Her Fake Engagement

by Gigi Garrett

  “Mia has a rule too?” I smile. “Who knew?” I look around. “Fine, I’ll pick one out.”

  Mia shakes her head and looks around for the shop. “I would never get a ring from here,” she says quietly from under a cupped hand. “Trust me: the mark-up is insane.”

  “But this is for fun—and besides, it’s free.” I head over to the case where I saw two of Tyler’s rings displayed. I point to a black band with a yellow canary diamond. “Is this one of Tyler’s designs too?”

  Mia nods. “We got it in yesterday.” Her eyes light up a little bit.

  “You like it?” I ask.

  She smiles. I have to admit it’s a gorgeous ring. For someone like Mia, with nontraditional, cutting-edge tastes.

  “You totally like it. Go ask your boss,” I say. “C’mon. I’ll admit that it helps you get into the role. It’s like method acting.”

  Mia puts down her calculator. “Fine. But I’m starting to agree with you that this whole thing is ridiculous.”

  She walks into her boss’s private office and returns with the key. “I have to promise to work overtime on Valentine’s Day for this,” she says, opening the case. “It’s months away, but I’m sure I’ll still be single then, so I guess it doesn’t matter.”

  Mia shrugs and holds up the ring: “But I have wanted to try this on. And I guess it’s like Halloween, right? A night of make believe?”

  “Totally,” I say, knowing that Halloween is Mia’s favorite holiday. “You’re just dressing up like a bachelorette instead of a genie like you did last year.”

  “I was a sexy tarot card reader,” she corrects me. “Which reminds me I need to figure out this year’s costume asap.”

  Mia pauses, takes a deep breath, and quickly slips the ring onto her hand. “OMG,” she says, mouth hanging open. “You blew it with that Tyler guy. Look at this thing. If he can make this with his hands, imagine what else . . .” She trails off.

  I shake my head and try to erase the image that pops up in my mind.

  My brain is a total traitor. Then my face starts to feel warm. My body’s a traitor too.

  “Not my type,” I say, biting my cheek raw. “And even if he didn’t think I was engaged, I’m not his type either.” I point to the ring. “But I’ll admit that Tyler is talented.”

  Mia eyes the door. “We need to get out of here. I need to figure out what to wear. Do you even know what we’re doing for my bachelorette?”

  I shake my head. “Elsa May wouldn’t tell me. She’s taking this all totally seriously.”

  * * *

  Elsa May refills our champagne glasses.

  “It’s going to be a creative bachelorette party,” she says. “Just like our Mia.”

  Mia straightens her white bandage dress in front of a mirror. “It’s not fair that only brides can get away with wearing white after Labor Day.” She smiles. “So if I’m going to play bride, at least I can get some extra mileage out of this dress, especially since it cost me all my pennies.”

  “You look so hot,” Jane says. She smacks her hand over her mouth. “Ugh, that word. So degrading and patriarchal. But I can’t think of a better one to describe you.”

  Elsa May squeals. “Ohmigosh. I have the best idea. I saw it online.” Mia and I collectively roll our eyes. “If Mia is wearing white, we’ll all wear black. It’s like a thing bachelorette parties do.”

  We all give her looks.

  “It’s all over Pinterest,” she explains.

  Jane looks down at her somewhat dowdy black dress. “I guess I’m all ready, then.”

  Mia looks Jane up and down, then goes into her closet and pulls out a pair of red “fuck-me” heels with stems as long as pencils. “Wear these.”

  Jane does as she’s told and wobbles in them like a newborn deer. “Okay,” she says. “Why not?”

  Elsa May looks at Mia. “Okay, you have our permission to dress us too,” she says. For the first time tonight, Mia’s eyes sparkle. She has been asking for years to style us. We were both too afraid, but I guess this is all about trying something new. But hopefully not too new.

  “Only if you follow my rules,” I add.

  “Which ones?” she asks. “The ‘no more than two inches above the knee’ rule? The ‘purse and shoes need to match’ rule? The one about necklines? Or the one about blending in and not sticking out?”

  “All of those,” I say. “And a few more.”

  Elsa May shakes her head. “No rules! I live on a feeding, sleeping, and pooping schedule. I need a night without rules—even yours, Lottie. Sorry not sorry.”

