Outside of the café, Luke catches up with me. “Hey, are you okay? I really am sorry. I wish I could say yes.”
“It was a dumb idea.”
“It’s not dumb. I just don’t think I’m—”
“No, it’s dumb,” I say.
Luke and I head back to the office in uncomfortable silence. Like, an even-breathing-feels-too-loud uncomfortable silence.
As we walk into the building, my phone chimes. It’s a text from Catherine, sent to the whole family. She’s texted us a link to a vacation rental, along with the note, Found the perfect place.
I shove my phone back into my pocket. Luke hits the call button for the elevator, which lights up citrine yellow. For the longest minute of my life, we stand side by side in the empty lobby, still not speaking to each other.
“What if—” Luke starts to say, then stops himself.
I wait for him to continue.
“Never mind,” he says.
2
At least we don’t get trapped in the elevator.
As soon as the elevator doors open to our floor, though, I mumble something about seeing him later and flee in the opposite direction, going down the hall to the bathrooms. In the privacy of a locked stall, I drop my head into my hands and let out a long sigh.
A few minutes later, when I emerge, I see that I’m no longer alone in the bathroom. Paige is standing at the sink brushing her teeth. As you do at work.
“Ehmmah,” says Paige, her mouth full of suds. She spits into the sink and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “I had a dream about you last night.”
“Oh?” I say, pumping candy-pink hand soap out of the dispenser.
“It was your wedding,” says Paige, dreamily. “And oh my gosh was it beautiful.”
Who knows? Maybe Paige is clairvoyant. But I don’t take the bait. I know better. Once you start asking Paige questions, it snowballs. It’s best to just smile and nod.
“Are you doing anything tonight?” she asks. She grins at me—or, rather, her reflection in the mirror grins at me. There’s a glob of toothpaste drying in the corner of her mouth.
“Um,” I say. I don’t want to tell her my actual plans, but I can’t think of any other excuses fast enough. “Yeah. I’m going to Dance Den.”
“Dance Den!” Paige’s eyes light up like neon. “I’ve always been curious about that place. How often do you go?”
“Oh…now and then,” I say.
Please don’t invite yourself along. Please don’t invite yourself along.
Paige plops her toothbrush into its semi-transparent carrying case and snaps it shut. She slides the case into her toiletry bag, then pulls out a travel hairbrush and begins to drag it through her wavy locks. As she does so, I put my hand on the bathroom door handle and pull it open. But before I can escape, Paige pipes up again.
“I’ll have to check out the schedule,” she says.
Damn it.
Well, at least she didn’t invite herself along tonight.
I smile and nod. I exit the bathroom. On my way back to my desk, I make a pit stop in the break room to pour myself a cup of coffee—one that hopefully doesn’t end up on the floor this time. But when I open up the cabinet above the sink to get my mug—my cat mug, which I always keep here at work—I don’t see it anywhere. Nor is it in any other cabinet that I check.
Once more, to be sure, I hunt through the upper cabinet where people store the mugs they’ve brought from home. There are cheesy joke mugs, bulbous ceramic mugs, customized photo mugs. None, however, are mine. Mine has a picture of a tabby cat’s sleepy face on it, and when filled with hot liquid, the tabby’s face becomes alert and joyful. It’s silly, and cute, and never ceases to entertain me.
But now, like a lost cat, it’s missing.
Annoyed, I grab one of the plain communal mugs from another shelf, splash coffee into it, and head to my desk. I spend the next few hours working. But in the back of my head, I keep reliving the embarrassment I felt earlier in front of Luke, and every time I grab my coffee mug to take a sip out of it, the lack of cat face annoys me more and more.
I open up my chat application and click on Luke’s name. Someone stole my cat mug.
It takes him a few minutes to write back. What?
My cat mug! I couldn’t find it in the break room.
You really think someone stole it?
Yes.
Another few minutes pass. That sucks.
I know, I type. It does suck.
