My Ex's Wedding: A Fake Boyfriend Romance

by Annabelle Costa

  I can’t say it’s not worrisome to have my bleary-eyed brother lifting me out of bed, but he doesn’t drop me. He never has. And he remembered to charge my wheelchair last night, so it’s ready to go.

  He nicks my chin when he’s shaving me, and it’s a bleeder. He holds a piece of toilet paper over the open wound, patiently waiting for the flow to abate. Every time he lifts it off to check, it’s still oozing. He must have hit a blood vessel or something.

  “Nice job,” I comment.

  “You know, I’ve got to leave in like five minutes.” He lifts the toilet paper off my chin. “Can I leave a little toilet paper there? Just until it stops?”

  “Yeah, and how am I supposed to get it off?”

  If toilet paper is stuck to my face, it’s going to stay there. Indefinitely. Except I don’t know why I care, considering I’m not going anywhere today. And even if I do, it’s not like anyone’s going to be looking at my face.

  “Nellie is here,” he reminds me. “She said she’d be by at ten-ish.”

  I groan. “Doug, I said I wanted to hang out in the room.”

  He fashions a tiny square of toilet paper and places it gingerly on my chin. “Well, it’s the only way you’re getting this toilet paper off your face. So be nice to her.”

  Asshole.

  But I really can’t be too mad at my brother, because he’s done a hard job this morning. He didn’t have to do any of this shit for me, but he does it anyway. And he frets over me like my mother before he leaves, asking me a dozen times if I’m okay. (I am. I’ve got my laptop and my Bluetooth set up. That’s all I need. I do not need Nellie. I repeat, I do not need Nellie.)

  I’m hard at work on my laptop when Nellie stumbles through the door connecting our rooms. She’s wearing a tiny T-shirt that clings to her tits and another pair of jean shorts that cuts off just below her butt cheeks. I can almost see her nipples. Jesus. I don’t get hard-ons like I used to, but my heart starts to race at the sight of her body. The kind of heart-racing that would make me want to rush across the room, gently press her against a wall, and lower my lips onto hers.

  I get a pang in my chest when I remember I can’t do any of that anymore.

  Then I see her giving me a once-over. And that makes me self-conscious as all hell. I used to love it when women checked me out, back when I knew I looked good. Now, not so much. At least I’ve got on jeans again rather than my usual uniform of sweatpants. Doug tried to dress me in a T-shirt this morning, and I insisted on him putting a long-sleeved overshirt on top, because I know the way my arms look. It’s bad enough my hands have deep grooves between the tendons where the muscles used to be, but I don’t need to show off my skinny-ass forearms.

  In any case, Nellie’s not checking me out in the same way I was checking her out.

  Well, fuck it. Who cares? Who even wants her here?

  “Brunch?” she asks.

  “No, I’m good,” I say. “I’ve got work to do.”

  She smiles at me. “You’ve got toilet paper on your chin.”

  “Yeah, well… my brother is dangerous with a razor.”

  She crosses the room, leans over me, and gently pulls the toilet paper square off my skin. It smarts. “Did Isabelle email you back?”

  I nod. I got Isabelle’s email first thing in the morning. Her lack of enthusiasm was plain in her message, but she agreed to meet me. “Four o’clock.”

  “Do you want me to come?”

  I hesitate. “Let’s play it by ear.”

  “Okay,” she agrees. She smiles. “Brunch?”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Please?” She claps her hands together. “Come on, I heard that’s one of the best things about Vegas—the brunch buffets. Don’t deprive me. Please? Pretty please with sugar on top?”

  Apparently, I’m a sucker for a pretty girl who wants brunch. There’s no other way to explain how Nellie and I ended up in this line for the Venetian’s very popular brunch buffet. Sometimes because of my wheelchair, I get to skip to the front of the line, but nobody is offering me that privilege today. I’ve got to wait like everyone else.

  “I told you this was a bad idea,” I grumble. “I hate lines.”

