“Oh.” She frowns, her brow creasing up with worry lines I’d like to smooth away. The urge makes no sense because I can’t remember ever having it before. Or noticing something like that. “You’re right.”
She fits the two pieces together, grabs the next two, and the first leg begins to take shape. Maybe this will be easier than I previously thought. The table, I mean. Not fake dating a woman I’m noticing things about that are a first for me. I’m not a thoughtless person, but suddenly, I realize I’ve never fully taken the time to want to know those superfluous things about a person. I’ve always been too busy…well…doing other things with them.
I quickly assemble the second table leg so that I feel like less of an asshole. Is it possible I was just like Emily’s ex? Not using someone or sponging off them for money, but the fact that I never even bothered with truly getting to the heart of anything at all?
Of course that was me. But to be fair, I got a lot of it in return. The women I dated weren’t looking for something permanent, and they didn’t want a deeper connection. What they wanted was what I wanted—companionship for a short term, and by companionship, I don’t exactly mean the hand-holding kind. To be blunt, no one was thinking about love.
I guess I’ve always been too realistic for that.
Because of the money.
Because of my name.
Because I was raised to believe that things like love are just a fantasy. I watched my mom suffer for it, over and over again, and I had a much more practical granny who, since I was a kid, told me that love is neither here nor there and might not exist at all.
“Are you okay?”
I shake myself out of my not-so-pleasant memories and find Emily’s forehead creased again. She’s looking at me, and all her worry is for me now. Not because of me, but for me.
“Yeah. Just jetlagged. A lot’s happened in the past few days.”
“You’re telling me.” She grins, and god, I’d like to see that smile again, with less self-depreciation and more authentic joy. I’d like to be the one who puts it there too, but cracking a stupid joke wouldn’t count.
I make sure I keep my attention focused on the table, and after forty minutes, we actually have something that looks complete. It’s modern with a dark stained top and curving dark metal legs. Honestly, it looked better online. I chose something for Emily because it was easy for me to find something I liked and click a button to have it ordered to her house to fill the space where her last table stood.
But I never asked her what she liked.
If she hates it, she feigns joy well enough. Maybe she’s just happy that the wretched task of putting it together is complete. Either way, she darts off, and I hear her calling for a pizza. At least she doesn’t ask me either before she orders. She just gets what she wants and makes it an extra-large, enough for both of us. She’s thoughtful while daring me to take it or leave it.
When the pizza arrives—the world’s fastest delivery—she pays and takes it to where I’m cleaning up the debris from the table. The box that contained the table parts is huge, and I’ve been folding it up, trying to figure out where I’m going to stuff it. I’m anticipating a brown bin outside or perhaps a blue one for recycling because making origami with thick cardboard is a lot harder than it sounds.
Emily walks past me and places the pizza box on the table.
We both hold our breath at the same time. When nothing happens, she steps into the kitchen to get a roll of paper towel while I move the folded-up box out of the way.
The table holds for one solid minute.
Then it collapses in on itself, depositing legs, the wood plank top, and our dinner into a heap on the floor.
CHAPTER 8
Emily
The worst part about having a fake boyfriend is that I have to actually pretend to be dating him. I mean, I guess that’s the point of any boyfriend. You have to physically force yourself to hang out with them. Or, in the case of the lucky few out there who are deep in the starry realms of true love, they might actually want to hang out with their significant other.
Two days after the table incident, when Asher emails me of all things, asking me if I want to see a movie, I feel like I can’t say no. It’s a public outing, but it’s not so public that people would be following us around. Certainly, photographers can’t just sneak into a theatre whenever they want, and they’d no doubt have to use flash or something, which would be totally disruptive. I figure it’s innocent enough, so I respond with the name of a huge theatre and a show that looks like it would for certain be terrible but also draw a big crowd.