Several more minutes pass, and Luke doesn’t type anything else. I drum my fingers on my desk, trying to think of how I can get things back to normal between us. Should I joke about making a LOST CAT sign for my mug? Should I come up with a list of suspects? I know what I should be doing—working—but I’m too distracted to get any real work done.
Eventually, I give up trying to say something witty and simply type, Can we forget about earlier?
Sure, responds Luke.
Cool. Thanks. I feel a weight lifted off my shoulders. So anyway…
Sorry, meeting, Luke types. brb.
But later, when he gets back to his desk, he doesn’t type anything into our chat window. It remains idle for the rest of the day. And at the end of the day, after I pack up my stuff, I glance over at his desk and see that he’s already gone.
So much for leaving work together like we normally do.
I know I’m probably turning this into a bigger deal than it is. But I can’t help feeling like he’s avoiding me now. I can’t help feeling like I crossed a line I shouldn’t have in our friendship. And now I have to pay the price.
* * *
I go from work directly to Dance Den. Which is pretty much my favorite place in the whole world. What is Dance Den, you ask? Well, it’s a place you dance. Obviously. And it’s a place you work out. But it’s so much more than that. And between the stress I’m feeling about the family vacation and the mess I’ve made with Luke, it’s exactly what I need right now.
The parking lot is full, as usual, so I park a few blocks away. I grab my workout bag from my trunk and devour a pre-dance energy bar as I head over. As I walk up to the building, I already start feeling relaxed. And the moment I enter, it’s like being transported into another world. A cathartic, nonjudgmental, soothing alternate world.
When I first heard about Dance Den, I assumed it was some kind of weird underground club or something. The idea of dancing barefoot in the basement of a community center with a bunch of strangers held exactly zero appeal to me.
But one day, after an especially annoying exchange with Catherine, I was online searching for ways to destress and an article about Dance Den popped up. And for whatever reason, it didn’t sound so crazy anymore.
So I went.
And I loved it.
And I’ve been going ever since.
Tonight, when I walk in, there’s already a good-sized number of people in attendance. People are using every available space to stretch. Some of them are keeping to themselves, some of them are chatting. I don’t know any of their names, but by now they’re almost all familiar faces, and that brings me a special kind of comfort.
I go up to the check-in desk and pay my ten dollars and write my name on the sign-in form. Then I step into the bathroom to peel out of my work clothes and get into my dance clothes: a sports bra, a light loose-fitting tee, and my favorite bright purple leggings. I get changed just in time. When I enter the studio, everyone’s spreading out and finding their place.
Carla, the founder of Dance Den—a bright-eyed woman with lavender-dyed hair who teaches fitness classes to seniors when she’s not here—welcomes everyone with an energetic greeting. Everyone in the room collectively returns her cheerful hello.
“Is everyone ready to dance?” Carla calls out.
“Yes!” we all shout back.
“Then let’s get this dance party started!”
Tonight, as always, Carla starts us out with stretches. “Remember, folks, it’s so important to
warm up your body,” she says. “I know you’ve been awake all day, but that doesn’t mean your muscles are.” She has us close our eyes, has us roll our heads forward and to the side and back and forward again, has us do shoulder rolls and hip circles and knee bends. There’s no music playing as we warm up, just the sound of her voice interwoven with the sound of our collective breathing.
But after we finish warming up, the music quietly comes on. It’s a gentle beat at first, nice and easy, and Carla encourages us to just listen and move our bodies as we please. It’s the part of the evening I always feel the most awkward about—especially when it’s crowded like it is tonight and we’re all still figuring out how to dance without invading each other’s personal space. But by the end of the song, any discomfort has worn off. I’ve gotten into a groove. I can feel it now in my bones. And as the music picks up, I follow along with it. I move. I sway my hips. I twirl. Along with the rest of my fellow dancers, I follow Carla’s instructions as she shouts them above the music. We put our hands in the air. We jump. We dip. We spin.
