Right now, it’s not pure. It’s a goddamn metaphor for a true awkward moment. “Are you still killing it with your lineup?”
She turns to me, her brown eyes intensely serious. “I meant it earlier when I said no dating this week. I need to know that you’re okay with that. Not even after hours.”
And we’re done with the baseball bullshit.
“Of course,” I say quickly, tugging on my tie and acting offended. “I can’t believe you think I can’t manage a week without sex.”
She shakes her head as the elevator chugs down. “This might seem silly to you, since this is a pretend relationship, but after what happened with Bradley…”
“Charlotte, I swear. I’m on the wagon for the next week,” I say, holding up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
“You were never a boy scout.”
“True. But I also don’t cheat, whether I’m in a fake relationship or a real one.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Have you ever been in a real one?”
“Sure. And by real, you mean the type of relationship where I know her last name, right?” I say, deadpan.
She crosses her arms. “Let me amend that. Have you ever been in a relationship that lasted longer than a fortnight?”
I make a snooty sound. “Fortnight. Aren’t you fancy?”
“And Amanda from college doesn’t count.”
“Why not? I went out with her for four months. But yes. I have,” I say, though I’m pretty damn sure I haven’t. But my ability to sustain a long-term commitment isn’t the point of this conversation. The point is whether my dick practices serial monogamy. “And I’ll keep it in my pants for the next week, like I said I would. While we’re at it, the same goes for you.”
“You don’t even have to worry about that.”
“You mean this isn’t going to cramp your style?” I ask, as the elevator slows at the lobby.
She scoffs. “Like that’s possible.”
“No hot dates on the agenda for the next week?”
She raises her hands and lifts all ten fingers. “It’s been ten months for me,” she says sharply as the doors whoosh open.
We walk across the lobby and onto Lexington, where the Uber car I ordered is waiting. I open the door for her, and she slides across. I follow her, and we buckle in. Things feel normal again between us, like we’ve slid out of the tunnel of awkward, and it’s now just us.
“Ten months without a relationship, you mean?” I ask, since I know she hasn’t been involved with anyone since the split. But come to think of it, she hasn’t mentioned any dates either. Even though she doesn’t kiss and tell, she still probably would have said something if she’d had a good date.
She shakes her head. “No relationship. No dates. No kissing. Nothing.”
Ten months without sex. That’s like a lifetime. Not sure I’ve gone more than ten days. Maybe fourteen tops, but that was a rough two weeks. She must be working her toys hard.
Ah, fuck. Now, I’m picturing Charlotte in bed with a purple vibrating rabbit, legs spread, hand working the ten-speed controller, breath coming fast.
Thanks, brain, for putting that fantastic image in my head to derail any intelligent thought.
Some days I wonder how men get anything accomplished at all with sex on the brain constantly. In fact, I wonder how men have ever gotten a single thing done across the whole vast expanse of time. It’s a miracle we manage to tie our shoes and comb our hair.
Then it hits me. That kiss on her couch. That kiss on the street. Those were the first kisses she’s had in nearly a year. My kisses. It makes me kind of happy that I’m the first guy she’s kissed in a long time. Even though it makes no sense that I’d be glad about that. It also doesn’t make sense that a dose of possessiveness over Charlotte courses through me, too. I don’t want anyone else to kiss her.
I mean, not for the next week, of course.
That’s all this possessiveness is about.
“By the way,” she says as the car arrives at the store, “how does this end?”
“Us?”
She nods. “The fake engagement.”
“I guess we have a fake breakup,” I say, even though I hadn’t thought out the end of this. Maybe because I hadn’t scripted the beginning either. It’s all been me flying by the seat of my pants.
“At the end of the week?” she asks, as we reach the gleaming glass doors of the New York institution that’s been part of my life for as long as I can remember.
“Yeah, a real fake breakup,” I emphasize, before I buy her the ring to seal the deal. A ring that has an expiration date, just like this fake affair that we’ve now planned the ending for.
The real ending.
* * *
Things I learn about Charlotte in the next hour at Katharine’s:
She likes holding hands.
She likes snaking an arm around my waist.
She likes running her fingers through my hair.
She’s quite handsy when we’re playing pretend—it’s downright impressive, her commitment to method acting.
She also has impeccable taste and selects a princess cut two-carat diamond set in a platinum band. “This is the ring I’ve always wanted,” she declares to Nina, my dad’s right-hand woman, and I swear Charlotte’s going to float away on a cloud of happiness. The woman absolutely sounds like a blushing bride-to-be.