Chapter Six
Solange
I reread Dean’s succinct text inviting me for breakfast for the hundredth time, then scan the Instagram-approved coffee bar to confirm that he hasn’t arrived yet.
It’s a bright place. Too bright. White walls, gray floors, teak furniture, with a few strategically placed potted plants serving as the only pops of color. A social media influencer’s dream location from which to influence and shit.
What’s more, chalk-written motivational quotes cover a plethora of surfaces, encouraging the shop’s customers to fully realize their best selves:
Be kind to yourself.
Smile and the world smiles back at you.
Seize the slay. That one’s certainly a choice.
And my personal favorite: Here, coffee is a must; talking isn’t.
The rush of folks getting their first cup of weekday java has passed; what’s left are the diehards, those who treat coffee as sustenance, and they are my people. I wait in comfortable silence, sipping an overpriced special blend and observing the happenings around me.
Minutes later, a woman hunched over her laptop at a neighboring table straightens in her seat, her eyes widening at something—or someone—in her field of view; instinct tells me that Dean is the something or someone who’s captured her attention.
As if on cue, he appears at my side and gestures at the other chair. “Hey, Solange. May I?”
I give him a friendly smile. “Of course.”
“Thanks for agreeing to see me,” he says as he settles in his seat.
“It’s the least I could do . . . considering.”
He pulls out a packet of travel-size disinfectant wipes and cleans the table. “Bear with me. I worked on a case about sanitizers last year, and I’ll never be able to see a non-porous surface in the same way again.”
“Okay, Dexter.”
He stops wiping and gives me a blank look. “I’m not a serial killer.”
“That remains to be seen. Now I’m extra glad we met in a public place.”
“You’re a trip,” he says, his lips twisted in a half smirk.
A barista swoops in and places a mug on the table; she winks at Dean before she walks away.
“You’re a regular?” I ask.
“I am.”
“How very hip of you.”
He grins. “I called ahead and placed my order when I realized I’d be running a little late. Made sure to ask if you had a cup.”
“Oh, well in that case, how very ordinary and considerate of you.” I point at his mug. “What the hell is that anyway?”
“A nonfat soy latte with an extra shot, one pump of honey blend, and caramel drizzle.”
“I think I hate you right now.”
This time he smiles widely, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Do you need anything else? Want to order food? They make great pancakes.”
“No need,” I say, lifting my mug. “This regular-ass coffee is enough.”
I want to focus on whatever has brought us together, but I’m distracted by the man’s buttoned-up appearance. I bet he’d never survive even a few hours on a BFI construction site; dirt under his fingernails is probably listed as an allergen in his medical records. “Does your firm frown upon business casual?”
Furrowing his brow, he peers down at his clothes. “It’s permitted, but this is my style.”
“Ah.”
Admittedly, it’s a dapper vibe. His tie is knotted expertly, and the way his collar falls, I imagine he uses brass stays to achieve a perfect neckline. I glance at his wrists, unsurprised to see that a half inch of his shirt cuffs is visible beyond the sleeve of his blazer. Freshly shaved, and without a hair out of place, Dean very well could be your average uptight asshole. Nothing I’ve seen of him so far suggests that he is, however. Well, the elaborate coffee order is a yellow flag, but I’ll reserve judgment on that one since I’m very particular about how I prepare eggs, and most people don’t understand my fussiness on that score.
Anyhow, asshole or not, the vibe is working, because I can’t help picturing us roleplaying a scenario in which he is an uptight jerk and I spend an evening making him pay for his assholery by undoing him completely: shirt unbuttoned and rumpled, hair mussed and on end, and my discount drugstore lipstick smeared across his expensively cologned jaw.
Yikes, Brain. Not helpful. This man was all set to marry someone less than two weeks ago; he’s absolutely off-limits—and so not your type.
I crack my neck in an effort to clear my head. Lina says it’s a disgusting habit, but it’s what I do when I need to regroup, and it isn’t hurting anybody. “So, what did you want to talk to me about?”
