened. “They’re here!” somebody shouted, and the pair walked out of the elevator and into a waiting crowd. The entire Empire staff, along with dozens of editors from other magazines in the building, broke into whooping applause. “Well, man, you surprised us all,” said a guy Lucas had never met. Lucas scanned the crowd for familiar faces. Alexis looked a little stunned, if nervously supportive; she now knew way too much about his sex life. Franklin lackadaisically moved his hands together and apart while rolling his eyes. It seemed a mark of honor: Lucas was now important enough that Franklin pretended not to give a damn about him. But as Lucas scanned the room, he began to feel self-conscious. What did these people expect of him now? To look different. To be different. He was suddenly overwhelmed. A glance at Carmen edified him. Thank god she was here.

  Jays appeared from the throng. He kissed Carmen on the cheek and shook Lucas’s hand. Then he quieted the room. “As you all know by now, our Lucas—dogged fact-checker, tie aficionado, and all-around Nice Guy—has been moonlighting as Carmen Kelly’s partner in our wildly successful column ‘Screw the Critics.’ I know this comes as a shock to many of you. Probably to all of you. I mean, this guy? With Carmen?”

  “He’s hotter than Adam the PA!” somebody shouted.

  Jays chuckled. “Yes, well, as soon as I hired Lucas to be an Empire fact-checker, I knew he’d be the perfect man to co-launch our most ambitious column—all the more so because no one would ever suspect him.”

  Lucas looked at Carmen again and raised his eyebrows as if to say, Is this guy for real? She responded in kind.

  “But there’s more,” Jays continued. “In the coming year, Empire will be expanding its national and global reach, transforming from a magazine and website into a broad-scale media force. And Lucas and Carmen, as our most popular—if notorious—writers, will be at the forefront of this effort. So I am proud to announce their promotion to Brand Ambassadors for Empire Magazine.”

  The room cheered. Lucas imagined what Carmen was thinking. If she was going to leave “Screw the Critics,” it would be all the more satisfying to do it while Jays was heaping on the praise—not to mention placing so much of the brand on her shoulders. Here Lucas was, standing in between the strangest of cold wars. Jays, deftly rewriting history to place himself at the center of it. And Carmen, letting Jays believe that he was in control—of the situation, and of her.

  “With their help,” the Editor continued, “we’ll be launching an event series, a podcast network, exploring entertainment opportunities. I think it’s safe to say that Luke here is going to need a few more ties for all the TV he’ll be doing!” Jays winked at Lucas. “This is an exciting time for Empire,” he concluded. “And I’m thrilled to have all of you here with me to make the most of it.”

  Out beyond the Editor, dozens of phones homed in on Lucas’s face. Within minutes, these videos would be unleashed upon the world. These were the images all of New York would be looking at. Lucas’s life really was about to change. His chest tightened. But then he felt a warm pressure in his palm. Carmen had taken his hand.

  After champagne and chitchat and selfies, Jays convened the newly knighted Ambassadors in his office. He cataloged their upcoming itinerary of photo shoots and interviews, the meetings they were going to have with producers, the event series they were going to host, the partnerships with up-and-coming artists, designers, and DJs. “I hope you two appreciated screwing undercover,” Jays concluded. “Because from now on, it’s all hanging out for the world to see.”

  Ribbing aside, Lucas was taken by the Editor’s professionalism. It was as though the botched firing had never happened. People accused Jays of having a big ego. They said he held a grudge. But Jays wasn’t going out of his way to punish Lucas. Just the opposite; he was turning a potentially awkward situation into an advantageous one for the magazine. Lucas respected that. And Carmen, meanwhile, just let it happen, nodding along with a smile. Not a mention of Netflix. Maybe she was rethinking the deal after all? This Empire gig suddenly seemed pretty good.

  At the end of the meeting, Jays took Lucas’s arm and said, “There’s so much in store for you, Lucas, and you deserve all of it.” With a swelling heart, Lucas answered, “Thank you, sir.”

  * * *

  From the office, Carmen and Lucas were whisked to the SoHo headquarters of a no-nonsense style guru, who hosted a TV show called Take That Off!, where he ripped people apart for their terrible fashion choices. As Lucas was being manhandled like a mannequin, his phone started blowing up. Interview requests flooded in from reporters across the city along with emails, texts, and voicemails from friends and family. His mother left repeated messages, her voice increasingly frantic and higher pitched.

