Page 1 of Is This for Real?
Chapter one
Onanytop-tenlistof best Sunday plans, today’s brunch with my former crush and his new girlfriend would rank number eleven . . . hundred. Times five. But I couldn’t say no. We’re still friends.
And I’m over him.
Just keep telling yourself that.
Still, there is no chance I will ever say “I love you” to Jamie again.
The subway is oddly crowded for this time of day. I squeeze on, snagging the prime real estate spot leaning against the metal doors, right up against the “Do Not Lean on Door” warning, and hold on to a small sliver of a handrail. As the train approaches Times Square–42ndStreet, the conductor announces that this local train is now going express, and groans erupt. Works for me. At 42ndStreet, half the train empties out, but it quickly fills back up, as if we’ve all just exchanged dance partners.
Three stops later, the train car shudders to a stop, spitting me out, along with a stream of passengers jostling each other for a place in the ant line marching up the stairs. The last brush-by, without even a “’Scuze me,” skews my hat, my favorite 1920s-style cloche. So much for all the time I spent positioning it just right so I’d look more poised—less cute little buddy—when Jamie sees me again. He’s back in New York for a brief visit. I haven’t seen him in over a year since he’s been living in Singapore. Now if only I can live up to the hat’s “superpower sophistication.” I adjust it and push through the turnstile.
Even before I reach the top of the steps to the street, the smell of honey-roasted nuts from the Nuts4Nuts vendor cart at the top is making me hungry.
At least my close friend Rory agreed to join me at this brunch with Jamie and his new girlfriend, so I’m not the rejected third wheel sitting across from the happy couple.
Chambers Street is crowded with vendor tables but not many people yet. The phone store and clothing store with back-to-school sale signs soldier on, not yet joining the other boarded-up stores on this block. And then Michaels craft store. The lure is strong. Not that I need any more crafting supplies, but it seems a waste to be in the neighborhood and not check out its sale selection. But I resist. I want to be first to the brunch battlefield, able to plan my strategy as advised inThe Art of War. Not that I’ve read it, justThe Art of War for Writers.
My email pings. I’m taking a hodge-podge of online writing courses while I write my second novel as I query my first novel,Midnight Masquerade, and it’s a comment from my teacher on my latest online assignment: “You’re still holding back, playing it safe. You need to scrape your emotions raw in your writing.”
I don’t think so. I felt naked enough writing that scene. And I’m not sure how much of me I want to expose for public consumption.
Up ahead, Rory is leaning against a streetlight, reading a book. One lock of his wavy, brown hair has fallen onto his face, and he pushes it away to join the rest of his unruly mop of hair. He could be modeling menswear, except that the cover of the book he’s holding is bright pink and yellow. A romcom book I recommended. He wanted to read other books in my genre so he could compare my draft manuscript to the competition, so I gave him a list of my favorites. He looks up, and our glances catch.
“Like your hat, Penelope. Suits you.” Rory kisses me on the cheek.
We push open the door to The Barn. Bells jingle, and the buttery smell of pancakes welcomes us. The whitewashed wood gives the restaurant an old farmhouse vibe. Vintage signs with pictures of black-and-white cows and bushels of peaches decorate the walls. We stand in line in the small foyer, waiting to be seated.
I’ve been seeing more of Rory lately. We’re friends from college. I briefly had a crush on him then, but he started dating someone else. When he has a girlfriend, we see each other about once every other month. But he broke up with his last girlfriend about two months ago, and now he calls me to get together for brunch nearly every Sunday. My best friend and roommate, Zelda, who also knows Rory from college, was like, “Well, he obviously enjoys hanging out with you, but you’re solidly in the friend lane with this Sunday brunch thing.” Trust Zelda for the straight talk. It’s not that I thought I was changing lanes and moving to the speeding girlfriend lane. I’m good driving at a controlled sixty miles an hour—and not hazardously heading for a heartbreak on some highway of love.
“How do you like the book?” I ask.
“It’s good. Deeper than I expected. Funny. Affirms all my love-lasts-forever bull. Isn’t that what you called it?” His tone is mild, but an undercurrent of frustration pulses there.
“I was drunk when I said that.” I’m surprised he remembers. It was at a dinner party several years ago. About six of us were drunkenly arguing over the merits of prenups. I don’t even remember how the topic came up, except that we have two friends who are on polar opposites of the issue. As were Rory and I. I was for prenups, he was against. I argued prenups define expectations so there’s less chance of angry fights when it ends.
“In vino veritas,” Rory says.
“I’d say more like, when drunk, debate points are exaggerated. I shouldn’t have called it bull.”
“I don’t think that works as well. In vino debatus pointus exaggeratos.”
I laugh. “Anyway, your belief gives me hope.” I hope that Rory finds his true love and that she doesn’t break his heart.
He gives me a quizzical look. “So, what’s with this fake boyfriend trope? This is the second one with it.”
“I like that trope.” I tilt my head.
“Do you?”
Something in the way he asks makes me look at him more closely. “Yes. I’m writing a fake dating plot in my new book,Fake Dating Folly.”
“Why do you like it?”
“I like the getting-to-know-each-other-slowly.” I shrug. “I don’t know. So, what happened on Thursday? Did your pitch win?” Rory works in advertising.
“Yes, but . . .”