It’s always around the eighty-minute mark that something kind of magical happens. It’s probably the main reason I keep coming back to Dance Den. In the minutes leading up to that point, I’m always so exhausted, so sweaty, so tired, that I don’t know how I’m possibly going to survive the last twenty minutes. I’m not going to make it this time, I always think. I’m going to have to bow out. I’m going to pass out if I keep going. And yet I keep going. I push through, even though my sides are on fire. Even though the sweat is running into my eyes. And it’s in those last handful of minutes that I feel totally unencumbered—that I feel simply, purely alive.
* * *
It’s a little later that evening, when I’m on my way home, that I get the text from Luke. I have to read it multiple times to make sure I’m reading it right. After all, I am in an exhausted, half-delirious state, and I could easily be imagining the words I’m seeing on my phone.
But later, after I get home and shower, after I fix myself a proper dinner to eat, I look at my phone and the text from Luke is still there. The words haven’t changed from when I read them earlier. He’s up for it. The fake relationship. He’s actually up for it.
Changed my mind, his text reads. I’m in.
3
A few hours after Luke tells me he’s in, once it feels safe to say that he’s not going to take it back, I text my family the news.
Hey guys, fyi, I invited my boyfriend to come on the trip too.
To my surprise, I’m actually nervous sending the text. I guess part of me is convinced that they’ll see right through it, that my plan will fail before it even starts. I’m worried, too, that they won’t be okay with me inviting someone along. It’s unprecedented for me, after all.
I try to distract myself with cleaning out my fridge. But when I hear my phone chime, I drop what I’m doing. I mean, literally, I drop what I’m doing. A jar of salsa in my hand slips and accidentally crashes onto the floor.
Cursing, I tiptoe around the mess and run across the room to scoop up my phone.
Catherine has responded. Boyfriend?
His name is Luke, I text back. I unspool some paper towels and begin to clean up the mess of glass-spiked salsa that’s now splattered across my kitchen floor like a crime scene.
A few minutes later, Mom chimes in. Of course he’s welcome to join us!
I breathe out in relief. Then another text from Catherine pops up. You’re sharing a room, right? I’ve already booked our rental, and it only has four bedrooms.
Yep, I text back. Right. Sleeping arrangements. I hadn’t even thought about the fact that Luke and I would have to share a room. Well, whatever. He and I will figure that part out later.
Anything else we should know? asks Catherine.
What, like a city hall wedding that none of them were invited to? I laugh at the thought of proposing that to Luke. Now that would be something to fake.
Nope, I text.
Catherine doesn’t send any more texts after that. But one does come through from Mom: We look forward to meeting him, Emma. And even though I know it’s ridiculous, it pleases me as much as if this whole thing was the real deal.
* * *
The following day, Luke and I go out to lunch to iron out the details. We go to Tasty Thai, of course. Tasty Thai is our go-to lunch spot—a restaurant we’ve frequented so often that as soon as the waitress seats us, she knowingly asks, “The regular?”
We smile and say yes. The regular is khao soi for Luke, chicken pad thai for me, and an order of spring rolls to share. And when I say spring rolls, I don’t mean just any old spring rolls. The ones at Tasty Thai are little pieces of heaven. They’re perfectly crisp, hot, and bewilderingly flavorful. If it was socially acceptable to eat nothing but a huge platter of their spring rolls for lunch, I would.
“So,” says Luke, after the waitress leaves. “You’re probably wondering what made me change my mind.”
I pull my napkin out from beneath my cutlery and smooth it over my lap. “You would be correct.”
“If I tell you, you’ve gotta promise you won’t make fun of me.”
“Intriguing. I don’t know if I can promise that, though.”
He blows air out between his lips. “Fine. Okay. You know Erin?”
“Erin from Accounting?”
“Yes. Erin from Accounting.”
“Uh huh. What about her?”