  Sam texted: “don’t know what 2 thnk Happy 4 u? call me.”

  Tyler texted: “Fuck you, you brilliant man!”

  A text arrived from a number he didn’t recognize; he opened it to find a photo of a very nice pair of breasts, along with the message: “Call me any time, Nice Guy.” His number had gotten out creepily fast, but he wouldn’t be entirely upset about more messages like that one.

  Finally, Carmen and Lucas headed into the city for their photo shoot. In less than twenty-four hours, Jays had developed an ad campaign to announce Empire’s new Brand Ambassadors and managed to secure Lucian Moreau, one of the city’s hottest photographers, to direct them. The theme, Moreau explained, as they rode uptown together, was Meet Un-Cute. “Jez Jacobzon hez a brrrilliant vision!” Moreau leaned animatedly over his pointy-toed shoes. His accent and attitude seemed pompous, even for a French photographer. “Bet of cuz, zat is why Jez calls me,” he continued. “I only do brrrilliant campaigns.”

  Carmen looked askance at Lucas, who just shrugged.

  “We shoot ze anti-romantik gestures in the citi’s most romantic locashionz. You see et ees about con-trast.”

  And so it was. At Jean-Georges, they sat across from each other with an untouched dessert between them, fabricating the steely aftermath of a fight. At Tiffany’s, Carmen was directed to look longingly at the engagement rings, while Lucas checked his watch. “Isn’t this kind of sexist?” Carmen asked. “And not very interesting?” Lucas added. Moreau looked horrified and said, “It is ze order of Jez Jacobzon!” as though the Editor were Caesar himself.

  After this, they were driven to The Standard Grill, where Jays waited for them at the very same table where he’d bullied Carmen into joining “Screw the Critics” all those months ago. He’d chosen the spot purposefully, Carmen was certain. But was it a boast? Or a more menacing message: that all roads truly did lead to Rome, back into the emperor’s hands? But Carmen was no longer a tangle of conflicted feelings. No more longing, hatred, regret, or the remnants of love. Her only feeling for the Editor at this juncture was distrust.

  As the trio awaited their drinks, Carmen explained her frustration with the photo shoot. The setups, she said, mischaracterized the columns, the nature of her and Lucas’s relationship, not to mention their new role. “Ambassadors are supposed to work together,” she said. “But if you insist on presenting us as adversaries, at least make it sexy.”

  “Moreau makes everything sexy,” Jays said.

  “Moreau is a clown,” Carmen said.

  “What if we’re photographed in a boxing ring, in our underwear?” Lucas suggested.

  Jays slapped the table. “Yes! Excellent. And that’s why I hired you, Luke.” He looked at Carmen as he spoke, as though she’d pushed back. Which she hadn’t. Lucas, meanwhile, was blushing. Carmen hoped he wasn’t getting caught up in Jays’ flattery.

  Jays pushed back his chair. “Well, I’ll give you both some time to eat before the press arrives. I believe you’ve got interviews with Cosmo, Vanity Fair, and Bu
zzFeed.”

  “You’re not staying?” Lucas seemed disappointed. “What about your drink?”

  “Don’t want to step on your toes.” Jays gave Carmen a maddening wink.

  “So you’ll set it up with Moreau?” Carmen pressed. “Lucas’s boxing idea?”

  “Oh, sure,” Jays said, distracted by someone he saw across the room.

  * * *

  They had not been in the restaurant for long before the other patrons began to realize that the lanky sandy-haired kid sitting beside Carmen Kelly was Nice Guy. Since the announcement that morning, the blogosphere had swelled with the revelation and word was spreading. Half a dozen people interrupted the interviews to ask for selfies. A full dozen leaned over Lucas and Carmen like they were statues, snapped a selfie, and walked away without even saying thank you.

  That afternoon, the photo shoot continued. In a taxi outside the Washington Square Park arch, Carmen was asked to recoil from Lucas as he leaned in for a kiss. At the Majestic Theatre in Times Square, they were painted as mimes and posed before a panel of stern-faced judges. Finally, after the working day had ended—late even for Manhattan’s corporate lawyers and bankers—Carmen and Lucas were taken to a hotel and posed in a picture of post-coital disappointment: side by side beneath the sheets, staring at the ceiling.

