Mr. Nice Guy

by Jennifer Miller

  The bar was mostly empty, save a couple of NYU students procrastinating over pints in the back room. The bartender Aiden, who’d she met shortly after arriving in the neighborhood, was already pulling out a glass and a bottle of Pinot Noir. He looked straight from Central Casting: hairy arms, cleft chin, belly, and a bar towel slung over his shoulder. He was even Irish. But Aiden only turned on the gruff bartender act when he wanted to have a little fun with a tourist or gullible student.

  “Ms. Kelly! It’s been ages. I hope you’re well—and that lovely grandmother of yours.”

  It was sweet of him to pretend he didn’t know, but she didn’t need his pity.

  She sighed, turned the stem of the wineglass. “Come on, Aiden,” she said. “We’ve known each other too long for that.”

  Aiden frowned. “What do you mean? Is there news? I’ve been in Ireland these past few months. My sister’s been ill.”

  “Oh. I’m so sorry,” Carmen said, and they spent the next few minutes talking about Aiden’s family obligations. If his sister passed away, he’d likely return home for good. He had three nephews and his parents were aging. They’d need him. Hearing all of this made Carmen feel ashamed of her wallowing. She and Mira had their health. They had each other. “I’d be sad to lose you,” she said. “I doubt many bartenders would have been as lenient with a regular as stingy as myself.”

  Carmen hadn’t thought about it in ages, but she and Aiden had become friendly in the early days, when she was new to the Village. This was before she’d gotten a regular job, let alone her own column, and she was still scraping by. Nearly every day, she’d come in, set her laptop on the bar, and write magazine pitches—ideas she’d email to editors, who were almost guaranteed to ignore them—all the while subsisting on free bar nuts. A couple times a week, when she got a promising email back or, miracle of miracles, had a story accepted, she’d reward herself with a glass of wine.

  “What you call stingy I call industrious,” Aiden said. “Most of the kids who come here to ‘write’”—he flashed air quotes—“are just flattering themselves. You know it by the size of their tab. They have trust funds and aren’t getting shite done.”

  When she’d first met Lucas here, they were each at work: he scribbling in a notebook, she on a napkin. He’d offered her paper. And though she derided him—called him a grad student—there was an earnest way about him. Something reminiscent of her younger self. It was, she realized now, the reason she took him home: nostalgia for the Nice Girl she’d been. For the ambitious young woman who believed that in putting pen to paper she could make her voice heard.

  And all at once, she made a decision.

  “I’m running home to grab my computer, Aiden. Get out the bar nuts.”

  CHAPTER 44

  One month later, Lucas sat in a TV studio as a TODAY show makeup artist applied flesh-colored war paint to his forehead. She was efficient, her fingers less than forgiving as they blotted and smeared. In an hour, Jays would announce Nice Guy’s new partner on national television. And he’d also announce the column’s new spin: Henceforth, it would be called “Love the Critics.”

  And who was the lucky lady? Lucas had narrowed it down to two women. They were both attractive, of course. But they were also superb writers and witty, thoughtful human beings. Each was deeply invested in her own career—and neither worked in magazines. Lucas had insisted on that point. He didn’t want someone motivated by the spotlight, and he wanted a partner, not a competitor. “Love the Critics” would not be a cage match of judgment. Jays whole-heartedly agreed. In fact, the Editor had been terrific since the MOMA debacle: amenable and fair, available and consistent. So much for Carmen’s warnings about Jays’ duplicity.

  Since Lucas had approved both finalists, Jays said he’d like to pick the winner and, in a genius stroke of marketing, reveal her identity on live television. Lucas would learn who she was when the rest of America did.

  Now Jays sauntered in. He’d already had his makeup done. “How’re you feeling, Luke? Excited?” But before Lucas could respond, the Editor held up his phone. “Just a sec.”

  Lucas turned to the windows, observing the pool of eager tourists who’d been waiting for hours. They flooded to the city, as they did each summer, with their subway maps and fanny packs. Soon the weather would grow sweltering and sticky, but for now it was welcoming. A glorious day to wait outside of 30 Rock, holding signs that read: “Happy Birthday, Grandma!,” “Breast Cancer Survivor,” and “I ♥ Nice Guy!” It thrilled Lucas to be part of the occasion for these salt-of-the-earth types, these first-time New York City explorers. He felt an outpouring of love for them. I was once like you, my face pressed to the glass, he thought. To think that he was on the inside now, part of the show. And yet he couldn’t quite muster the excitement that he knew the moment deserved.

