Chapter Eight
Solange
Dean and I weave our way through the crowd at Sip City, one of my favorite nightspots on U Street, and step up to the only area along the twenty-foot-long bar that isn’t occupied by a patron. Brandon wordlessly slides us two stools from behind the counter, and Dean wastes no time setting them down so we can stake our claim on the space.
It pays to have friends in important places.
The crowd is thick, a riot of disparate conversations buzzing around us, punctuated by an occasional cheer coming from the karaoke room nearby. Although the clientele’s diverse, as is often the case in DC, the clusters of friends hanging out are more homogenous.
“Okay if I leave you alone for a minute?” Dean asks, his minty breath warm against my ear. “I need to use the restroom.”
I try not to shiver—and fail. “Sure.”
Dean draws back. “Are you cold?”
“I’m good,” I say, not meeting his eyes and adjusting my cropped cardigan so it covers my shoulders. “There’s a draft above us, I think.” And it’s sending your highly potent pheromones my way.
“Okay,” he says, tapping the bar rail. “Be right back.”
“Should I order you anything?” I ask before he goes.
“Water’s fine for now.”
Of course it is.
As soon as he’s gone, Brandon sidles over, dragging a dishrag over the countertop.
“Water for Dean and a Blackberry Jam for me,” I tell him. “And thanks for holding a spot for us.”
“Why the change in plans?” he asks.
I lift my butt off the stool and lean over, not wanting anyone else to hear us. “Dean’s kind of stiff.”
“Sounds promising,” Brandon says, lifting an eyebrow as he prepares my drink. “I fail to see the problem.”
Rolling my eyes, I push him away. “Around me, I mean. It’s like there’s an outline in his head for everything, and if you don’t fit into the right section, he doesn’t know what to do with you. We came here to practice being a couple in public.” I spread my arms and bend at the waist as if I’m taking a bow. “A bit of Method acting, if you will.”
Brandon sighs. “That’s a common misconception about the Method—that actors stay in character throughout the time they’re filming a movie or something, but really it’s about using your own life experiences to better understand your character’s situation. The Strasberg approach—”
“Brandon.”
“Yeah?”
“You’ve gone over this many, many times before.”
“Right,” he says, shaking his head, then looking around and finally acknowledging the patrons clamoring for his attention. “Well, practicing makes sense.” He fills a glass with water and sets it next to my cocktail. “Duty calls.”
I swivel my stool around and survey the crowd. I’m searching for a couple. Preferably one that isn’t averse to public displays of affection. It doesn’t take me long to find one sitting at a prime table in the corner. They’re both white and dressed for a night out on the town. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Late twenties, maybe early thirties. Very Vampire Diaries. The guy’s arm is loosely draped over the woman’s shoulder, and she’s tucked against him as she nuzzles his jaw. Several empty cocktail glasses are scattered in front of them.
“I’m back,” Dean says as he slides onto his stool and swings around so that we’re facing in the same direction. Water glass in hand, he asks, “What’d I miss?”
I lift my chin. “Those two snuggling. At three o’clock.”
“Yeah. What about ’em?”
“Let’s go over there and introduce ourselves.”
“As a couple?”
“Exactly. They seem totally into each other and don’t mind who knows it. Should be easy enough to strike up a conversation. I’ll take the lead.”
I’m already out of my stool and grabbing my drink when Dean says, “Why am I not surprised?”
“Heard that.”
“I assumed you would,” he says, his voice laced with amusement.
I stop short and pull him close, then slip my fingers through his. God, whatever cologne he’s wearing smells amazing. It’s crisp and citrusy and hits my nose in the same way peppermint hits my tongue: like a burst of energy that recedes quickly and lingers in this satisfyingly muted state. Dammit. Why couldn’t he smell like funky gym socks—or a teenage boy’s bedroom? Now that I think about it, I suppose those are similar odors if Rey’s childhood grooming habits are any guide.
I give Dean’s hand a playful squeeze, then stroke his jaw. “Someone’s feeling sassy tonight, I see. Keep that same energy as we talk to these two, okay?”