  “Really?” Nellie says. “I love lines. The longer, the better. Like, when I go to the movies, I’ll look around and see which line is the longest, and that’s the one I pick. And at the grocery store, I usually ask the old lady in front of me in line if she can pay with a check or maybe with all change from her coin purse.”

  “Ha ha.”

  “At least you get to sit,” she points out.

  Usually I feel pissed off when an able-bodied person says something like that to me. Like I wouldn’t give everything I’ve got to be able to stand in line for hours. But now a very different thought pops into my head:

  Do you want to sit on my lap?

  I almost say it. The words almost come out of my mouth. It’s the sort of playful thing the old Alex might have said. But then I remember who she is and why she’s here. It wouldn’t even be funny as a joke.

  “It’s overrated,” I mumble.

  “It’s okay. My sandals are comfy.” She holds up her foot to show off what look like fairly comfortable sandals—no heel, with lots of padding on the sole.

  Also, she’s got toenails painted dark purple. I don’t know why, but painted toenails have always been a turn-on for me. Again, I push away the feeling. This morning with Nellie is beginning to feel like an exercise in sexual frustration.

  The line inches forward about a foot. I puff into my control to move with it. At this rate, we’ll be getting brunch by dinnertime.

  “Well, at least this will give you more material for your act,” I say.

  She shrugs. “Maybe.”

  “It’s nice that you have a silver lining to your bad dates. If you got into a decent relationship, what would you tell jokes about?”

  “Uh, excuse me,” she says. “You think I like having shitty dates?”

  “On some level, yeah.”

  “Please.” She holds up a hand. “You think when I sit across from some guy I’m having dinner with for the first time that I want him to do something so awful, a whole roomful of people needs to hear about it? You think that makes me happy?”

  Now it’s my turn to shrug. (Or my version of a shrug.)

  “Believe me,” she says, “I’d give anything for a first date that isn’t so spectacularly bad that I feel a need to include it in my comedy routine.”

  Do I believe her? I’m not sure. She’s got her hands squeezed into fists and there’s a flush in her cheeks. So maybe she does mean it. Maybe relationships aren’t just a joke to her.

  “So what makes a good first date?” I ask. “What are you looking for?”

  Nellie seems to be carefully considering this as a deep philosophical question. “I’m looking for a lot of me toos.”

  “Me toos? Is that a kind of tattoo?”

  She laughs, throwing her head back. “No! It just means… like, I tell him stuff I like and he says ‘me too.’”

  “I see…”

  “When I’m with a guy I really like,” she says, “I always play the ‘what’s your favorite’ game.”

  “What’s that?”

  She smiles. “I ask him what his favorite of everything is. Like, what’s your favorite fruit?”

  “Strawberries.”

  “Strawberries!” Nellie’s brown eyes widen. “Strawberries are your favorite fruit?”

  “Yeah. What’s wrong with strawberries?”

  “They’re not a very manly fruit.”

  “Oh. So what’s a manly fruit?”

  “I don’t know. Um, a banana?”

  “I see,” I say, “so you’re saying a guy can only like fruits that resemble his penis.”

  “Right. That’s why my favorite fruit is the melon.”

  I can’t help it. I let out a laugh that is loud enough that several people in line turn to stare at us. And now we’re back to getting
stared at. Figures. At least we’re finally at the head of the line.

  Brunch buffet—a huge fucking mistake.

  I realize it the second we get in the dining area. This room is crowded. I mean, really crowded. Not just that, but diners are hurrying every which way with plates loaded with food. I don’t want food to get spilled on me. If a diner dumps eggs on my lap by accident, I’m screwed. I can’t change until Doug is done with his conference.

  The hostess points out a table for us, and naturally, it’s nowhere near the front of the room. Why would it be? That would be contrary to how the entire rest of this trip is going. The best thing I can say is at least there isn’t a large body of water in the dining area. But it’s going to take some complicated maneuvers to get there.

  I’m nervous. I don’t want to crash into anyone.

  “Nellie,” I hiss at her.