  “Yes, at the studio!” The rise in Jays’ voice drew Lucas’s attention. The Editor rolled his eyes at the caller and made a yapping motion with his hand. “Yes, of course,” he said. “It’s all set. The story will go live after the segment.”

  Lucas marveled at how well Jays masked annoyance with false enthusiasm.

  “I don’t know where I’d be without you,” Jays said. He went quiet for another moment. “Well, yes, I guess that’s where I’d be. Good-bye, Nick.”

  Nicholas Spragg? But no. Empire had two Nicks on staff.

  “It’s almost time,” Jays said brightly. “You look terrific, Luke. Are you ready?”

  Lucas stood up and smoothed out his shirt. Get psyched! he told himself. The rest of your life is about to begin.

  As the production assistant led Lucas and Jays onto the set, the Callahan family waved excitedly from their VIP seats. Gone was their snobbish disapproval of big-city life. They’d flown in from Charlotte to see their son live on national television, and the night before, over an Empire-expensed steak dinner, Lucas’s father even apologized. “I’m proud of you, Son,” the elder Callahan said in a tone snatched right from TV Land.

  Kathie Lee Gifford and Hoda Kotb arrived with an entourage of producers and cameramen and settled into their chairs. It was almost go time when the lead producer hurried over, talking feverishly into her headset: “The network wants to keep references to screwing to a minimum. We’re live in ten.”

  She counted down from commercial, and the hosts snapped to life.

  “This morning, America’s most-dissected bachelor is about to become one half of America’s most-watched couple,” Gifford said. “You all know Lucas Callahan, part of the wildly popular Empire Magazine column—yes, that column.”

  Lucas felt his undershirt dampen beneath the lights. Beside him, Jays looked like he was lounging on his own living room sofa. Lucas tried to affect a similar posture of repose and nearly tipped over.

  “So, Lucas,” Kotb was saying, “have you always been such a nice guy?”

  Lucas blushed. “I don’t know if I can say that.”

  “Look at that!” Gifford exclaimed. “Adorable. But sexy, too.”

  Lucas blushed deeper.

  “Ladies, this is the one you want to bring home. But before we reveal who will have that honor, let’s take a look back.”

  The lights dimmed and there on a screen beside them was a short NBC clip about “Screw the Critics,” followed by a voice-over recapping Lucas and Carmen’s tempestuous relationship, followed by footage from Noser’s Facebook Live stream of them on Bow Bridge. “But it all came to an abrupt end,” the voice-over said, “when Nice Guy laid his feelings on the line.” Lucas struggled not to cringe—or tear up—when he saw himself standing before Carmen at MOMA. He hadn’t seen the footage; he’d hoped he never would. But he couldn’t look away now. All at once, the lights came up.

  “It’s been quite a road, Lucas,” Kotb said, nodding sympathetically. “We wanted to know, if you don’t mind us getting a little bit personal—”

  “Hoda, have you read his column?” Gifford asked. “I don’t think he minds.”

  Ever
yone laughed.

  “So, Lucas. We know you’re excited about starting ‘Love the Critics’ with your new partner. But I have to ask: It’s only been a few months since you declared your love for Carmen. Have your feelings for her faded?”

  The screen was now showing images of the two of them ice-skating at the Rockefeller rink, just feet from where Lucas currently sat. In what now seemed a lifetime ago, they’d held hands on unsteady legs, laughing about their own clumsiness. This was the cruelty of New York City. It moved on without you; when you left a space, it simply became populated by someone else.

  “It’s always difficult getting over an ex,” he said, swallowing hard. “But I’m excited to move forward.”

  “I think Lucas is being overly kind,” Jays interjected. “Which is precisely why he’s such a Nice Guy.”

  The anchors chuckled.

  “But seriously,” the Editor continued, “Nice Guy has become a cultural touch point. He’s the genuine, chivalrous suitor. The man women want to love, and who men want to be. Since this column began, the phrase ‘nice guy’ has gone from an insult to a compliment. And that’s why we’re eager to tell the next chapter of this nice guy’s story.”

