My Ex's Wedding: A Fake Boyfriend Romance

by Annabelle Costa

  That gets a smile out of Doug. He’s cute when he smiles. “It’s nothing illegal. I swear.”

  “Okay, so what do I have to do?”

  He cocks his head to the side. “I need you to be my brother’s date to a wedding.”

  A car honks loudly from the street beside me. This is one of the loudest streets in the neighborhood—maybe I didn’t hear this guy right. “You’re going to pay me two-thousand dollars to go to a wedding?”

  “To be my brother’s date to a wedding,” he corrects me.

  Oh. Now I get it. “Sorry, I’m not a hooker.”

  I probably said that too loudly. When I was a kid, my mother always scolded me that I used my “outside” voice when I should be using my “inside” voice. But to be fair, we are outside. In any case, a few people have turned to look at us. And there’s a cop on the corner who is glancing in our direction.

  “I’m not propositioning you,” Doug says hurriedly. “I just said ‘date.’ That’s it. I promise.”

  “For two-thousand dollars?”

  “Well, it’s in Vegas,” he explains. “So you’ll have to be there for a few days. But I’ll cover your plane ticket and hotel room.”

  I narrow my eyes at Doug, who is tugging at his brown tie. I’ve been around long enough to know you don’t get something for nothing. A free trip to Vegas and I get two-thousand dollars? There’s got to be a catch.

  “Why can’t your brother get his own date for this wedding?” I ask.

  He avoids my eyes. “He’s… a little isolated right now.”

  “Isolated,” I repeat. “Fantastic. I get to have a horny shut-in trying to grope me for a week in Vegas.”

  “He’s not going to try to grope you.”

  I snort. “Sure.”

  “He won’t. I promise.”

  “Why?” I snort again. “Because he’s such a nice guy?”

  “No, because…” Doug glances around and lowers his voice a few notches. He seems like he’s good at using his “inside” voice. “He’s disabled. He is physically incapable of groping you. Okay?”

  What? This request just got even stranger. And it was already very, very strange.

  Doug lets out a long sigh. “The woman getting married is my brother’s ex-girlfriend. He told her he had a steady girlfriend, so I figured instead of letting him get humiliated when he goes to the wedding, I’d find him someone to play the part.”

  “Why the hell would he go to his ex’s wedding?”

  “I know, right?” He shakes his head. “I told him it was a stupid idea. But he wants to go, and I can’t talk him out of it. Something about wanting closure? I don’t know.”

  “Closure?” I almost laugh. “That sounds like bullshit.”

  “Look, it doesn’t matter.” Doug smiles crookedly. “He’s had a rough go of it lately, and maybe the trip will do him some good.”

  I finger my purse, thinking about how little cash I’ve got inside it. I’d been wondering how I was going to eat for the rest of the week on less than five dollars. I had an idea about trying to make spaghetti sauce using the ketchup packets from the bar. “So all I need to do is go to this wedding and pretend to be his girlfriend?”

  “Well, sort of,” he mumbles. “The thing is, I’ve got a business meeting while I’m there and Alex can’t be alone, so…”

  “I’m not a nurse,” I say before he can’t go any further. Not a hooker and not a nurse—just need to make that really clear.

  “You don’t need to be a nurse,” he says. “But he needs a companion to help, like… open doors. Maybe help him gamble a little. Basic stuff. His ex will be around the hotel, so it would be great if you could play the part for the entire trip.”

  I’ve got a bad feeling about this. It sounds like this brother of his has some serious medical needs. And I don’t have a clue what his mental state is, aside from the fact that he’s an idiot who wants to go to his ex-girlfriend’s wedding. What if he doesn’t get it that the whole thing is pretend? What if he expects me to do real girlfriend stuff for him?

  Then again, my finances aren’t leaving me with much of a choice.

  “No kissing,” I say.

  Doug raises his eyebrows. “What?”

  “I’ll pretend to be his girlfriend,” I say, “but I’m not going to kiss him. That’s off the table. Julia Roberts wouldn’t do it, and I won’t do it.”