  She looks down at me. That night at Charley’s, she looked so petite, but now she has to look down at me. “What’s wrong?”

  I don’t want to say what I’m about to say. But I don’t have a choice. When you’re a high quadriplegic, you can’t get through even a day without asking for help with basic tasks.

  “There’s a joystick at the back of the chair,” I explain. “Do you… could you help me steer?”

  I wince at the surprise on her face. “Um, okay,” she says.

  I wait while she takes a few seconds to figure things out back there. Just as I’m about to say forget it, I’ll take my chances, I feel the chair jerk forward suddenly. My body pitches forward, straining against the strap on my chest, which thankfully holds me in place. A wave of vertigo washes over me.

  “Actually,” I say quickly. “Never mind. I can handle it.”

  “No, I’ve got it.”

  “No, really, I can—”

  But she’s got the joystick again, and now I’m moving forward at a more normal pace. And actually, she’s not doing such a bad job. Nellie is the only person since rehab to steer my chair besides Doug or my parents. I’m not loving this, but what choice do I have? And she does okay. She gets me to the table without major morbidity.

  “Do you want me to steer you to the buffet table?” she asks me.

  I look over at the buffet area, which is even more crowded than the rest of the dining area. Christ, what was I thinking when I agreed to this buffet? This was a huge mistake. You can’t do buffets in a power wheelchair.

  “Just take some food for me,” I mumble.

  Nellie glances at the buffet, then back at me. She gets it. “Anything in particular you’d like?”

  “Not really.”

  She heads off to the buffet counter, the sight of her round ass in those tight little jean shorts turning nearly as many heads as I did when I wheeled in (not really—I turn way more heads). I take as deep a breath as my weak inspiratory muscles will allow.

  Relax, Warner. This isn’t a big deal.

  I can’t relax though. I hate eating in public at the best of times, but especially when someone new is feeding me.

  When Nellie returns, she’s balancing a plate heaping with food in each hand. She navigates expertly between tables, swinging her hips to avoid chairs and narrowly dodging a toddler. It’s impressive. I comment on as much when she puts our plates down on the table.

  “Well, I am a professional waitress,” she says. “Probably lifelong, unfortunately.”

  “No way,” I blurt out. “You’re one of the funniest standup comedians I’ve ever seen! You’re going to hit it big.”

  Nellie looks surprised. I guess gushing praise isn’t consistent with any of my other behaviors so far on this trip. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. Except then she smiles and I’m not sorry.

  “You’re just saying that,” she says.

  “I’m not. I swear.” I mean it. Nellie’s really funny up there. And I’ve seen a lot of stand-ups—it’s one of my favorite things. “You’re really good.”

  “Well, thanks.” Her smile widens. “I hope you’re right.”

  I am. I’m sure of it.

  “So I got you a little of everything.” She gestures at the plate heaping with food. She went a little overboard. She got hash browns, cinnamon buns, Danishes, pancakes, French toast, and what appears to be three kinds of eggs. “What do you think?”

  “That’s all?” I make a mock disappointed face.

  She pokes me in the arm. “Quit it. I’m supposed to be the funny one. Now what do you want to start with?”

  All right.

  This is going to happen now. Nellie is going to have to feed me my lunch.

  And not feed me in a sexy way like a woman giving a man a bite of her chocolate mousse, but feed me because my arms don’t work at all and are strapped down to my wheelchair. And also, because I can’t change my shirt, I need to inform her she has to put a napkin in my collar.

  This sucks. But what can I do? I’m starving.

  “Can you tuck a napkin into my shirt?” I say. I feel my ears growing hot.

  She blinks a few times before realizing what I need her to do. She grabs a napkin off the table. “On your lap or…?”

  “One on my lap and one on my collar is probably safest.” Considering she hasn’t fed me before, I’m worried this could be a mess.

  Everyone is staring. I can’t pretend they’re not. I’m a grown man and I’ve got a woman tucking a napkin into my shirt collar and pants for me. I hate this. But the alternative is I wheel around the rest of the day with food on my clothes, including during my “coffee” with Isabelle. Not too appealing.