  “Nize Guy!” Moreau snapped his fingers. “He-lo! Nize Guy!” Lucas’s eyes snapped open. The king-sized bed was soft and cool, and he’d briefly dozed off.

  Carmen glanced at the clock. “I think we’ve had enough for today.” She looked at Moreau’s four photo assistants, who hovered around the bed like timid medical residents. “I hope you’re all being paid overtime.”

  “Can I just sleep here?” Lucas mumbled, and closed his eyes again.

  “Good idea,” Carmen said. “Everybody out. Now!”

  The assistants began packing up their equipment as Moreau stood frowning in the corner. “Maybe I take images of thees?” he said. “Nize Guy and Ms. Kellee—”

  “Out!” ordered Carmen.

  “Thank you, Carmen,” Lucas said, his eyes fluttering. “You’re my—”

  But Carmen never learned what she was, because suddenly he was snoring. She was exhausted as well, though in the sudden quiet she couldn’t sleep. She watched the rise and fall of Lucas’s bare chest. It was a nice chest, not as broad as some, but sturdy enough. And practically smooth. Before Lucas, she’d preferred a healthy layer of chest hair—at least enough for the man in her bed to seem sufficiently like a man. But she’d grown to like the proximity of her nipples to Lucas’s skin. It was a different kind of closeness than she was used to. It was, for lack of a less saccharine word, tender. She wanted to lay her chest against him now, but their relationship had changed. They didn’t do things like that anymore. Which made her feel … well, she wasn’t sure. Part of her missed the sex. But she was no longer the same woman who’d fucked Lucas every other week. She’d needed to be that person—judgmental, fierce, and proud—to have become this new women. Wise. The columns, unexpectedly, had been an education for her. They’d transformed her into a person with much more complicated feelings about whom she slept with, when, and why.

  Gently, Carmen ran her finger across one of Lucas’s cheekbones, the feature that had first caught her attention. He stirred but remained asleep.

  She should be packing her bags for LA, drawing out the physical and psychic distance between herself and Jays. But she couldn’t just leave Lucas here. He was too enthralled with his sudden success, too vulnerable. Too eager to say yes. He’d made a stirring case for yes during their dark ages, but it was a naïve one. Yes could be dangerous. Especially when you didn’t really understand what you were agreeing to. Carmen had learned this the hard way. Nobody had guided her or helped her, and as much as she’d achieved, she had also suffered at the hands of a master manipulator. It had taken her a long time to understand that Jays was always making a play. He cared only about himself, and screw everyone else. Carmen had internalized more than a little of this outlook. But then Lucas had appeared and shown her just the opposite—how to be part of a team. She was grateful for that, more than he would ever know. For that, she could give him six more weeks.

  CHAPTER 34

  The next morning, the weather chilly and windy, Lucas and Carmen were styled and driven to their final location: Bow Bridge in Central Park. The bridge was iconic, a cast-iron architectural beauty meant to resemble the bow of a violin, and voted many times over as the most romantic spot in Manhattan. Lucas realized he must have seen it in a dozen romantic comedies, though he couldn’t recall a single one.

  “Well, at least the sun’s out,” he said to Carmen as they walked up the bridge’s gentle slope, both of them shivering. Lucas was sick of posing, of pretending to be lonely, angry, and awkward. There was enough of that in real life; why did anyone need to spend a second make-believing? Moreau posed Lucas on one knee, holding a bouquet of roses up to Carmen, and had her looking down at him with a notebook and pen, critiquing the gesture.

  “Give me annoy-ance!” Moreau shouted at Carmen. “Yes, perrrfect. Brrrilliant! Now irritashion! Perrrfect. Now exasperashion! Beautiful. Brilliant.”

  Lucas watched Carmen cycle through the slide show of emotions. She was frowning (at Moreau’s direction) and bearing it. But she was also cold. As she gripped the notebook and pen, her fingers had turned white.

  “Thank you for doing this,” Lucas said through clenched teeth as the camera snapped away.

  “All I can say is, I better get to keep these clothes,” she said testily.

  “I didn’t know we’d have to do any of this, I swear. Just six weeks and—”

  “Nize Guy!” Moreau snapped. “Show me dezperashion. You are pathetic. Yes?”