“I’ll do my best,” he says, his chest rising as he takes a small breath, then releases it slowly. I suspect I’m not meant to see the effort, but I notice it just the same. Well. My touch affected him. Isn’t that interesting?
No, Brain, it’s not interesting at all. What the hell is wrong with you? The man recently experienced a painful breakup and needs space to recover. You couldn’t custom-design a man more emotionally unavailable than this one, so get those non-platonic thoughts out of my head right now.
The woman straightens in her chair as we approach, her eyes widening in interest.
“Hey,” I say, careful to make eye contact with them both. “The bar’s packed, so we were wondering if you’d mind sharing a table.”
They exchange a glance, then the man slides the empty cocktail glasses off to one side. “We don’t mind at all. Join us.”
“I’m Brynn,” the woman says. “This is Jaxson.”
Her tone’s welcoming, and her partner’s wearing a half smile. We sit across from them, Brynn to my right, and Jaxson to Dean’s left.
“Nice to meet you, Brynn. My name’s Solange, and this is my boyfriend, Dean.”
Now that only a few feet separate us, I’d put their ages at closer to midthirties. There’s an air of sophistication in their demeanor, and our arrival didn’t appear to unnerve either one. They’re secure in their relationship, it seems, or maybe just confident in each other’s tastes. I peek at their hands and notice they’re both wearing gold bands.
“Are you guys married?” I ask, leaning in so I can be heard over the music pumping through Sip City’s surround speakers.
“We are,” Brynn says, placing a hand over Jaxson’s. “Ten years. What about you two?”
“Just dating,” Dean says as he casually rests his arm on the back of my chair.
Just? Oh dear. We’ve got our work cut out for us. And sweet Jesus, he looks so proud of himself too. Look, Ma! I’m pretending to be her boyfriend!
Suppressing the overwhelming need to throw some serious side-eye at Dean, I add, “Um, what he means is that we’re not sure marriage will ever be a goal for us. We’re comfortable with the way things are.”
“Ah,” Brynn says, nodding. “It’s certainly not for everyone. Are you from the area?”
“I’m a transplant,” Dean says. “But I’ve been here long enough that I consider it home.” He looks over at me. “And Solange grew up in Maryland.”
He’s saying the right words, but the delivery is sterile. As if he’s running a finger down a page of my dossier, refreshing his memory, then answering. We’re going to have to work on that.
“Jaxson and I are from Austin,” Brynn says. “Figured we’d take a trip to DC for some sightseeing. Our hotel concierge recommended this place when we asked for an unpretentious spot to hang out for our last evening here.”
“Good choice,” I say as I sneak a glance at Brynn’s husband. “It’s a favorite among the locals, which says a lot.”
Jaxson’s gaze bounces between Dean and me. I get the distinct impression that he’s assessing us. Or maybe I’m just misinterpreting his broody vibe. Either way, it’s unsettling. I’m considering how to draw him into the conversation when he rises from his chair and throws a few bills down. For the tip, presumably.
“I’ll be right back, friends,” he says. Before he leaves, he drops a kiss on Brynn’s forehead.
As soon as he’s gone, Brynn leans forward and clasps her hands on the table, her eyes glinting with excitement. “So, Solange and Dean, would you like to spend the evening with us?”
Um, what?
Oh.
Oh shit. Are they . . . ?
Dean furrows his forehead and chuckles. “Isn’t that what we’re already doing?”
She traces her finger across the rim of her (empty) glass and pops her lips.
Cringe.
“Back at our hotel room, I mean,” she clarifies. “All four of us.”
Yep, they’re swingers. Which is totally fine. But Method acting is one thing; Method fucking is quite another. Nice, Solange. You really know how to pick ’em. I bet they’re pros at this, too, because I’m beginning to think Jaxson’s abrupt exit was meant to ensure that their proposition and my and Dean’s response to it would be as nonconfrontational as possible.
Recognition dawns on Dean’s face, and his eyes nearly fall out of his head. “You mean . . .”
“Thanks for the offer, but we’ll pass,” I squeak out as I jump to my feet and pull Dean up by his sleeve. “We’re not part of the lifestyle, and I think our relationship’s still too new for us to explore something like that. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”
Dean settles a splayed hand on my back and gently presses his fingers there. “Right. Exactly. That’s just what I was going to say. Precisely that.”