  Mia passes me a patterned black and white shift, which she knows flies in the face of my “no-pattern” rule. In my opinion, patterns should be reserved for couches and zoo animals.

  Elsa May studies my expression. “A few zigs and zags won’t kill you,” she scolds. “Now me, Mia.”

  Mia goes back into her closet and pulls out her famous LBD, which shows both cleavage and a little ass.

  Elsa May holds it in her hands like a prize. “I always dreamed about wearing this,” she says.

  Elsa May gets dressed. “Ta-da,” she says admiring her own reflection in Mia’s full-length mirror. “I guess clothes do make the girl.”

  Elsa May holds up the infamous pink paper. “I knew you’d be reluctant to fill out the worksheet Mia, so I did it for you on the train.”

  Mia rolls her eyes.

  “Unless you want to do it yourself?”

  Mia shakes her head. “No way. Too much like school. Besides, I’m not good at picking out men, probably not even fictional ones.”

  We all give her a pity smile.

  Elsa May points to the worksheet. “I’ll give you the summary. The guy is named Parker. He owns a restaurant in the Village. You’ll have a rustic chic fall wedding on the Hudson. You’ll have handpicked the bridesmaid dresses to fit each girl’s body. Your dress will be your own design, and you’ll wear a flower crown in your hair.”

  Mia shrugs. “Sounds good to me except for the crown part. That’s sort of last year, Elsa May.”

  Elsa May laughs. “Fair enough. No flower crowns. That reminds me, this is for you.” She pulls out the bachelorette crown, which is a little worse for wear after its last tenure.

  I watch Elsa May coronate Mia. A sliver of me is a little bit envious. Even though it totally screwed up my life and karma, I’ll admit it’s fun to have everyone imagine you’re taken and on the precipice of happily ever after. Even if it’s all make believe and disappears with the sunrise.

  * * *

  We’re sitting in our first stop, a dark speakeasy with velvet couches and cocktails served with bricks of ice.

  “It’s a little dark here for pictures,” Mia says, sorting through her filters.

  I cover my face. “No social media.”

  “They’re just for me.” She shrugs and stirs her blueberry-infused vodka. “This might be the only bachelorette party I have.”

  “You’re going to have a real bachelorette too. This is only a dress rehearsal,” Elsa May says and pulls a penis straw from her purse. “Drink up.”

  “First, can I see it?” Mia asks.

  “See what?” I ask, even though I know exactly what she’s referring to. When Ansell and Mia broke up, we all wanted to unfriend him on Facebook, but she wouldn’t let us. She said it would make her look like she cared more than she did, or more than she wanted people to think she did. So I know that the “it” she’s referring to is the cheesy Facebook post announcing Ansell’s engagement. He and his fiancée are literally standing in a bed of roses. Mia would puke.

  “No,” Elsa May says firmly. “This is your bachelorette party, not a funeral.”

  Mia sighs. “Fine. I would probably have nightmares anyway.”

  I try not to nod in agreement.

  “Who told you, anyway?” I ask.

  Mia pauses. “Ansell did.”

  “What?” we all collectively scream. I had assumed that someone had seen the post a
nd told her.

  Mia shrugs her yoga-sculpted shoulders. “He texted that he wanted me to hear it from him first. You know, unlike last time, when half of Manhattan knew he was cheating on me before I did.”

  “He truly is scum,” I say.

  Even though there are times I want to reach out to Rock, I have a firm rule of never talking to exes again. I can’t believe Ansell would text her.

  Mia adjusts her crown and looks down at her Tyler King ring. “Anyhoo, moving on. Here’s a pic of a super hot guy I’m talking to on Bumble.”

  She passes her phone around for the group.

  “He has an MBA and a JD? Ambitious, much? Double check. Also, he has the cutest dog and nephew ever,” I say. “Kind and paternal. Check again. When are you going to meet him?”

  “I’m not,” Mia answers definitively. “It’s fun to flirt.”

  “If I weren’t against online dating, I’d go out with him,” I say.

  Elsa May gives me a look, so I hold my tongue. It’s been almost two years since Mia and Ansell’s breakup. Not that I don’t know what it’s like. After Rock “let me go” (those were his exact words), I thought I’d never date again, but it only gets easier once you start again. But it’s Mia’s bachelorette party, so I’m not going argue.