Dean draws in a deep breath and releases it slowly. “I think I may need your help after all.”
“I’m listening.”
He dives into a long and convoluted explanation of a career crisis; with each new wrinkle in the saga, my jaw drops a fraction, until it finally hits the floor. When he’s done, I stare at him.
“Hello?” he asks as he leans over and waves a hand in front of my face. “Blink once if you’re still with me. Blink twice if you’re in distress.”
I widen my eyes and blink them so furiously that I’m experiencing a strobe light effect behind my lids. This is bananas. And there’s no way we can pull this off. “What the hell were you thinking?”
He sighs and runs a hand down his face. “Nothing smart, that’s for sure. And look, I’m not going to sit here and try to convince you that my plan isn’t wild. It is. But I’ve been working my ass off for eight years so I can make partner. Recruiting this person is the kind of major coup that could seal the deal. I need this chance.”
“Don’t you think that’s a problem? Shouldn’t working your ass off for eight years suffice?”
He pauses, as if my point had never occurred to him, then says, “In an ideal world, sure. But this is the law firm world. You’re only as valuable as your last big client or lucrative case. This has the potential to accomplish both and—”
The barista appears again. “Would you like another cup?”
Dean gestures to his mug. “Still working on this one, thanks. Solange?”
“Nope, still good sipping on my coffee with twenty pumps of nothing.”
After the barista leaves, Dean rolls his eyes at me.
“Do you do that often?”
“Do what?” he asks, tilting his head.
“Roll your eyes. It’s charming.”
“My coffee order really upset you, didn’t it?”
“It did,” I say, unable to keep the grin off my face.
“Can we get back to the matter at hand?” he asks.
“Your ridiculous idea to pretend we’re a couple? Sure.” I set aside my mug and lean forward. “Why does it have to be me? You could ask anyone to play the person who interrupted your wedding for a very good reason and saved you from a lifetime of pain and disappointment.”
He draws back and frowns. “You’re overstating what you did.”
He’s wrong. My mother is proof of that. She poured her heart and soul into her marriage and got almost nothing in return. Someday Dean will recognize the world of hurt he avoided by not marrying Ella. In the meantime, I’m not here to convince him of my virtue. “Okay, that’s fair. Marrying a person who’s in love with someone else is a minor inconvenience in the scheme of things. But my question still stands: Why me?”
“Two reasons,” he says as he adjusts his tie.
I’d love to see that tie wrapped around his head as he wades in a public fountain after a few too many drinks. I snort at the thought.
“What’s funny?” Dean asks.
“Nothing. You were saying?”
“The two reasons it has to be you. One, Olney & Henderson is a gossip mill, and my assistant attended the wedding. I can’t risk getting too far afield of the actual truth without potentially compromising this whole operation.”
“It’s an operation now? Good grief. What’s the other reason?”
“I identified you by name.”
Shit on top of shit with a dollop of shit on the side.
He reaches over and places his hand over mine. Damn, it’s silky soft. In embarrassing contrast, my hands are still sporting scratches from this weekend’s community gardening project.
“I’m not asking you to sign over your life,” he says, his eyes pleading with me not to reject him outright. “I just need three nights; depending on your schedule, maybe time for one daytime get-together too. And we’re only talking about a two-week window at most. Maybe a spur-of-the-moment outing if she returns for a second round of interviews. I know you don’t owe me a thing. And I’m definitely in a bind of my own making. But if you could find it in your heart to do this, I’d be so fucking grateful. Frankly, I don’t have anyone else to turn to.”
Crap. He said all the magic words, and I didn’t even need to coax them out of him. He’s in a bind, and he needs my help. He doesn’t think I owe him this, but he’s asking anyway because he’s desperate. I can’t say no. It’s not in my nature to turn down someone in need—and that’s especially the case when the person has been through a heartrending experience like Dean has. Not to mention, I had a part in everything that went down, even if he agrees that it was for the best. But we need to establish a few ground rules before I commit to this farce.