  “So usually,” I tell her, “people will give me a bite then take a bite themselves.”

  “Got it.”

  She spears a chunk of potato with her fork, which is a good choice—it’s not likely to dribble on my chin or cascade down my shirt. At some point, Nellie will have to wipe off my chin, but hopefully not right away. She holds the potato out to me, stopping about six inches from my lips. Too far.

  “Closer,” I say.

  She brings the fork right up to my lips this time, just millimeters from my mouth. “Better?”

  In answer to her question, I take the potato in my mouth. It’s good—well-seasoned, crunchy on the outside but soft on the inside. I swallow it down before responding, “Yes, thanks.”

  She pops one of the potatoes into her own mouth with considerably less fanfare. Her face breaks into a smile as she chews. “This is really good!”

  I try to return the smile. “Yeah, it is.”

  “So it wasn’t such an awful idea coming here, huh?”

  I glance over at a preschooler at the next table who is staring at me with drool coming out of his mouth. “Sure,” I say.

  I’ll be nice for a change. Why not?

  Chapter 19

  Nellie

  Maybe Alex’s been a total grouch this whole time because of hunger. During brunch, he mellows out a lot. He doesn’t snap at me once. After being so reluctant to let me feed him, he ends up downing nearly half the food on that giant plate. He even smiles a few times.

  “I’m stuffed,” he tells me as I pick up an apple Danish from his plate. “I’m gonna vomit if I eat anything else.”

  “Okay, well, I don’t want to clean that up.” I drop the Danish. “I guess we’ve gotten our money’s worth.”

  He looks over at my plate. “You hardly ate anything. You can’t eat any more than that?”

  I snort. “What I can eat and what I should eat are two very different things. I could eat an entire chocolate cheesecake in twenty minutes. Should I? Probably not.”

  “I thought everyone prefers fat comedians.”

  “So is that your professional advice?” I arch an eyebrow at him. “To become morbidly obese? Because if you think I should do it, I will.”

  He grins at me. I love his smile. God, he’s attractive. Even strapped into that power wheelchair, he still gets to me. Alex Warner is hot. With a capital H. Even now that he doesn’t realize how hot he is.

  May
be especially because he doesn’t realize how hot he is.

  “So what should we do next?” I say as I pull the napkin off his chest. He definitely needed both of them. I thought I did a good job feeding him, but there were a few misses. “Hot tub? What do you say?”

  Before he can answer, I notice he’s got a few crumbs on his chin and dab at them with one of the napkins. His eyes widen and he sucks in a quick breath when I do it—maybe I should have warned him first. He’s got to expect he’s going to need his face wiped off after a meal, but I hate the sad look in his gray eyes.

  Damn it. There’s still some sauce on his chin.

  “Nellie?” he says, because I’m still staring at him.

  “Hang on… you’ve still got some…” I dip the end of the napkin in my water glass and run it over his chin until the sauce is gone. “Okay, that’s better.”

  Except when I pull the napkin away, any trace of a smile has vanished from his face.

  “I think,” he mutters, “maybe I’ll just go back upstairs to the room until it’s time to meet Isabelle.”

  Damn it. I should have just left the stupid sauce on his face. He never would have known. “Hey, I was joking about the hot tub.”

  “I know.” He tries to smile again but it doesn’t quite happen. “I’m just sort of tired.”

  God, that’s his excuse for everything. He’s so uncreative. I’m not going to let him cop-out on this. I’m going to make him have a good time if it kills me. It’s my new mission.

  “Listen, we’re in Las Vegas!” I toss the napkin onto the table. “We should at least gamble a little, right?”

  “I don’t know…” He avoids my eyes. “You can go gamble. I’d rather just go upstairs.”

  I shake my head at him. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

  Well, that was the wrong thing to say. He looks up at me sharply. “Why not? Did my brother say you’re not allowed to leave me alone?”

  “No!” I glare right back at him. “God. Stop being so fucking touchy! I just want some company!”