Her Fake Engagement

by Gigi Garrett

  “I do like my kombucha.”

  “Of course you do,” I say. “Look, you can actually grow into this place; there’s tons of room. Two closets and two bathrooms,” I say, trying to allude to space for his lady friend.

  Tyler shrugs. “Even from the outside, it seems a little grown-up to me.”

  “Maybe it’s time,” I say gently.

  “Not everyone is twenty-eight years old and engaged, Lottie,” Tyler says. “Not all of us are ready to settle down. Not all of us will.”

  “I’m twenty-nine,” I correct him. And I’m not actually engaged, I think. “And you don’t need to be engaged to grow up and live nicely. Who ever made up that rule? If I wasn’t a Manhattanite, I’d live here.”

  “Why are you a Manhattanite but I’m not a Williamsburg guy?”

  “Listen,” I say, ignoring his question. “You know jewelry. I know real estate. This place is a deal, and it’s super nice. That combo rarely happens. If you want to look at a bunch of dumps in Williamsburg, go online. If you want me to do my job, you can follow me up these steps.”

  I walk confidently up the four stairs to the front door. I don’t look back to see if he’s following. I count silently to three, and then he’s standing right beside me just like I planned.

  “Thank you,” I say, using the master key to open the door to the stairwell. “There’s a basement tenant, a first-floor tenant, and a third-floor tenant. I already talked to the landlord, who told me the third-floor tenant is an elderly man. No worries about any late-night subwoofer parties interrupting your REM sleep.”

  Tyler laughs. “I had a nightmare neighbor like that for two years. Sometimes, I can hear phantom heavy metal music when I try to sleep.”

  I point toward myself. “If you stick with me, you won’t have that again. I never rent a place I wouldn’t live in.”

  God, I’m good with these lines.

  But Tyler’s face changes. “All right, Lottie. No more pitches. Now the place needs to rent itself. You need to let it happen or not.”

  Tyler has no idea I’m not capable of that, but I pantomime zipping my lips. “It will,” I whisper.

  We climb two stories. “See,” I say at the top of the landing. “You’re not even out of breath.”

  “Hush, Lottie,” Tyler says, but he laughs his hearty old-man laugh. I feel myself smiling. There’s just something special about that laugh coming from a guy like him. For a second, I let myself wonder what it would be like to be with a guy like him.

  I would hate it, I remind myself. He has nothing I’m looking for. In fact, he’s everything I work hard to avoid. He’s a Lottie-don’t.

  I open the door. “After you,” I say, stepping back.

  Tyler studies the mahogany wood floors. “They seem original.”

  I knew he’d like those. Anyone with taste—or an artist’s eye—would be awed.

  He opens the door to a small half-bathroom. “Nice. I guess it’s getting old sharing my toilet with all my friends.”

  “The living room alone is four hundred and fifty square feet,” I say. “I dare you to find those numbers in Williamsburg.”

  Tyler laughs and heads through the living room to the galley kitchen. He turns back to me. “Was this just completely redone?”

  “An executive chef from Nobu owns the place But he got a job in Vegas, so he’s renting it. Once my contact told me about it, I knew that it was your place, Emeril.”

  Tyler looks back at the kitchen. “It has a six-burner Viking stove. Do you know what those cost?”

  I nod. This kitchen is, in fact, the main reason we are here. I remembered that Tyler said he loved to cook, and I found a place with the best kitchen in his price range.

  When I first saw the photos, I could even imagine him in the space cooking up whatever magic he makes. I wonder if he cooks for the Brazilian babe all the time. Probably.

  Tyler switches on a burner and the flames shoot up. He takes a big step back. “This is legitimate,” he says with a smile. I can tell he’s finally seeing himself here. “I guess you were actually listening when I said I like to cook,” he says and raises his eyebrows.

  “That’s my job,” I say with a straight face. “Do you even need to see the bedroom?” I tease.

  Tyler groans. “But all my friends, Lottie . . . My bar. My restaurant. My everything.”

  “Four stops on the subway,” I say.

  “Try six, Lottie,” he says, correcting my math. He’s right, so I don’t push it. Rather, I pivot. My ability to pivot is what pays my own rent.