I slide my hand out from under his; he flinches as if he just remembered we were touching.
“I have several conditions,” I say.
“Okay. Yeah. Name them,” he says, his voice shaky—with relief, maybe?
“Number one, I will not pretend to be someone else. There lies disaster. The only role I’ll be playing is as your girlfriend.”
“And roommate,” he adds.
I shake my head in exasperation. “Yes, that too. But as me. The current me. Not an idealized me. It’s bad enough that I’ll be spending my free nights with a bunch of lawyers. That’s like scheduling a root canal, a Pap smear, and a mammogram all in one day. I’m not adding an extra layer of hell to that by pretending to be Ella 2.0.”
“Who?”
“Your ex-fiancée, Ella. Remember her?”
He thinks about our exchange a bit, and a corner of his mouth lifts. “Yeah, I remember her. And I absolutely agree on that point. That goes for me too. I want to be as up front as possible about everything except the fact that we’re not really dating.”
“Okay, good. Number two, any physical contact beyond a touch here or there, or a hand on the lower back, if any, will be initiated by one of us only if it’s clear the other consents to it.”
He loosens his tie. “Definitely. I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.” Then he stares into his mug as he strokes his jaw.
I take in a deep, calming breath. Perhaps I should make that a rule: He can’t touch his jaw in my presence. Okay, now I’m being weird.
“Should we agree on a safe word, then?” he asks. “Not in the usual sense, but maybe an inside phrase that will let us know it’s okay to kiss a cheek, for example. A face cheek, I mean.”
I drop my head and cackle, then try to compose myself before I speak again. I’m only half successful at the effort, though. “The fact that you felt you had to clarify which cheek you meant is cause alone for me to abandon ship. Let me be absolutely clear: Ass cheeks are off the table.”
He slides down into his chair and covers his face with a single hand. “I know. Dammit, I know. Give me a break here. I’ve never done something like this.”
That makes two of us. But this will be excellent practice for fake dating Brandon when Cláudia visits early next month. If I can pretend to date Dean, a virtual stranger, then faking a relationship with Brandon, a man who’s known me since high school, should be relatively straightforward.
He peeks between his fingers. “So, about that safe phrase . . .”
“It should be something that doesn’t feel forced,” I point out. “How about the person giving consent says, ‘You can’t help yourself, can you?’ As if they’re teasing the other person. It’s the kind of statement that could precede physical contact, and it sounds natural to my ear.”
“Yeah, that works,” he says, nodding.
So far, so good. I’m crafty. He’s reasonable. We might actually get out of this mess unscathed. “Another thing: You’re going to have to be flexible about the schedule for these outings. I cannot move an already-planned weekend trip to Vegas with my roommate.”
“When’s that?”
“Second weekend in August.”
“Okay, we should be done by then. Not a problem.”
“Also, my weeknights aren’t always free.”
“Work conflicts?”
“Exactly.”
He draws back and frowns. “I don’t even know what you do for a living.”
“I’m teaching adult education and empowerment classes in the afternoon and evenings.”
“Like for the GED, you mean?”
I nod. “Yeah, that and a job readiness course.”
“Lina said you went to graduate school.”
“I did. I took this job in exchange for getting my master’s degree fully funded.”
“Nice. You left school without being saddled by debt.” He tucks his hands under his chin and looks at me wistfully. “What’s that like?”
“It’s weird, actually. I’m incredibly grateful, but sometimes it feels too good to be true. I’m waiting for someone to tell me it was all a clerical error and ask for the money back.”
Dean releases a deep sigh and sags against his chair. “I took out a staggering amount of loans for law school, so in my mind, working for a firm was a given. I’m not sure I would have taken the same path if I’d finished debt-free.” He gestures as if to dismiss the subject. “Enough about that. Tell me, what’s next for you? After the fellowship ends, I mean.”
I resist the urge to ask him what he would have done differently, since he plainly doesn’t want to talk about it. Maybe another time. “I’m considering a position coordinating adult training for BFI in Ohio.”