“I kind of—” His eyes drift away from mine. “I have a thing for her. But she has the wrong impression of me. So I—”
“Whoa, whoa,” I say, “You have a thing for her?”
Erin from Accounting is pretty. I’ll give you that. She has that whole blonde-hair-nice-body thing going for her. Yet for some reason, I can’t wrap my head around Luke having a thing for her. They just don’t mesh. I can’t imagine the two of them as a couple.
“You said you wouldn’t make fun of me,” says Luke.
“I’m not making fun of you,” I say. “But as your friend, I have to say, I think she’s all wrong for you.”
“Great. Thanks.”
“Sorry,” I say. “Wait, what do you mean, she has the wrong impression of you?”
Luke sighs. “She thinks I’m a player.”
“Um, what?” Is there a side to Luke that I’m unaware of? “Elaborate, please.”
“It’s just because of some stupid thing that Alex said. He was joking around about me being on this dating app all the time, and she thought he was serious.”
The mention of Alex’s name makes my ears perk up. I can’t help but wonder if Alex is also on the dating app that he and Luke were talking about.
I start to ask, “What’s the name of the—” But then the waitress appears beside our table and lowers the plate of appetizer perfection in front of us.
“Enjoy!” she says cheerfully.
We both thank her. At the sight—and smell—of the spring rolls, my salivary glands immediately kick into overdrive. But I need to focus. I’m still in a haze about what Luke is trying to tell me.
“Sorry, can we back up a second?” I say. “How is going on a vacation with me going to help you out with Erin?”
“I was getting to that,” says Luke. “You interrupted me.”
“I had critical questions,” I say.
Okay. That’s it. I can’t hold back from the spring rolls any longer. I reach out and pluck one from the plate. I eagerly bring it to my mouth and sink my teeth in, eliciting that oh-so-satisfying crunch.
“So my whole point,” continues Luke, “which I was about to get to, is that I need to prove to her that I am more than capable of commitment. That I’m not just some drooling skirt-chaser. So here’s the deal. I’ll be your fake boyfriend during your family vacation, but only if you be my fake girlfriend for the next three weeks at work.”
Reflexively, I swallow the unchewed bite of spring roll in my mouth. The piece lodges in my throat. I swallow again, hard, painfully forcing it dow
n.
“Um, what?” I rasp.
“We’d only have to fake it during office hours,” he says. “I mean, come on. What’s another few extra weeks?”
“But we’d have to lie to everyone.”
Luke gives me a funny look. “Uh, with your plan, aren’t people going to suspect something anyway? Don’t you think us both taking a week-long vacation at the exact same time, to the exact same place, is going to raise some eyebrows?”
How did I not think of that? He’s right, of course. Even if one of us lies about where we’re going, our identical days off will definitely be a tip-off.
The waitress approaches the table, a steaming plate of food in each hand. She grins at me as she lowers my pad thai down in front of me. I wish I could ask for her opinion.
Her eyebrows lift questioningly. “Can I get you anything else?”
“Oh. No. We’re good,” I quickly say. “Thank you.”
“Actually,” says Luke, “could we get a spice rack?”
“That’s right,” the waitress says, grinning. “You like a bit of spice.” She zips away and then comes back again, setting the little set of glass jars on our table with an amused smile. Has she been listening in on our conversation?
The waitress leaves, and I’m left to face the unanswered question.
“I dunno,” I say. “I’m not crazy about the idea of turning this into an office romance. It’s one thing to lie to my family…I only see them a couple times a year. But we’re in the office every day.”
“We won’t have to do much.”
“You really think it will convince Erin?”
Luke shrugs. “Maybe it won’t. But it’s worth a shot.”
I really don’t want to have to put up a facade for longer than necessary. And I really don’t think that Erin is right for Luke. But…oh, what the hell. If that’s what Luke wants out of it, I’ll help him out. He’s my friend. Anyway, it’s not like I exactly have a choice at this point—I’ve already told my family about him.
Emma and Luke Are Totally Together Page 2
