11
Close Call
Charlotte
Was he going to kiss me?I laid in bed after Theo and Madeline’s party with that question running through my head over and over. The way he tugged on my hair and his thumb brushed over my lip, and the intensity in his eyes as he looked at me, makes me think he was going to kiss me. And the crazy thing is, I would have let him.
On the one hand, it’s a good sign that there is this chemistry that occasionally arcs between us. On the other hand, it’s a bad idea to indulge that attraction. As enjoyable as it was to sleep with him, he’s my roommate now, and we both decided that it isn’t a good idea to mix this business relationship with pleasure.
In the end, it’s a good thing that his phone interrupted the moment. Even if the look on his face when he saw the text was concerning. It was as if all the blood had drained out of him.
I’ve continued to be curious about that text over the couple of days since, as each time I see Oliver, he seems distracted. That is when I do see him, because he's hiding in his room or out of the condo most of the time I'm here.
There is a part of me that wonders if he's hiding from me specifically because of that intense moment we had the other night. I want to ask him about it because it bothers me a little bit if he's avoiding me specifically. But I remind myself that in the scheme of things, it's a good thing we are keeping a distance.
The night of his doctor’s event has arrived, and I’m back to where I was the night of Theo’s party; feeling uncertain about whether or not I’ll be able to pull off being his fake fiancée. And it isn’t just because there is now some distance between us. It’s also the idea of being in a room filled with plastic surgeons. Will I be able to keep my strong opinions about their work to myself, if they say something that I feel is shallow?
My next worry is about my attire. As it turns out, this event is black tie. I don’t go out a lot, particularly to elegant, expensive black-tie events. If I were Oliver’s real fiancée, I’d have gone out and bought a dress. Since I’m not, I have to make do with what I already own. The closest thing I have to a fancy outfit is a sleek, shiny, silvery dress that I wore on New Year’s Eve to a party Stephen brought me to. I don’t really want to wear it because in hindsight, that was the first time I noticed him talking to the woman that just a few months later he’d end up running off with.
It's interesting how insightful I can be when it comes to other people’s lives, but not with my own. I bought this dress with the bateau neckline, backless down to my ass, except for two thin straps that criss-cross over my shoulder blades, in an attempt to be sexy for Stephen. I didn't recognize it at the time, but now all these months later, I can see that I felt our relationship was starting to fizzle out even back then.
But since this is the only dress that can pass as black-tie-appropriate, I put it on and push away the memories of Stephen. I’m wearing more makeup than usual, but still less than I wore as Rosie the Riveter, except for the red lipstick. I do like the red lipstick.
My hair is in soft curls, and I’ve pinned one side back with a crystal-encrusted barrette that was my mother’s. The final bit of my ensemble is the prop diamond ring that Oliver gave me to act as an engagement ring. I have to admit, the ring is stunning for being fake. I just have to hope that someone with diamond expertise doesn’t get too close of a look at it. With a final look in the mirror, I feel as ready as I’ll ever be, so I head out to the living area.
Oliver is standing with his back to me looking out the window over the river, but I have a feeling that he’s not really seeing it. He has that look he’s had ever since he got that text. Something is bothering him, and the therapist in me wants to ask him if we can talk about it. The woman in me wants to help him through whatever it is. But the pragmatist says to leave it alone.
He turns toward me, and his eyes go from distant to intense. He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Are you ready?”
It takes me a minute to respond because my mouth has gone dry. Oliver in a tux is pure masculine perfection. This time the woman in me wants to rush to him and rip that tux off and rediscover the man I was with on Halloween. I grip my clutch purse behind my back to keep from doing just that.
I nod in response to him.
He cocks his head to the side. “Are you nervous again?”
I shrug. “Maybe a little.”
“Me too,” he says, which then draws out the therapist in me. Now I want to help him feel settled and secure, so he can achieve his goal.
“What’s your biggest concern?” I ask.
For a moment he just looks at me, like he wants to tell me something, but isn’t sure if he can or should. Finally, he says, “I just hope I’ll be able to get hired after all this.”
I nod because I know that’s how this whole thing started. But something tells me that his past is looming ever closer to him. There’s a sense about him like he’s looking over his shoulder at some kind of invisible enemy.
He smiles and extends his hand toward the door. “Shall we go?”
During the ride to the event, we make small talk, which I suspect is meant to calm both me and him. For the most part, it works until he’s leading me into the hotel and toward the ballroom where this event is taking place. As my nerves begin to build again, I slip my arm through his, holding onto it like a life preserver.
He looks down at our linked arms and then his gaze comes to my face. “Good thinking.”
For a moment, I wonder what he means, and then I remember I’m his fake fiancée. I look away, confused at how automatic and instinctual seeking support by touching him felt, but then I remind myself that this is a good thing. It makes us pass as engaged.
We enter the ballroom where somewhere around a hundred people are mingling and chatting. The distribution of men to women looks equal, and all of the women look like they stepped out of a glossy magazine. I wonder if that’s the perk of being married or attached to a plastic surgeon; free body upgrades.
A server carrying a tray of champagne walks by and Oliver deftly grabs two flutes, handing me one.
“To fake engagements.” He taps my glass with his and drinks most of the bubbly. I sip mine, wanting to keep my wits about me, even though I also would like to settle my nerves.