He leans forward a fraction, his eyes flickering with interest. “What’s that?”
“Building Futures International. Think of it as Habitat for Humanity on steroids. The beneficiaries are all reentering the workforce, so they get housing assistance and career counseling. I’d be overworked and underpaid, but I’d get a lot of responsibility—mostly because they’ll be overworking and underpaying me.” I shrug. “Anyway, if that doesn’t feel like the right choice, I’ll figure out something else to do. As long as I’m helping people, I’ll know I’m on the right track.”
“When do you have to decide?”
“They’re giving me until the end of the summer.”
“I must admit,” he says, straightening in his chair, “I’m fascinated by how relaxed you are about it. I wish I had that gene. I’m all thumbs if there’s no plan.” He plucks at the cuffs of his shirt. “Anyway, we’ll have to figure out how to spin that.”
I bristle at the suggestion that my career decisions need to be spun in any way. I’m not floundering; I’m just considering my next steps carefully. And if Dean thinks my background isn’t impressive enough for his lawyer friends, he can shove it. I narrow my eyes at him. “What do you mean by that?”
Maybe it’s the hard edge to my tone, or maybe he can smell the I’m-fully-prepared-to-kick-your-ass aura surrounding me, but he immediately puts up his hands in surrender. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. I’m not an asshat, you know. All I meant was, there’s no one-size-fits-all way of approaching career choices. What works for one person won’t necessarily work for someone else. My point unrelated to that is, if you’re committed to not lying about your background, and one of your job prospects might take you out of the state, we need to figure out how to explain that so it doesn’t raise a few eyebrows. It’ll probably come up in conversation.”
I unclench my fists under the table. “Oh, okay. I see what you’re saying. You may keep your balls, then. And yes, we can work on that too.”
“Great,” he says, his voice overly cheerful. “And thanks for letting me hold on to my balls. I’ve grown attached to them over the years.”
“You’re welcome,” I say, winking at him.
Despite his stodgy appearance, Dean seems like a fun guy. I’m beginning to think spending a few nights pretending to be his girlfriend won’t be a hardship. “Okay, so the next thing isn’t a condition. It’s just something you need to know about me: I don’t do anything in half measures. I’m either all in or all out. If you want to do this, we’re going to have to put in the work. Real stuff too. Names, poignant memories, idiosyncrasies, the whole nine yards. I’m not showing up on several dates with you and embarrassing myself. I’d never sign up for something like that.”
This bit of news seems to energize him. He rubs his hands together and bounces his shoulders as if he’s dancing in his chair. The image doesn’t compute, so I tilt my head in an attempt to put the world back on its proper axis.
“That’s exactly what I wanted to hear,” he says, then reaches behind him, pulling out a folder from his messenger bag. “It means you’ll take this seriously, and that can only be a good thing.” He slides a file across the table.
“What’s this?” I ask as I peek inside and leaf through the contents.
“Think of it as a primer on me. For fun, I’m calling it the Dean Dossier.”
“I already have double D’s. I don’t need yours too.”
A dash of pink stains his cheeks. I should control my urge to throw him off-kilter, but the man just handed me a five-page, single-spaced biography, along with a clear envelope containing a mishmash of photographs from various periods in his life. Can anyone really blame me for not curbing my wiseass tendencies?
“I drafted a form for you too,” he continues. “Which I can send as soon as you give me your email address. Just fill it out and return it to me when you have a moment.”
My eyebrows snap together so quickly I may have given myself a permanent unibrow. As surreptitiously as possible, I trace a finger down my forehead to check. “You’re serious?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” he asks, looking genuinely confused. “You said you’d be willing to put in the work.” He points at the folder. “That’s your study guide.”
Wow. Just wow. This guy’s something else. I hold up the Dean Dossier in one hand. “Are you telling me everything I need to know about you can be found in here?”