  “Hey, Mia,” I say. “Go use that crown and get us some free drinks out of this. So what’s the first stop, Miss Elsa May?”

  Elsa May yanks up her strapless dress, as it’s revealing a whole lot of new-mama boobs. “Like I said, it’s creative and might involve some skivvies.”

  “A strip club?” Jane says, eyes wide open. I’m beginning to seriously consider that she’s a virgin.

  “No, Jane,” Elsa May says in her mother voice. She leans across the tiny cocktail table. “But close.”

  * * *

  “So,” Elsa May says in the cab on the way over. “I read about this in the Times.”

  Jane massages her feet, which are swelling from Mia’s fuck-me heels. “If it’s pole dancing, I’m going to break an ankle. I’m willing to do it, but just know that it’s going to end in an ambulance.”

  Elsa May laughs. “No pole dancing. Maybe for another bachelorette party, but not this one.”

  I give her the eye. No more of these parties. But then I look over at Mia, and she’s smiling, which makes me think at least this one is worth it. It’s much better than the post-breakup routine of sobbing on a couch and ordering food from Seamless. That’s a recipe for depression and despair. I’ve tried it.

  Our cab pulls over to a nondescript building on West Fourteenth Street.

  “What is this place?” we ask in unison.

  “Go inside and see,” Elsa May says.

  After opening the door, we’re greeted by a shirtless waiter. “Champagne, ladies?” Then he points to a nearby table. “Cupcakes?”

  “What is this?” I whisper. We take some champagne and head through the small hallway to a large room, set up with about a dozen easels. A man with Men’s Health cover model looks is sitting on a stool in the center of the room wearing a robe.

  “Figure drawing!” Mia exclaims. “I haven’t done art since college.”

  Elsa May gives a knowing smile. “It’s been too long. You were always so brilliant at it. And so I thought, why not start with the human body in all its glory?”

  Jane blushes the color of her rose champagne.

  “Welcome,” the tight-robed model says. “We have only a few rules. No touching the model—that’s me—and no erasers.” He passes us pencils.

  “Just like life,” Mia mutters.

  The model laughs. “We’re waiting on a few more people and then we’ll get started.”

  We each find a seat. “He’s going to take that off?” Jane says nervously, pointing at the robe.

  I nod, and she drains the rest of her champagne.

  I scooch closer to Elsa May. “Mia looks really happy,” I say, watching her practice shading on her easel. “Maybe this was in fact a good idea.”

  “Wow,” Elsa May says. “I think so too, but I can’t believe you’re saying that. It started out with just wanting an excuse to go into city.” She pauses and looks up dreamily. “But now it seems like it’s becoming more than that.”

  Another group of three girls, a little older than us, shuffles in. We all politely say hello as they take a seat. Robert—that’s the model’s name—disrobes, and there’s a chorus of sighs and nervous laughter.

  The waiter reappears and starts to refresh drinks.

  “Don’t worry,” he says to the group. “Start with the eyes and work your way down, down, downtown. This is fun. And I’m here for refills.”

  Jane shades her eyes with her hand, and Mia bursts out laughing. I look back over at Elsa May, who’s sketching Robert’s feet.

  I’ll admit everyone is having fun.

  “Maybe you’re onto something, Elsa May,” I say. “What’s the next stop, Fairy Godmother?”

  “Wait and see,” she says. Then she waves her imaginary wand. “Bippity-boppity-boo!”

  * * *

  With our R-rated sketches tucked away in our purses, we head back into the night.

  “That was fun,” Mia says, looping her arm into Elsa May’s. “That champagne has me all emotional over you girls. You all are the best. If I ever do get married for reals, you’re all going to be my bridesmaids.”

  Jane grabs Mia’s arm and uses it to steady herself. “Really?” she asks.

  “Yes, roomie,” Mia says. “Being with all my girls is the best part of this. And I promise to pick wearable dresses that flatter each of you. None of that putting bridesmaids in a pastel burlap sack. Now, where are we heading?”

  “What’s your favorite drink?” Elsa May asks.

  “Champagne,” I answer for Mia. Whenever Mia is asked what she wants to drink, she always quotes F. Scott Fitzgerald: “Too much of anything is bad, but too much champagne is just right.”