  He scrunches his eyebrows together. “Julia Roberts?”

  “In Pretty Woman,” I remind him. “You know, that movie where she plays a hooker?”

  “I thought that movie was about shopping.”

  “No! About shopping? Are you joking?”

  “Isn’t there that scene where she’s shopping and… some snooty salesgirl turns her away or something?”

  “Right, but…” God, how is someone this uneducated on classic movies? “She’s a hooker. That’s why they turn her away.”

  “Oh.”

  “And her one rule is she won’t kiss her clients,” I add. “So… I’m not going to kiss him. I mean, Julia Roberts was a hooker, and even she wouldn’t kiss the guys.”

  “Uh,” he says. “That’s fine, I guess.”

  “I just can’t,” I say, because I feel guilty suddenly that he’s paying me all this money and I’m making up rules. But I can’t help it. “I can’t kiss someone I don’t have feelings for. It would be… too weird.”

  That’s why I could never be an actress. I can’t imagine kissing a guy just because someone tells you to do it. Even a fake kiss. The thought of it makes me ill.

  “No, I understand that.” He nods. “Kissing is off the table.”

  “Okay.” I feel my shoulders relax. “If you’re cool with that, I… I could make it work.”

  His face lights up. “Great. Thanks for doing this, Nell.”

  “Nellie,” I say. “All my friends call me Nellie. And… boyfriends do too.”

  “Right, okay.” Doug grins. “I’m going to let my brother know. And we should set up a time to meet.”

  “Why don’t you come to one of my shows?” I suggest. “I’m going to be at The Glass Shoe on Friday night.”

  “What kind of show?” He frowns at me. “Are you an actress?”

  “No, I’m a standup comedian,” I say.

  “No kidding!” He looks oddly pleased. “My brother loves that stuff. Or… well, he used to, anyway. Are you funny?”

  Why do people ask me that? Why would I become a comedian if I wasn’t funny? “It’s hit or miss,” I say.

  His face falls. “Oh.”

  “But I’ll make sure to be funny on Friday,” I promise.

  Doug agrees to bring his brother to the club on Friday night to see me perform. All in all, this seems like a good deal. I make two-thousand dollars and get a free trip to Vegas, and all I have to do is pretend to be some poor, lovesick guy’s date for a few days, and open a couple of doors for him. The cash will tide me over just long enough to land another job. It’s a win-win.

  Except I can’t shake the feeling there’s more to this than Doug is telling me.

  Chapter 11

  Alex

  I miss driving.

  I’m in the back of my parents’ van, which Doug is driving. He is making his way downtown as fast as the traffic will allow. I watch him, imagining it’s my hands on the steering wheel, my foot on the gas pedal. Every time a light flashes green, I get the urge to push my foot on the gas.

  Doug isn’t taking any pleasure in driving. He hates to drive, especially in the city. He’s been cursing under his breath ever since we crossed into Manhattan, and the cursing gets louder after a yellow taxi cuts him off. The urge to stick my hand out the window and give the driver the finger is so overwhelming, it’s almost painful.

  “Asshole,” Doug says. “What the hell is wrong with people in this city?”

  “Why didn’t you flip him off?” I ask from the back. I hate that I always have to be in the back of this van—it would be nice if I could at least rid
e shotgun, but the van isn’t set up that way. I haven’t been in the front seat of a motor vehicle in about two years. I’m not even capable of being a passenger in a normal car, because there’s no place for my wheelchair to go.

  “Because I’m a nice guy,” Doug replies.

  Well, that’s true. Some people seem nice, then are assholes when they get behind the wheel, and I always suspected this was because they were assholes deep down. But Doug is nice when he’s the road, which confirms what I always suspected—my brother really is a nice guy.

  “This better be worth it,” I say to him, as I peer out the window at the blur of Friday night pedestrians braving the streets of the city. Doug drove out to Mineola to pick me up, then borrowed the van so he could drive me to the city. I thought for sure he was going to introduce me to Alyssa, but instead he said we’re going to go to this club that’s featuring a bunch of comedians tonight.