Dean shakes his head. “Well, not everything, but enough to throw Peter off our scent. He’s going to try to poke holes in our story. That”—he points to the folder—“will make it harder for him to accomplish his goal.”
Sections of the dossier are separated by Roman numerals. One section is titled “How We Met.” Another is titled “Dean: The Early Years.” It’s as though I’m preparing to enter an amateur Witness Protection Program.
My eyes bulge when I get to the “Interesting Facts About Me: The Highlights” section. I can’t help it. “You try to avoid saying the word Houston?”
He blushes. “An ex-girlfriend lives there. It’s a long story.”
I’m not touching that one. “And you spent part of your childhood in Delaware?”
He nods. “Yeah. Why do you seem so surprised?”
“I didn’t think anyone actually lived in Delaware. Except for the Bidens.”
“So much hate for the tiny state,” he says, his lips pursed in mock offense.
“Settle down, 40 Cent. No need to get so defensive.” Scanning the next page, I try to imagine Dean assembling his life into a PowerPoint presentation. Who does that? “You’ve included all of your social media handles too. How thorough.”
Detecting none of my snark, he smiles proudly. “If we’re supposed to be dating, we should follow each other on at least one of these accounts. Instagram, probably. And post a pic or two for some realism. Everything you need is there.”
I toss the folder onto the table. “Fine. I’ll read it. But faking a relationship is going to require more than just reading our histories and being mutuals on Twitter. We’re going to need to get comfortable with each other. Finish each other’s sentences. Be playful and loving. That requires acting, not just reading.”
“I’m prepared to do that too,” he says. “Impersonating a man in a real relationship is a strength of mine.”
I give him a blank stare.
“Too soon?” he asks.
“Definitely.”
“Duly noted,” he says. “Seriously, though. I know I’m asking a lot of you, and there are no words to express how much this means to me. You’ve been a bright spot during an admittedly rough time.”
Rough seems like an understatement. Which reminds me: We’re going to need to talk about his breakup with Ella eventually. A close friend and roommate would know the backstory. Still, I’d much prefer to end this coffee date on a high note, so I simply say, “I’m glad.”
“And if there’s anything I can do for you in return, just say the word.”
Now there’s an intriguing offer. Although it obviously wasn’t the impetus for my saying yes to his harebrained scheme, having Dean indebted to me may nevertheless come in handy someday. But surely he doesn’t mean anything. “How about a million dollars in my bank account by close of business tomorrow?”
He chuckles. “Anything except that.”
“Then how about an IOU that I can cash in when the time’s right?”
“Deal.” He pulls out his wallet and places a credit card on the table. “So when would you like to get started on putting in the work, as you called it?”
“I’m available this weekend. I’m thinking we should visit each other’s homes. You can learn a lot about someone by seeing them in their living space. Besides, if we’re supposedly roommates, I should get a sense of your neighborhood and the layout of your place, right?”
He nods as he chews on his bottom lip, then says, “I like the way you think. Text me the times you’re available. I’ll be in the office most of the weekend, but I’ll take a break whenever you need me to.”
“All work and no play makes Dean a dull boy, you know.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I know they’re the wrong ones. I may as well be twirling a lock of my hair and batting my eyelashes.
Unbothered by my flirtatious dig, he trails a finger across the scar above his eyebrow and gives me a lopsided grin. “Don’t let my meticulous appearance fool you. I’m never dull when it counts.”
Oof. I don’t appreciate that information. At all. In the hands of someone with a dirty imagination like mine, it’s titillating. And Dean very well knows what he’s insinuating, which makes him dangerous. While I may have some unfinished business to sort out this summer, being this man’s rebound is definitely not in my plans.
I rise from my chair, internally tugging at the net Dean’s thrown over me. I’m doing him a favor. Nothing more. Better to remember that and be on my way. “I’ll see you this weekend. Come prepared to tell me everything I need to know about Dean Chapman that isn’t in the dossier.”
“That’ll take more than a weekend,” he calls after me.
“Too bad,” I call back. “That’s all you’re going to get.”