Page 14 of Fake It 'til You Make It

For the first time, I’m thinking of shoes as a platonic gift. Mel has managed to rearrange my entire calendar in order for me to stay in New York for the next week. She’s organized a full food shop to be delivered to my brother’s apartment, she made anappointment with a stylist here at Saks because she knows one of my worst nightmares would be trudging around a department store shopping for myself. She’s even booked a slot with a handyman to repair the hole I made in my brother’s apartment wall.

The woman deserves a new pair of fancy shoes. And if I’m honest with myself, I’m buying her silence – I need to keep my specific whereabouts quiet for as long as possible. And in order to do that, I need to have someone onside to help me navigate through the clusterfuck that is my current life status.

‘Can I take these in a size eight?’ I ask, my eyes flicking back to Lady Big Panties.

The way her cheeks flush as she glances up to me, diverting her gaze when I look back, tells me she’s talking about me with her friends.

I scoff. She may have a pretty laugh and a beautiful face, but she’s clearly just another It girl, throwing her cash around on designer labels with her friends. Exactly the kind of woman I will never get mixed up with again.

I’m walking back to Mike’s place with my New York wardrobe split into six bags. In part, I’m regretting the decision to walk with the heavy load but after what I’ve been feeling since Thursday morning, the pain of the strung handles digging into my skin and threatening to cut off my circulation is surprisingly easy to bear.

Usually, I’m a walker. Back home in San Francisco, I’m always outdoors for a hike, bouldering, getting out on the water. I’d take the outdoors over any kind of workout.

I don’t like to feel like I’m working out. Getting fit should be a by-product of enjoying physical activity. It’s an escape from thesedentary activity of software development: building, testing, protecting and selling our products. Though it’s Roman who does the big sell. I’m the behind-the-scenes guy – except for tomorrow.

The thought makes me look to my right hand, where my new suit is causing the tips of my fingers to turn a shade of blue-ish purple.

My stomach grumbles as I’m heading east on Bowery. I’m familiar enough with Manhattan to know I’m somewhere near China Town, making my way toward Manhattan Bridge and, ultimately, Brooklyn.

Flicking my wrist, I ask Siri via my watch, ‘Where will I find the best steamed dumplings in China Town, Manhattan?’

I’m happily a few blocks away from Siri’s recommendation on Grand Street. Even better, Siri, as if aware the woman I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with has been screwing my best friend, informs me the café is great for people eating solo.

I’ve never felt more seen.

I order a selection of veggie, fish and seafood dim sum and dump my bags on a rickety plastic chair and wonky table, at which I swear my limbs and extremities breathe a sigh of relief.

Curiosity or stupidity gets the better of me and as I take a seat and wait for my food, I switch my phone out of airplane mode.

The device proverbially blows up with notifications. Skimming what’s important, ignoring anything from Roman and deciding to call Mel as soon as I’m back, I come to land on a WhatsApp notification.

Fleur – Voice Message

I hate that my stomach flutters at the sight of her name, as if her message is a first date.

I stick my AirPods in my ears, and my thumb seems to hover without my brain’s instruction over the Play arrow.

I could kick myself for wanting to hear her voice. For missing her. Us.

But I don’t want to know what she has to say. What could she possibly say to fix this? Us?

Pulling up my big boy briefs, I hit the ominous triangle.

‘Teddy.’

She sighs.

‘Where are you?’

Her tone is a bit snippy for my liking, giving she’s firmly in the doghouse right now.

‘You can’t hide from this forever.’

No, I can’t. But I don’t know how to face it yet, either.

‘Ted.’

Her voice is softer now, calmer. Tender?

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