  “But you’ll be closer to the studio. And all those friends are going to move to the burbs sooner or later. Besides, Boerum Hill is awesome. Good schools. Nice parks. It’s a perfect place to settle down with someone. You could live in this area—”

  “When I have kids,” Tyler finishes. “Wow, Lottie. You’re selling more than just an apartment—a life too. I’m single, you know.”

  “You’re single?” I repeat like an idiot. Damn Mia and her online snooping. This is why I don’t internet. Google and Facebook lie.

  “Thank you for acting so surprised,” he says. His chest inflates a little, and I find myself noticing his strong, broad shoulders.

  Tyler catches my eye and smirks. “It’s a nice confidence boost that you think I’m taken, but yes, I’m single.”

  I search my thoughts.

  “Oh, I thought you were with a girl at the champagne bar,” I sputter.

  “I was,” he says matter-of-factly. “I was there with my cousin Lilliana and her friends.”

  Ah, the beauty is his cousin. Good looks must run in the DNA.

  Why do I feel so relieved?

  I regain my composure and try to pivot again. I picked this place thinking he had a girlfriend. This is a girlfriend place. But I really don’t want to show him anymore places. I’m ready for the charade to be over.

  I give him my new pitch: “Well, it’s like that old saying, ‘Dress for the job you want.’ ”

  He laughs. “I wear jeans to work,” he says, looking down. “So the analogy doesn’t quite apply, but this is a sweet place.”

  But that’s why we all moved here, I think. We didn’t come to New York searching just for a place, but rather for an entire life. And real estate here is about finding the physical space to make the dream life possible.

  But maybe Tyler’s dream doesn’t involve meeting The One. He did tell me on the first night we met he wasn’t sure about marriage. I find myself upset over this too.

  “Can I think about it?” Tyler asks.

  I nod. “Sure you can, but no promises it’ll be here in the morning. This is real estate in a city of no guarantees.”

  “Women and real estate,” he says. “The two toughest parts of living in the city.”

  “What’s wrong with the women here?”

  He shrugs. “Nothing. Other than that you are all so complicated.”

  I laugh. “Hold up. I think you’re thinking about the men.” I point to myself. “And I’m not complicated. I’m boring. Ask my friends.”

  Or at least I used to be, I think.

  “I didn’t mean you,” he says. “I’m sure you’re perfect. I was generalizing, but it seems all the women in New York have an idea of what life here should be like. But more than that, they have an idea of the man they want to find here. He’s totally fictional, but that won’t stop women from trying like hell to shape you into this imaginary, dream guy of theirs.”

  I try not to think about how I probably did that with Rock.

  “That’s an interesting philosophy,” I say. “But I think it’s that people who live here have high standards and don’t like to compromise.”

  “I don’t think standards and love have anything to do with each other,” Tyler replies, then pauses before asking, “So your fiancé must be really something then if you’ve got this checklist thirty blocks long?”

  I nod. “He’s incredible,” I say. “He’s everything I wanted. All the bel
ls and whistles.”

  I cringe seconds after the words fly from my mouth.

  Tyler pauses. “Funny, it sounds like you’re describing a washing machine, not a partner.”

  I glare at him, even though he’s right. I sounded ridiculous. “And here I thought you were against love. Now you’re giving me love advice.”

  Tyler shakes his head. “I’m human, Lottie. I’m not against love. Quite the opposite. I only said I wasn’t sure about marriage for me. I also think that people view marriage as this big accomplishment or end goal, and that’s not how I see it. To me, the most important thing is waking up every day and loving the person you’re with the best you can, whether you’re married or not.”

  There’s something about the way Tyler says “love.” Like he actually means it. Like he does believe in it. I find myself wanting to hear him say it again.

  Focus on the sale, Lottie. I do a yoga breath to calm down.

  “Well, Tyler, are you ready to close the deal? In a city of near misses, almosts, and close calls, this is the real thing.”

  “Oh, Lottie, I’m surprised you can say that shit without laughing,” he says, but then he laughs. “Give me until morning, okay?”

