Page 7 of The Fake Date Deal

“This is an intervention. You’re turning into a shut-in.”

“A shut-in?” I laughed. “It’s been, what, three days?”

“Five days. That’s a symptom, losing track of time. What day of the week is it? Do you even know?”

“I don’t know, Thursday?” I scowled, annoyed. Emma crowed loudly.

“What did I say? It’s Friday, and we’re going out.”

I knew she meant we-we, like her, me, and Gabriella. But I waved her off rudely. “Cool. You have fun.”

Gabriella came bustling in. “I see someone’s grumpy. What’s this, a sugar crash from the macarons?”

It kind of was, but I dismissed her. “Get lost.”

“No, listen. We have a plan. We’re going to rescue you, but first, we need drinks.” Gabriella went to my drinks cabinet and poured some prosecco. She passed Emma the first glass, then poured some for me. I waved it off, not needing more sugar. I grabbed some water instead and took a long drink.

“You can’t save me,” I said, and plopped down on the couch. “You’ve seen the memes. The damage is done.”

“The damage was done,” said Emma. “But that was last week. The public’s attention span is like a gnat’s. Your slate’s been wiped clean now, so let’s write something new.”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “You heard of Star Wars Kid?”

She cocked her head. “I think so. Maybe. That kid with the lightsaber, and he went viral?”

“Yeah, that was him. In 2002. We were, what, three, and we still remember. What if my jilting ends up like that, me with my dress stuck, running away? There’s a version with sounds in, like boinging. Cartoon sounds.”

“Virality’s changed since 2002.” Gabriella sat next to me, sipping prosecco. “Back then, one meme could go on for years. It could be a whole mood, a whole subculture even. But there’s too many now for that to happen. You get ten seconds of infamy, then that’s it. You’re done. Unless you did something, y’know, gross or racist.”

“Simple embarrassment’s nothing,” agreed Emma. “Everyone’s moved on to that guy with his ass out.”

I didn’t want to know. I shook my head. “Still, if I go out there, it’ll remind them.”

“In a good way,” said Gabriella. “We have a plan, remember?”

“To do what, go out on the town looking awesome? Show the world I’m fine? I’ll just look pathetic.”

“That’s only half our plan.” Emma’s eyes sparkled. “You know Marco Barone?”

The name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it. “Wasn’t he that actor from?—”

“No! He’s a driver.” Emma was bouncing now, her excitement bubbling over. “He’s beaten Rafael a bunch of times. He’s his biggest rival. And he’s in Monaco, so we thought we could?—”

“No.”

“I haven’t even said yet?—”

“I’m not sleeping with Marco.”

“You don’t have to sleep with him.” Gabriella huffed laughter. “Look, he just tweeted he’s hitting the clubs. We’ll go and you’ll dance with him and get photographed. Rafael will see it and, bang. You win.”

“How do I win? I still got jilted.”

“Check this out,” said Emma, and pulled out her phone. She pulled up a shot of some racetrack grandstand, and at first all I saw was damn Rafael. Rafael glowing, dusted with petals, flashing the cameras a thousand-watt grin. My stomach turned over and I tasted acid.

“Forget him,” said Gabriella, covering his face with her thumb. “Look what Marco’s doing, flicking his chin. He’s from Italy, right? That’s, like, their finger.”

“Give me that,” I said, and grabbed Emma’s phone. I zoomed in on Marco, and, yeah. He looked pissed. His dark eyes were slitted, his lip curled up. His black hair was tousled, fresh out of his helmet, lending him a sort of wild-man appeal. “He is kind of hot,” I said.

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