Dear Lord, he’s terrible at this. So terrible it’s actually endearing.
Brynn isn’t at all surprised that we’re not interested in their offer, though. “Such a pity, but I understand. Sorry for any misunderstanding. It was great meeting you.”
“Same,” I say, giving her a half-hearted wave. “Hope you and Jaxson get home safely!”
We speed-walk back to the bar, where Brandon’s waiting, his raised brows suggesting he’s eager for a rundown of our fake dating exploits.
“How’d it go?” he asks.
“We got propositioned by a couple of swingers,” I say flatly.
Brandon pumps his fists in the air. “Success!”
Dean barks out a laugh. “I guess you could call it that. Seriously, did that just happen?”
“It’s not unheard of in here.” Brandon peers at Dean more closely. “Are you sure you don’t want anything stronger? Tequila, maybe?”
Dean begs off. “Tequila’s my Kryptonite.” He holds up his glass. “I’ll stick with this to be safe.”
“Fair enough,” Brandon says, glancing at me. “Well, holler if you need anything.” And then he walks off.
“I have another idea,” I say.
“No, no, no,” Dean says, crossing his hands over his chest and lifting his nose in the air. “Moreover, hell no. Whatever it is, I’ll pass. My tender sensibilities can’t handle any more of your ideas.”
I bump his shoulder, secretly loving that he’s loosening up around me. It’ll give what I’m about to say more impact. “Oh, c’mon. Hear me out. You’ll like this one.”
“Fine,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I’m listening.”
“Let’s just . . . talk. And ask the burning questions that never made it into our respective dossiers. No faking. No lying. Just realness. How does that sound?”
“You’re being reasonable,” Dean says, giving me a crooked smile. “What’s the catch?”
There is none, really. He’s a good guy, and I’m interested in his story. And if learning more about him helps to make our fake chemistry more convincing, there’s no downside, is there? “No catch or ulterior motive. I’d just like to get to know you.”
He lets out a shaky breath and bumps my shoulder. “I’d like to get to know you too.”
I scoot over to face him, then trace the small scar above his left brow with my index finger. “Let’s start with this beauty. How’d you get it?”
His eyes go wide, and he takes a tiny sip of air.
I drop my hand and pretend not to notice. Because what else is there to do?
“My first pool accident,” he says. “I was twelve.”
“You’re a swimmer.”
He nods, his thumb absently swiping at the condensation on his glass. “Used to be. Had dreams of training for the Olympics and everything.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“My mother and I moved around a lot. I was never in one place long enough to make a team and stick to it.” He throws up a dismissive hand. “Wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Very few people are good enough to compete at that level. And the odds of qualifying are slim to none. Like a tenth of a percent slim to none. But when you’re a kid, you dream about shit like that. Well, I did, at least.”
He tells himself that it wouldn’t have mattered precisely because it very much mattered to him. And still does, I think. Someone who didn’t care about his prospects wouldn’t have bothered to calculate the likelihood of making the Olympics. “Were you good?”
“I was.”
There’s no conceit in his voice. It’s simply what he knows to be true—and I believe him.
“Do you still swim?”
“Not as much as I’d like to.” Suddenly he straightens. “My turn.”
“Go for it,” I say.
“Of all the places you’ve visited outside the United States, which one is your favorite?”
“That’s easy. Brazil. I’m not sure I can do it justice, but if there’s a place with more natural beauty, I haven’t come across it. Plus, there’s an energy there. It’s the spirit of the people. Their joy for life. Their national pride. It’s something to witness. Here in America, it’s just my mother, her sisters, and my cousins. We’re a small family. But there? My relatives get together and suddenly dozens of people are smoking meats in a makeshift brick oven in someone’s backyard. It’s wild. And when I’m there, I feel even more connected to my mother. Makes me realize how scary it must have been to leave the only home she’d ever known and go after her piece of the so-called American dream here.”
“Your mother and aunts sound like amazing women. Is someone writing all this down? For posterity?”