  “Hearing him call you names in that ridiculous accent kind of makes this nonsense worth it,” Carmen said.

  “Nize Guy! What ess thees? You are, what do they say—a hopelees romantik, but more hopelees than romantik, yes?”

  “Is he referring to my romantic gesture or this photo shoot?” Lucas murmured as Carmen shook with laughter. She tilted her head back and opened her mouth. A glorious, throaty laugh spilled out. And then, all at once, people were shouting their names. Someone must have tweeted their location, because now scores of gawkers were pushing farther and farther toward the center of the bridge. “Stop! Stop eet!” Moreau shouted, but to no avail.

  Only then they did stop, because a black object swooped out across the water and sped like a missile toward the bridge. The black object was now hovering just before Lucas and Carmen, a camera lens pointed at their faces.

  Lucas jumped to his feet. “Is that a drone?”

  “Oh for Christ’s sake!” Carmen moaned. But she looked delighted. “I’ve never gotten this kind of attention before. Lucas, you’ve single-handedly quadrupled my star status. I’m going to have to hire a publicist and a stylist and an assistant. I’m going to have to start blowing out my hair every fucking morning.”

  Meanwhile, Lucian Moreau was losing his shit. “Zees ess my shoot, you stupeed metal object!” He waved his hands at the drone, and when that didn’t work he grabbed the bouquet of roses from Lucas and, to his and Carmen’s astonishment, hurled it off the bridge. The drone drifted lazily out of the bouquet’s path, and the flowers fell into the water with a plop.

  Lucas and Carmen went to the edge of the bridge, where the roses were slowly sinking. “So who sent that thing?” Carmen asked calmly. “New York Post, Us Weekly, or Star?”

  “I have my money on somebody else,” Lucas said, and held up his phone. On the screen was a text from Tyler: “Smile, kids!” Lucas scanned the crowd for his roommate. The number of onlookers had ballooned. Who were all these people? Didn’t they have jobs?

  “We’re not famous enough for this!” Carmen shouted at the drone. “We’re writers—and he’s not even really a writer. He’s a fact-checker!”

  For the first time, Lucas’s former position filled him with pride.
He’d barely stood on the lowest rung and yet had flown skyward nearly as fast as the elevators in One World Trade. For a moment, he was lost in reverie, imagining all of the 30 Under 30 lists on which he was about to land. Then an incoming text from Tyler called him back. It was a link to a Facebook Live stream called CriticsCam. “Carmen!” Lucas pulled her over. “Look!” There they were, on the screen, looking back at themselves.

  “I think we’re having a moment, Lucas,” Carmen said. “We should make the most of it.”

  Lucas looked directly at the camera as it hovered in front of his face. “For days,” he announced to it, “we’ve been taking depressing, pseudo-antagonistic pictures for an ad campaign. We’ve been pretending to hate each other. But we’re Empire’s new Brand Ambassadors and we don’t think that’s the spirit of our magazine.” Lucas was on a roll, now that hundreds, maybe even thousands, of people were watching him. “Empire is about excitement,” he continued. “It’s about taking chances. It’s about saying yes!”

  “And yes to what exactly?” Carmen asked, pretending not to know.

  Lucas did not hesitate. He pulled her close, and in the next moment they were kissing. The crowd went wild. Lucas’s phone was having a seizure in his pocket. Lucian Moreau was practically having a seizure on the bridge. Lucas was vaguely aware of all of this. But mostly, he was aware of Carmen: Her warm, soft mouth. The smell of her shampoo. The impossibly soft threads of her sweater. Their hearts pounded so fast, fueled by the adrenaline of the moment, that each could have sworn they were flying. Carmen and Lucas were rushing toward each other at the speed of light.

  CHAPTER 35

  “If you continue to go rogue, I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.” This was Jays on speakerphone, sounding and feeling very far away. Carmen and Lucas half-listened. They’d set the phone on the ledge of a Jacuzzi tub, in an insanely large bathroom, in a suite at the Mandarin Oriental. Carmen was wearing one of the complimentary snowy bathrobes over her clothes and had stretched out in the dry tub. Lucas leaned against the vanity, wearing Mandarin slippers on his feet. He and Carmen had been installed here for the night to work on their next column—the first of Lucas’s public career—and Jays had finally, truly, ponied up.