  “That’s right,” Kotb said. “We asked viewers to send in examples from their Instagram feeds. This one is from Alexander in Traverse City, Michigan.” A picture appeared on the screen of a boyfriend surprising his girlfriend with flowers. The comments were littered with #NiceGuy.

  “But #Carmen is also trending,” Gifford said.

  Jays nodded. “It is. A ‘Carmen’ is a—well, I can’t say it on national television. Suffice it to say, America has decided who they support.”

  “That must make you feel good,” Kotb said. “Especially considering how tough Carmen was on you in those early columns.”

  “It does,” Lucas said, though he preferred to leave it at that.

  A brief, awkward silence followed. “I’d say Carmen’s been punished enough,” Jays piped in. “She was hired to write and co-produce a TV show based on her experiences at Empire. But once her dishonesty came to light, that opportunity evaporated. I’m sure by now she’s learned from her mistakes. At least I hope she has.”

  Wait, what? Lucas stiffened on the couch and struggled to maintain his composure, aware that cameras were trained on his every move. Inside, he roiled with questions: How had he not known about this? Was it reported, and he missed it? Had he really been that self-absorbed these past months?

  He suddenly saw the dominos fall: Carmen, publicly shamed into hiding, trolled endlessly online. Netflix, canceling her show. Mira, dependent upon Carmen’s money to afford her apartment, now evicted with nowhere to go.

  Lucas felt weak. Sweat prickled down his back. He couldn’t get enough air. He took a large sip of water from his TODAY show mug. He needed to get off this set, away from these lights. But he was stuck, pinned beneath the indomitable gaze of America’s eyeball.

  “So tell us about ‘Love the Critics,’” Kotb said.

  Lucas took a deep breath. He’d memorized this part. He could make it through. “Physical attraction is easy,” he said. “But now we’re looking for emotional and intellectual attraction as well.”

  “Sounds a little bit like The Bachelor,” Gifford said. “But without the cocktails and trips to Tahiti?”

  Jays shook his head. “You’ll read no platitudes in our pages, Kathie. No ‘journeys,’ no clichés about true love. Lucas and his new partner will be giving us the nitty-gritty of what a developing relationship looks like. It will be honest and raw and, above all, real. Nothing of this kind currently exists in modern media.”

  “Well, then,” Kotb said. “I think it’s time for Lucas to meet his new mate. Am I right that you don’t know the young woman’s identity?”

  “That’s right,” Lucas said. “I narrowed it down, but Jay made the final choice.”

  Gifford feigned shock. “That’s a lot of trust to put in your boss! Picking out your potential wife. And of course, next week that relationship gets even more intimate, because your first kiss will be at your boss’s house!”

  Lucas looked at Jays; this was more news to him. “That’s right,” Jays said, “and Kathie and Hoda, your invites are already in the mail. We’re going to pack my apartment with the most exciting people in New York, and watch Lucas and his new partner have their first kiss. And everyone at home can watch, too. We’ll be live-streaming it on Empire’s website, so be sure to watch.”

  “Well, we can’t wait. OK, Lucas, are you ready to meet your new ‘Love the Critics’ partner?” Kotb asked. Lucas’s brain felt like an overworked computer. Before he could process one surprise, he’d been hit with another and then another. But now came the most important moment—the surprise he’d been waiting for. He was finally meeting a woman whom he was allowed—in fact, encouraged—to fall for, head over heels. He took a deep breath.

  The audience cheered as Kotb announced, “Let’s bring out Lucas’s new partner between the pages.”

  She walked out, tall and lithe in a white tunic and strappy high-heeled sandals. Her long brown hair shone like brushed silk and her face seemed, literally, to glow. She carried with her the scent of freshly cut grass. Lucas stood on shaky legs. He wasn’t sure how he was going to support himself. It was only with the help of her hands, taking his own as she leaned in to kiss him on each cheek, that he managed not to buckle.

  “Surprise,” Sofia whispered into his ear.

  CHAPTER 45

  After the segment, there was a flurry of activity as Lucas’s parents shook hands with Jays and exchanged hugs with Sofia. Then a woman who introduced herself as Sofia’s agent arrived and they all—Lucas, Sofia, Jays, the agent, and the three other Callahans—went to brunch at the Wild Boar.