  I normally don’t let clients have until morning, but I already know Tyler’s not my average client. For him, I’m willing to bend. “Okay,” I say. “But nine a.m. sharp. If I don’t hear from you by then, I’m showing it to another very interested client.”

  This, of course, is a line. A well-oiled line that scares the crap out of my clients.

  “I’ll run that risk,” Tyler says with a cocked eyebrow.

  I feel a bit defeated. I expected to win this battle handedly. I’m not used to clients like Tyler. I’m not used to men like Tyler.

  We walk down the stairs and out the door. “Bye, Lottie,” Tyler calls out, heading in the direction of Williamsburg.

  “We’ll talk tomorrow morning,” I yell out as confidently as I can. Having the last word matters. Or at least, it usually does.

  I switch my phone from vibrate to ring. I tell myself it’s because I don’t want to miss his call and my commission.

  * * *

  Date: Monday October 30th

  To: birdiesmom@gmail.com, miawears@gmail.com, lottie.langerman@gmail.com

  From: JaneWhitman@nyu.edu

  Subject: Regarding one more bachelorette party . . .

  Good Afternoon Ladies,

  I have a former colleague who now works at Dazzle magazine. We recently bumped into each other and got to discussing gender relationships. I told her—without giving names or details—about our faux bachelorette party experience. She was floored at first and then totally intrigued. She wants me to write a 1,000-word piece (that’s huge for a women’s magazine and they pay by the word) about the experience . . . but she wants me to play the bachelorette and give a first-person account. I know that the consensus was that we should be done with these parties after Mia’s awesome night out, but I’m asking if you would all please consider playing along one last time. I don’t have a lot of close friends, so I don’t have many other people to ask. This is a big opportunity for me, and it’s not often that Dazzle does a piece this size about gender relations.

  Would next Friday work? The magazine would compensate any expenses up to $2,000, and no names would be used.

  Thanks ladies.

  Sincerely,

  Jane Whitman, Ph.D. candidate

  * * *

  Date: MONDAY OCTOBER 30th

  To: miawears@gmail.com, lottie.langerman@gmail.com

  From: birdiesmom@gmail.com

  Subject: SAY YES.

  A $2,000 budget? Do you know what kind of bachelorette gold I could plan with that? Platinum gold.

  And Birdie is having a sleep regression, which means she doesn’t sleep. That means I really need this. Please.

  * * *

  Date: MONDAY OCTOBER 30th

  To: miawears@gmail.com, birdiesmom@gmail.com

  From: lottie.langerman@gmail.com

  Subject: Re: SAY YES.

  I’m SAYing NO to the bach. This is getting silly, and we don’t even really know Jane. Besides, what if we end up exposed in some article? I don’t need the entire literate U.S. population to know I’m doing this. It’s already caused enough complications as is. Thanks, but no thanks.

  * * *

  Date: MONDAY OCTOBER 30th

  To: birdiesmom@gmail.com, lottie.langerman@gmail.com

  From: miawears@gmail.com

  Subject: Re:Re: SAY YES.

  Lottie, I live with her. She really wants this. Unless you want her to plot revenge on me, we’re doing this. Besides, she’s very nice, and it would be an interesting article . . . and like she said, everything will be anonymous. Call your alter-ego Fun Lottie to see if she’s available.

  * * *

  Date: MONDAY OCTOBER 30th

  To: miawears@gmail.com, lottie.langerman@gmail.com

  From: birdiesmom@gmail.com

  Subject: Re:Re:Re: SAY YES.

  It’s what my mom always said, “You can’t say you can’t play.” It’s her turn, and then we’re done. I forfeit mine since I’m already married with a kid and all that jazz.

  * * *

  Date: MONDAY OCTOBER 30th

  To: JaneWhitman@nyu.edu

  CC: lottie.langerman@gmail.com, birdiesmom@gmail.com

  From: miawears@gmail.com

  Subject: We’re in

  Dear faux bride-to-be,

  We’re in. Come to the jeweler’s this week for a fitting. Elsa May, per usual, will handle all the planning details.

  Ta-ta,

  Mia

  P.S. Tomorrow night is Halloween. Let’s go out!! Elsa May, send pics of Birdie all dressed up.