  “Bingo,” Elsa May says. “We’re going to champagne bars. A champagne crawl.”

  Jane looks down at her feet. “ ‘Crawl’ is exactly right,” she says.

  Elsa May digs into her purse and pulls out flats. “Here you go, sweetheart. Mothers sadly come prepared for everything.” She reaches in her bag again and pulls out a diaper with an Elmo illustration. “Anyone need this?”

  We all laugh. And with Jane on her second feet, we head to Flute, one of New York’s many champagne-focused bars.

  We walk into the bar, which is lit only by candles that reveal exposed brick walls. It’s a romantic and intimate scene. After securing a small back booth, we order a bottle of Dom.

  “It’s my bachelorette party,” Mia says with a shrug. “I’m buying.”

  A group of three guys comes and sits down at the booth next to us. One of them loudly whispers, “I told you this was smart. Girls love champagne. It’s like us and sports. This place is a chick magnet.”

  Mia, Elsa May, and I laugh. Jane hesitates, but laughs too. “I guess some stereotypes are real.”

  “Hey, bachelorettes,” a guy in a blue blazer and ripped jeans calls over to us. He seems friendly and all, but that combination is a Lottie fashion no-no. “Can we come and join you?”

  Elsa May scoots over. “Of course,” she says, waving them over. “See, I told you: bachelorettes do have more fun.”

  Two of the guys—the one in the blazer and a friend in an Irish cable knit sweater—come over right away. The third guy—with dimples and a green T-shirt—hesitates before pulling up a chair right next to Mia. She turns and gives him a faint smile.

  “Danced on any tables?” the blazer guy asks.

  “Night’s young,” Jane says confidently.

  “Nice,” sweater guy says and scoots closer to her. Could this whole experiment be changing Jane?

  Mia hands the shy T-shirt guy her phone. “Will you take a picture of us?”

  “Sure,” he says.

  “Ralph is actually professional photographer,” blazer bo
y calls out. “You have to give him a photo cred.”

  “Photojournalist,” Ralph corrects him, giving the phone back to Mia.

  I point at Mia. “She’s into fashion photography. You all probably have a lot in common.” The words are already out of my mouth before I realize I’m pimping out my friend at her (fake) bachelorette party.

  Ralph politely nods. “I’d like to hear more about that.” And I swear, even in the dim light, I see Mia’s olive cheeks start to glow pink.

  We huddle together and Ralph takes a picture.

  I excuse myself to go to the bathroom. I’m surprised to find out it’s one of those new-age coed bathrooms with a large, communal sink area and individual stalls. And there’s a long line. Needless to say, I’m not pleased.

  I’m nearly to the front of the line when I feel a hand on my shoulder and hear a familiar voice say “Lottie.” I turn around and I’m nose-to-nose with a good-looking, bearded guy.

  Oh, shit, it’s Tyler.

  He looks my black dress up and down. “I’ve been standing behind you for seven minutes. I thought it was you, but no offense, the dress threw me off.” He looks me up again. “You certainly have a lot of different looks, Lottie.”

  I resist the urge to find a giant robe to cover up with.

  And ugh, I’m not wearing my faux engagement ring. I’m so not into explaining this whole situation, especially to Tyler and in the line for a bathroom. So I do what I do at work when I run into a problem area: I change the subject.

  I check Tyler’s flannel and jeans outfit up and down the way he did my dress. “I’m a bit surprised to find you on this side of the East River,” I say. “I didn’t take you for a champagne guy.”

  “I’d rather drink blood,” he says. He points to a table of girls, one of whom is definitely the Brazilian beauty from Facebook. She’s even hotter in person. “But sometimes, you have to do what the ladies want.” He shrugs. “What are you doing here?”

  “Another bachelorette party,” I say, scooting forward in line. “One of my best friends is getting married soon too,” I lie. “We’re about to leave, though.”

  A stall opens, and I’m next in line. I take a step forward.

  “Wait, Lottie,” Tyler says, motioning for the guy behind him to go in front of us. “My brother is bragging about his new place constantly, so it got me thinking that maybe I’m ready for a move. And seeing you here makes me think it’s a sign. Since I’m month-to-month on my lease, I guess there’s no time like the present?”