“Lina is,” I say, nodding. “She’s the historian. Family trees, recipes, even juicy gossip.”
“Nice,” he says. “I haven’t traveled outside the country much. Not unless it’s for work. But I’ll add Brazil to the bucket list. You’re an excellent ambassador.”
“Maybe I’ll even agree to be your tour guide someday.”
He gives me a “yeah, yeah, sure you will” smile that irks me a bit. Mostly because it isn’t at all difficult to imagine doing just that. We’d have tons of fun too. Dean letting loose on the streets of Rio would be a hoot, and I would get as many incriminating photos as I could.
I take a moment to survey our surroundings. The crowd’s thinning, but the folks who remain are getting loud and boisterous. Not my idea of a good time. Still, I don’t want to cut our conversation short. We haven’t even talked about Ella, and I’m itching to ask about her. I begin to speak, then snap my mouth shut. Is it too soon?
Dean notices my hesitation and opens the door for me. “I’ll take ‘topics that may be difficult to broach but that you desperately want to discuss anyway’ for a thousand dollars, Solange.”
“Oh, thank God,” I say, exhaling in purposefully overblown relief. “Okay, let’s see. Here’s your clue: You were all set to marry this person just two weeks ago, until a nosy interloper stopped the wedding.”
He pretends to press a clicker in his hands. “Who is Ella Smith?”
“Correct. Well done. So, uh, tell me about her. Because I’ll confess, I’m perplexed by how well you seem to be handling the breakup.”
He faces me and nibbles on his bottom lip as he considers my question. It’s one of his habits, and I hate it. If he had crusty lips, I’d tell him to have at it, but no, Dean’s lips are plump and look pillow soft. The plump-lipped bastard.
“What?” I prod.
After several pensive beats, he says, “I’m going to be honest here, and I hope you won’t judge me too much.”
“Go on.”
He rakes a hand through his hair and lowers his chin. “Ella and I were only together for six months, and we didn’t love each other. Our intended marriage was meant to be a means to an end. For the both of us.”
This time I open and close my mouth like a ventriloquist’s puppet as I gather my thoughts. Now it all makes sense: Dean’s low-key reaction to canceling his own wedding, his eagerness to recruit me for his fake dating caper, the ease with which he turned his attention to securing a promotion. “You didn’t love her? At all?”
He rubs the back of his neck. “I liked Ella. That was enough for me. And for her.”
With much effort, I resist the urge to wrinkle my nose. People who treat their partners as props to satisfy their own needs are the worst. If I were looking for a compelling reason to resist my attraction to this man—and I am—he’s just given me one. Fixing my features into a placid expression, I pull out some cash for my drink, then rise from my stool. “Let’s get out of here.”
Dean
Solange needed fresh air, so we’re walking the mile and a half to my condo in Columbia Heights. It’s still eighty degrees and muggy, and she’s wrapped her sweater around her waist; I suppose her definition of fresh air is different from mine.
Along the way, we pass Ben’s Chili Bowl, an iconic DC eatery, on our right.
“Ever been?” I ask her.
She chuckles, but the sound peters out quickly. “I’m Brazilian American. One of their signature dishes is a heaping bowl of beans and meat ladled over white rice. What do you think?”
“I think that was a silly question.”
She smiles in agreement, but my attempt at small talk doesn’t diminish the tension. We continue walking—Solange appearing deep in thought—then turn on Thirteenth Street. The air’s thick and sticky, but there’s a definite chill in the atmosphere—and it’s coming from Solange. Just as I feared, my revelation about Ella isn’t sitting well with her.
We stroll the length of two blocks before I try to draw her out. “You’re judging me. About Ella.”
“Honestly?” She pinches a thumb and forefinger together. “Maybe a teensy bit. And I can admit that I’m being unfair. Just”—she throws up her hands—“make it make sense, please.”
“I’m a planner,” I say as if that’s a sufficient explanation. In my mind, it is. To her, it’s probably a non sequitur. “That’s just how I’m programmed. I like setting goals and achieving them. The structure . . . it helps me stay grounded.”
She nods as we stroll, her gaze trained on the sidewalk ahead of her. “So marriage was one of the goals you set for yourself.”