  * * *

  Date: MONDAY OCTOBER 30th

  To: miawears@gmail.com, birdiesmom@gmail.com

  From: lottie.langerman@gmail.com

  Subject: Seriously?

  Are you people serious? I’m still Lottie, you know. You owe me. This is, well, it’s against all my rules.

  P.S. No thanks on Halloween, Mia. I’ve done enough pretending lately. Have fun!

  Chapter 7

  It’s Friday.

  I thought Tyler would call by last Sunday at the latest.

  In fact, I thought he would call once he got back to his dump of an apartment on Saturday and realized that the place I found for him is where he belongs.

  But he didn’t.

  And then he didn’t call Monday. Or Tuesday. Or Wednesday. Or Thursday. Now, it’s Friday and he still hasn’t called. It’s been six days. Not that I’m counting.

  I’m not going to call him because that’s not how I operate. If you go begging, that makes the client think that the property isn’t a catch. That there’s something wrong with it.

  You have to wait it out. But I’ve never waited this long.

  I try to ignore the nagging feeling that maybe Tyler won’t call. Maybe that wasn’t the apartment for him. Maybe I was way off on my read. Maybe I’ll never even hear from him again.

  I scroll through my emails one last time. I even do a trash mail search. A spam search. Then check my missed calls. Again. Voicemails. Nothing.

  Tyler ghosted me, and my commission went poof! Along with him.

  But it’s my fault: I shouldn’t have expected more from Tyler. Like I said, the guy doesn’t have rules. Those are the worst type.

  Now, I have fourteen minutes to finish getting ready for another faux bachelorette party that I don’t want to attend. I hold up the sequin dress before taking a deep breath and stepping into it. I reach around and zip myself in. I can barely breathe. Leave it to Elsa May to pick Vegas for the theme. She’s definitely on a mission to outdo herself.

  I check that my phone’s ringer is on before putting it in my purse and heading down the stairs. I hope Elsa May wouldn’t actually consider sending us to Vegas for the night. Would she?

  But when you stop playing by the rules, anything ca
n happen. Like the fact that I’m waiting with bated breath for a call from a guy that I know I have no business caring about.

  * * *

  “Hold the phone: Lottie Langerman owns sparkles!” Mia proclaims when I arrive at her apartment. “Are these stored away in some naughty treasure chest?”

  “Of course I don’t own sequins,” I say. “They are a cleaning nightmare—almost as bad as glitter—and should be reserved for baby ballerinas and call girls. I picked this up an hour ago at the Forever 21 in Union Square for $19.90. I’ll be donating it in the morning to Housing Works.” I look down at my dress. “It’ll probably get one of those call girls a lot of jobs.”

  Jane examines her own outfit: a black sequined miniskirt with a black tank. “I borrowed some of Mia’s clothes.” I realize I’ve never seen Jane’s knees before. She has pretty great legs.

  “You look awesome,” I say. I’m still in a terrible mood about Tyler not calling, but Jane’s excitement is palpable.

  “Lot-tie!” Elsa May screams from Mia’s bedroom. “Come see me!”

  I follow Mia. Elsa May is wearing a sequined crop top and a pair of black pants. “I’m showing belly button tonight,” she says. “It might only be fifty degrees, but this is the last bach and I wanted to go all out.”

  “That you did,” I say, studying her. In some ways, this sequin-adoring Elsa May is more foreign to me than mama-bear Elsa May.

  I watch as her face crumples. “You look amazing,” I backtrack. “I can’t believe you’ve had a baby.”

  I also can’t believe that you’ve lost your mind, Elsa May. But I plaster my fake smile on like a favorite accessory.

  Elsa May smiles back. “I know you think these bachelorettes are silly, but it feels good to accomplish something beyond teaching Birdie how to say ‘doll’ and ‘ball.’ ”

  “Teaching a child language is a big deal,” Mia says.

  Elsa May nods. “But it’s nice to do something more tangible. You know, make phone calls to people other than Dora the Explorer, and do more in a day than dress a toddler and visit Target.” She waves her hand like the fairy godmother in Cinderella. “And tonight is going to be my masterpiece.”