  “We have much to celebrate,” Jays said when they had all ordered their drinks. “In addition to our new hire, the lovely Sofia here, we are also congratulating Lucas on his first cover story in the magazine.”

  “My what?” Lucas asked, astonished. He’d been given no time to process Sofia’s appearance, Jays’ trickery, the reversal of Carmen’s fortunes, or Mira’s looming homelessness. For the last hour and a half, he’d been mannequin-like, letting people move him around, a fake smile gelled on.

  “Lucas!” Mrs. Callahan exclaimed. “Why didn’t you tell us? That’s incredible. Jim, isn’t that incredible?” She nodded with the enthusiasm of a dozen mothers.

  “Er, yes. Absolutely,” Mr. Callahan said.

  “I’m sorry I don’t have the print edition to show you yet,” Jays apologized to Lucas’s parents. “But the story has just gone live.”

  Lucas fumbled with his phone. And there it was. Headline: “Heir Apparent.” And underneath that: “The Prince of Apex, Idaho, Claims His Throne in New Amsterdam. By Lucas Callahan.” Only it wasn’t his story. It was a grotesque Frankensteinian assemblage of sentences that he wrote, shoddily nailed and glued onto those he did not. As everyone at the table watched him, he furiously scrolled through the piece. Huge swaths of his reporting were absent. There was no mention of the rape allegations or Spragg’s contradictory origin stories. The money cake, too, had become a casualty of Jays’ red pen. Only small scraps of truth hung from the story’s bones, mostly related to Spragg’s strong desire to leave Apex and strike out on his own. There were oblique references to an ambitious, innovative hospitality company that Spragg would be helming, though his ridiculous Wharton-esque references to “taking rooms” and “spending the season” had been excised from the discussion. Here Nicholas Spragg appeared the picture of intelligence, sophistication, and dignity.

  Jays led the table in a round of cheers. Lucas drank with the others, but his beer tasted like soap. The joy on his mother’s face made him want to cry.

  The appetizers came and the group tucked in. Everyone seemed to be having a terrific time. Sam chatted with Sofia. Jays casually gossiped with her agent. But Lucas was immobilized. He’d walked off the TODAY show set into an
alternate reality. He’d been given everything—Sofia, an Empire cover story, a heartfelt apology from his parents—but it was horribly twisted, all terribly wrong.

  When Sofia excused herself to the restroom, Lucas waited a beat and then followed. He found her standing before the mirror, reapplying her lipstick. “Hello,” she said, as though the two of them hanging out in the Wild Boar bathroom was nothing unusual.

  “What are you doing?” Lucas spit.

  “Touching up,” Sofia said. “What are you doing?” She blotted her lips with a tissue, then pulled a small bottle of lotion from her purse. She massaged the cream into her palms, rubbing deep and slow, as though giving herself a hand massage.

  “No, what are you doing involved in all this? With me? You broke things off. We’re supposed to be done.” I’m not supposed to have to talk to you again, let alone fuck you, let alone try and date you! You hurt me. Just like Carmen hurt me. And now I’m—But he banished this train of thought. He would not get sucked into a sinkhole of self-pity.

  “But you’re over me, right? It’s like starting fresh.”

  He was, but that was beside the point. “Love the Critics” was about giving readers an honest look into a fledgling relationship. It was about dissecting intimacy as it grew and blossomed into something stronger and, perhaps, permanent. He doubted Sofia wanted any such thing.

  “You’re saying that this time around you could fall in love with me?”

  “I could do many things,” she said, inspecting her face in the mirror. “I don’t know what will happen. It’s an adventure. Come on, Lucas. What’s the matter?” She looked at him. “It’ll be fun.”

  “Because!” he retorted. “This isn’t just some urban exploration. Some exciting new door you can throw open. This is my life, Sofia. You being here means I’m trapped in another relationship with no future, no potential.” Sofia’s eyes narrowed slightly. “With you, the conclusion has been written, and we’ll just be pretending—no different from before. And I don’t want another fake relationship. It’s why I couldn’t marry Mel. Why I despise Nicholas Spragg. It’s why I can’t stand you!”