  Doug pulls into a handicapped parking spot about a block from the address of The Glass Shoe. The doors to the side of the van open automatically and the ramp descends automatically. When I ride with my parents, they always seatbelt me in place and I have to wait for them to undo the belt before I can get out. I feel like it’s overkill since I’m already secured to my chair and the chair is secured to the van, but they insist. Doug doesn’t bother with the seatbelt though, so I rotate my chair to disengage the EZ Lock that keeps my chair from sliding all over the back of the van, and I dismount.

  Manhattan is an interesting place. Just going down the street, you’re guaranteed to see some interesting characters. For example, in the time that the lift is lowering me to street level, I notice a guy with gauges in his ears so big that they touch his shoulders. I see a man shuffle through a garbage can, retrieve a half-eaten hot dog, and then stuff it in his mouth. But it seems like nothing in this city is more fascinating to the people walking by than I am.

  What is so goddamn interesting about a guy being lowered to the ground from a van? Really? Is that really better than a girl whose cheek has a giant knife tattooed on it? She wants the attention—I don’t.

  “Come on,” Doug says. He’s oblivious to the stares. It’s easy not to notice when they’re not staring at you. “We don’t want to be late.”

  “What’s the big deal?” I mutter.

  I’m the one who likes comedy clubs—not Doug. I can’t figure out what the hell he’s so excited about. He even made me change out of my sweatpants. I’m wearing jeans now, as well as a long-sleeved checkered shirt on top of my T-shirt. I look respectable. At least, I hope I do.

  I follow Doug down the block, my wheels bouncing over the uneven pavement. I’ve been in the city enough times now that I’ve gotten better at spotting the curb-cuts. Admittedly, I’d probably rarely leave the house if left to my own devices, so it’s good Doug makes me come out with him. Even though I piss and moan, I usually have a good time.

  My stomach sinks when I see how crowded the club is. I don’t feel any better when the hostess points out our table, which is close to the back but will still require a small amount of navigation between tables.

  “Is this okay?” the hostess asks my brother. Because she can’t talk directly to me.

  Doug’s brow furrows because he knows as well as I do that it’s going to be a tight squeeze. “Do you have anything on the sides?”

  “I’m afraid not,” the hostess says. “If you’d like to wait…”

  “No, I think we can do it.” He lowers his head to my ear-level and says, “Alex, do you want me to steer for you?”

  I wince as I evaluate the distance between the tables. It’s a tricky space so to let my brother take control would make sense.

  But that doesn’t mean I don’t hate it.

  “Okay, yeah,” I finally say.

  My brother grabs the joystick control mounted on the back of my chair that gives him full control—much more than I have with my sip and puff. A joystick has 360 degrees of movement while sip and puff gives me only four: forward, right, left, backward. No matter how good I am at working the sip and puff controls, my brother can steer better with the joystick.

  It’s a disconcerting feeling to be moving forward without being in control of that movement, but it’s clear once we start going between the tables that it’s a good thing Doug took control of this. He gets me to our table without bashing into anything, which is a bit of a miracle.

  A waitress materializes almost instantly after we’re settled, as if she was silently shadowing us. She smiles at Doug, “What’ll you have?”

  “A Corona,” Doug tells her.

  She glances at me uncertainly then back at Doug, “Does he want anything?”

  I shoot the waitress a look. “No, he’s good.”

  The waitress’s face flushes scarlet and she mumbles an apology, saying she’ll get Doug’s beer right away. Doug rolls his eyes at me.

  “What?” I say. “I was just answering her question.”

  Before Doug can tell me to quit being a dick, the light at the stage at the front of the room turns up and the emcee comes on to announce the next performer. Sitting at this table with my brother, waiting for a comic to take the stage—it’s sort of like old times. This is exactly what I would have been doing five years ago. It’s been a rough few years, but at moments like this, I remember there are still plenty of things in my life that I enjoy. My life is okay. Not ideal maybe, but everyone’s got shit they deal with. When I was in college, this guy in my class got brain cancer and died two years later. So this shit is what I’ve got to deal with. At least I’m alive.