“Yes. Along with paying off debt, buying a home, making partner at Olney & Henderson, things like that. I get that this may not make sense to you, but I know firsthand how unsettling it can be if the people supposedly in your corner can’t align with your goals. Ella and I just fit. Or we did, I should say. She’s ambitious. Has her own objectives. And said she wanted to support mine. A dinner with a bunch of lawyers at the firm? Ella was all over it. That was her natural habitat. And if she needed to pitch a potential financial backer in a suite at Capital One Arena? I was her person. Fun fact: I can talk about basketball with a bunch of strangers for hours. We complemented each other.”
“Except for that part where she was actually in love with her childhood friend.”
I screw up my face as if there’s a rotten smell in the air. “Except for that. The thing is, not falling in love with Ella is precisely what’s helped me stay on track. I can’t imagine what would have happened if I’d been some lovesick chump finding out his fiancée had been stringing him along. I probably would have had to take a leave of absence just to get my head straight.”
That kind of scenario is more familiar to me than Solange might realize. My own mother would mope around the house for days when a boyfriend didn’t pan out. Once I hit my teens, I learned to do the cooking and cleaning until she clawed back from her latest downturn. Those were fun times.
“Your dossier mentioned one serious relationship before Ella,” she says. “What happened there?”
“Carrie Sloane,” I say. “We met on the first day of law school. Moved in together by the start of our second year.”
We stop at an intersection, and I look around me. People are meandering nearby, and I didn’t even notice. I’m focused on explaining myself. Getting it right. Because even though Solange and I don’t know each other well, I care about what she thinks of me. I’m convinced that if I don’t pass muster with her, I’m doing something wrong. Some people just affect us that way, I guess.
Once we’re clear to cross the street, she asks, “And then?”
“She complained that our relationship wasn’t growing in the way she’d hoped. I wasn’t romantic, she said. Didn’t tell her I loved her. Didn’t sweep her off her feet and all that jazz. But I was a solid boyfriend, I thought. Faithful. Supportive. And I cared for her. None of that was enough.”
Carrie wanted more than I could give her. I wish I’d figured that out before we decided to live together. It would have saved us both a lot of pain.
“Is that what ultimately led you two to end things?”
“It would have been the reason. Eventually. But before that could happen, she flunked out and expected me to move across the country with her. We were a team, she thought. And teams stick together, don’t they? Well, I couldn’t fathom giving up my law career for anyone. But I especially resented the fact that she expected me to. If we were a team, why was I the one who had to give something up? Obviously, she left without me. After that, I realized something important about myself: I’m not wired for romance. If two people are compatible, cool. That can be enough to make it work. But don’t oversell what’s happening. My mother talks about getting this warm, fuzzy feeling in her chest, and my brain immediately shuts down. I just don’t see the point.”
“Has it ever occurred to you that maybe you just haven’t met the person you’re meant to give your love to?” she asks, a tinge of exasperation in her voice.
“Has it ever occurred to you that some people aren’t meant to do that ever?”
Her stride falters for the first time, then she nods. “Absolutely. You’re right. And shame on me for suggesting otherwise. I’ve met tons of people who had no business promising to love someone forever. Kudos to you for acknowledging your own limitations.”
Tons of people, huh? There’s a story here. I wonder if she’d be willing to share it. We did agree this was the time to ask any burning questions, didn’t we? “These people who had no business promising love—were they promising to love you?”
“Yup,” she says glumly. “First, there was my father, who pretended he wanted to be in my life and ghosted me. Then there was Nolan. I met him in Ohio. He loved to make plans for our future, but when his stint at Building Futures ended, he asked to put our relationship ‘on pause.’ I don’t even know what that means. Oh, and then there was the guy in grad school, Chris. Now he was a scammer. He said he wanted forever, but it turns out, what he wanted was a girlfriend who edited his papers and took extra-careful notes so he could miss his morning classes. Unfortunately, my bullshit detector was on the fritz when I dated him.”
“I’m sorry you went through that.”
She shrugs. “It’s not anyone’s fault but mine. I chose poorly.”
