Page 37 of Fauxmance in the City

“Thank you.” Natalie smiles, but it quickly fades when she moves her wrist. “Do you have any painkillers? Something strong.”

The older EMT shakes his head. “You’ll need a prescription from your doctor.”

“I have something strong,” Max says.

“I didn’t hear that,” the older EMT says. “But don’t take them with alcohol.”

The bespectacled EMT pulls out a stack of papers for her to sign since she’s declining to go to the hospital. When she reaches for the pen with her right hand, she can’t take it because of the injury. Picking up the pen with her left hand, she clumsily signs the papers. The realization of what this means suddenly hits us both.

Natalie canceled her trip to help me. But without her wrist, she can’t physically assist. She can’t do anything useful to salvage the meal with one hand and a mind full of painkillers.

Why was I given this moment of reprieve only to have it taken away? Am I meant to fail? Is that what this special has been leading to? My demise?

I pull Sam aside, and the only reason he doesn’t resist is because we have an audience.

“What am I going to do?” I ask Sam. “It was going to be a challenge no matter what. But my only hope is injured. I’m meant to film in two hours, and I have no backup plan. Why don’t I have a backup plan? I’m going down in flames on camera, and that shit will go viral. I’ll be another canceled celebrity.”

Sam untethers his arm from my hand, his face stone-cold. Chills run down my back experiencing this new, unloving Sam. I shouldn’t be surprised. My rejection after he’d been vulnerable in more ways than one last night created this chasm between us.

“Maybe this lesson is long overdue,” he says.

I gasp, his words hitting me like a slap. “So you meant what you said last night? We can’t even be friends?”

Sam closes his eyes for several seconds like he’s trying to rein in his emotions, then he opens them, the startling blue of his irises chilling me instead of warming me as they usually do.

“Give the girl a medal. She’s finally got it.”

He shoulders through the small crowd of crew by the kitchen door and leaves me. My chin wobbles, but I clamp my jaw shut, fury swapping places with my distress.

Screw him.

I can do this. This isn’t even filming live. I can work out the kinks. It may mean Good Day never wants to work with me again, but if that’s the worst that happens, I’ll take it.

I march to Karen to discuss the problem with the meal. Broken cakes aren’t the worst thing to happen in TV history. I can fake my way through this. I’ve played this charade for four years. What’re a few more hours?

ten

I’m sitting atop the dryer, legs crossed, hovering over my phone. The crew is finishing the last touches in the kitchen before we begin the shoot, and I need a moment alone.

I type a quick text to Patrick, explaining the new developments, keeping him in the loop. After I spoke to Karen, she sent an assistant out to buy cakes at the local bakery. We decided to dress the new cakes up and make them look like the original cheesecakes.

My phone buzzes with a slew of texts from Patrick in response to my predicament.

You’re a clever girl. You can pull this off. Be resourceful! And believe! If you believe it, it will come.

Has he been watching Field of Dreams again?

“What are you doing in here?”

My nerves jump at Sam’s voice. He’s in the doorway, his hair wet from a recent shower.

“Hiding,” I say. “What do you care?”

“Catie.” Sam pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales loudly. “Stop throwing a pity party. I have a right to be mad at you.”

“This has nothing to do with you, egomaniac. I’m stressed about the shoot and wanted a moment of quiet.” He’s a foot away, and the fresh, soapy smell of him mixed with his warm earthy scent sends my mind reeling back to last night.

“I think this has something to do with me.” Sam raises an eyebrow.

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