  And then the emcee announces the name of the comedian.

  “Nellie Levy,” I repeat, my mouth suddenly dry. I might throw up.

  Doug raises his eyebrows at me. “You’ve heard of her?”

  I will never forget that name as long as I live. She’s the girl who got me to propose to Isabelle that night. If she hadn’t gotten up on stage and told everyone about the ring I was holding…

  Jesus. What are the chances?

  “Are you okay, Alex?” Doug has a deep crease between his eyebrows. “Do you need anything?”

  My brother frets over me like he’s an old lady. But in his defense, I get these attacks of autonomic dysreflexia that can come on out of nowhere, which shoots my blood pressure up and could potentially give me a stroke or even kill me. So it’s not irrational for him to worry.

  “I’m okay,” I manage.

  My temple is throbbing dully. If I really thought I had autonomic dysreflexia, I’d need Doug to take me to a restroom ASAP to empty the bag of piss strapped to my leg, because a full leg bag is usually the cause. But I don’t want to even think about trying to navigate to a bathroom in this place. So I’m going to chalk the headache up to seeing a woman certain to conjure up memories of that wonderful, terrible night.

  I turn my head slightly to the right to activate the sensor on the headrest of my chair that switches me out of drive control and into tilt mode. I have just barely enough movement of my head to use this function, which switches my chair between drive and tilt. Some quads can turn their chair using headrest controls and only need the mouth controls to move forward or backward, but my neck is too stiff for that—too bad because it would be much easier to do that. The tilt mode tilts my chair in space up to fifty degrees, which allows for pressure relief on my skin. I have to do this roughly every half hour, so it was important to have a chair where I could do it independently. But now I’m tilting my chair back about twenty degrees so I can get a better look at the stage without having to move my neck too much.

  When Nellie takes the stage, it takes me a good second to recognize her. If I hadn’t heard her name, I might not have placed her at all. The spiky hair is gone, replaced with a funky black bob marred by a streak of bright red. She had an edge four years ago, and I wouldn’t say she’s lost it, but it’s been softened. I wonder if she’d burst into a men’s room these days.

  “So I know what you’re thinking,” Nellie say
s. “What’s a girl with a name like Nellie Levy doing telling dirty jokes in a nightclub? Does your mother know you’re here, Nellie Levy?”

  She grins at the audience. That crooked incisor brings back memories.

  “So the answer is no, my mother doesn’t know,” Nellie says. “The truth is, she thinks I’m in medical school right now. So, like, if she asks, you guys are my patients, okay?”

  I laugh. She’s funny—not just her material, but her delivery too. She’s the kind of girl who could make you laugh by reading the phone book.

  She launches into stories about her dating life. Jokes about dating are Nellie’s shtick. She tells a story about a guy she went out with who seemed great, except for the fact that he had the same first name as her father.

  “It would have been fine if my father’s name was John or Robert or an ordinary name like that,” she says. “But their names are both Wayne. There are literally no other Waynes I know. I have no other associations with the first name Wayne aside from ‘Daddy.’ And there are no nicknames for Wayne that I could call the guy. Wayne is a name with no nicknames. Come up with a nickname for Wayne—I challenge you.”

  She pauses, looking around at the audience, her left eyebrow raised in a way that’s both funny and sexy. “Exactly. And honestly, the last thing I wanted was for my friends to make fun of me for having an Electra complex. Do you know what an Electra complex is?”

  A few people holler “yes.” I know what it is, but I keep my mouth shut.

  “It’s when a girl wants to fuck her dad,” Nellie explains. “It’s the girl version of the Oedipus complex. And the fact that I knew that about fifteen minutes after agreeing to go out with Wayne? That was a bad sign.”

  Nellie launches into a hilarious account of her date with Wayne. By the end of her fifteen minutes on stage, I’m laughing so hard, I’m getting short of breath. My diaphragm is controlled by nerves that only partially work, so I’ve got enough strength to breathe on my own, but barely. In the hospital, the doctors were debating if they should leave my trach in “just in case” but you better believe I vetoed that one.