“No, Solange. They were jerks, and that’s on them. Period.”
I never want to be like the men she’s encountered. The kind who say whatever they think their lover wants to hear. The kind who make bullshit promises, then balk when someone relies on them. I grew up with those guys. My mother and I had our lives upended by those guys too. I’ll be damned if I become one of them.
She taps me on the side; apparently, I’ve been silent too long. “I’m not scarred by any of this, and there’s no need to feel sorry for me. If anything, it’s helped me figure out what I do want. So, yeah, it’s all good.”
“Just in case it isn’t abundantly clear, I don’t play games with my partners. I’m always up-front about what they can expect of me. Probably explains why it took me this long to find someone who shared the same outlook. Or said she did.”
Wide-eyed, Solange stops midstroll and grabs my sleeve. “You mean there aren’t droves of women in the twenty-first century willing to enter into a marriage of convenience to further their ambitions? I’m shocked, I tell you. Absolutely shocked. Still, it’s your life, so carry on, my emotionally mature friend. Carry on.” Her phone rings, and she checks it. “It’s Brandon. Give me a sec.”
I stroll beside her as she speaks to him. Then we pause in front of the Tivoli Theatre, a DC historic landmark, its bright lights bathing the intersection with a soft yellow glow. Or maybe that’s pollution. Yeah, that’s definitely pollution. Despite the smog, the area’s still buzzing with passersby and people dining outside along Fourteenth Street.
“I swear, dude,” she says to Brandon, shaking her head. “One of these days, I’m not going to be around to save you.” A pause, and then: “Yeah, yeah. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Solange glances around, then taps on the screen. “Sorry about that. His coworker finally showed up, so he’s heading home, but Brandon being Brandon, he forgot his keys. Needs me to let him in.” When she’s done fiddling with her phone, she looks up at me. “My ride should be here any minute. Rain check on the tour?”
“Sure,” I say. “I can send you photos of the layout of my unit. That should be enough to field any questions about”—I make air quotes—“‘our’ place.”
“Good thinking.” Treating me to the loveliest lopsided grin, she bumps into my side. “Listen, getting back to what we were talking about: If your philosophy on relationships works for you, it’s not my place to judge. Really.”
I release a shaky breath. Even though Solange now understands the nature of my and Ella’s relationship, she hasn’t dismissed me completely. She’s showing me more grace than I’m used to. And that should be enough, right? I don’t need Solange’s permission to be who I’ve always been. We can respect each other’s differences and still work as a team for the next two weeks. Positioning myself for partnership should be my main concern anyway.
A dark sedan pulls up beside us and the passenger-side window slides down.
Solange leans over and looks inside the car. “Gabriel?”
The driver nods.
“This is my Lyft,” she tells me. “Thanks for an interesting night.”
“Yeah. That’s a great way to describe it: interesting.”
I survey her features in the lamplight, taking in the way the shadows seem to adore the planes of her face. There’s truly no angle at which this woman isn’t alluring. I’m irritated with myself for noticing.
She gives me a slow smile. “We made good progress today, you know.”
It’s been a roller coaster of an evening, but on balance, I’d have to agree. “We certainly did. Almost scored a foursome, too.”
“Let’s keep that between you, me, and Brandon,” she says with a wink.
“Deal.” I shove my hands into my back pockets. “So, about Tuesday’s main event . . . What if I pick you up at the school? That way, I’ll be familiar with it before we meet with Kimberly Bailey.”
“That works,” she says. “I’ll text you the info. Good night, Dean.”
“Good night, Solange.”
I watch her go, then my brain starts messing with me. What if the call from Brandon was planned? An excuse to cut the evening short because she just isn’t interested in spending any more time with me than she absolutely needs to? No, Solange doesn’t strike me as the kind of person to play games like that. Besides, what does it matter? We’re two people brought together under unusual circumstances. Heading in different directions but with a common purpose for a finite period. I can’t forget she’s doing me a huge favor, and there’s no need to overthink every interaction. We just need to pretend we’re in love. For four outings. With a chance at partnership on the line—and an irritating colleague hoping to trip me up.
What the hell was I thinking?