Page 27 of Is This for Real?
The machine is beeping.
I school my face to look like I agree.
Jamie, Willow, and a nurse rush in. I stand back as the nurse adjusts something and tells Theresa all is okay.
Jamie and Willow take up seats by her bed while I stand in the back. Willow is rubbing Jamie’s back as she chats to Theresa. It’s not me who needs to be strong for Jamie.
The nurse tells us Theresa should rest and we all leave, me trailing Jamie and Willow.
When we get outside, Jamie hails a cab and then turns around, almost as an afterthought, and asks if they can drop me off. But I’m going Uptown and they’re going Downtown. I say thanks, but no.
I bicycle up First Avenue to Theresa’s store to update the display windows. I feel guilty that here she is, ill, and she’s worrying about my lack of income. My bike wheels splash through the puddles, spraying water. The wind whistles through streets as soon as the shelter of the buildings disappears. It’s dark and gray, and not many people are out. The rain pelts my face. I keep pushing my hood up to see the winding road ahead and then pulling it down to protect my face. The truth is, things aren’t in great shape. My Etsy store isn’t doing that well. The agent rejections keep coming. And my current career choice is apparently creating stress not only for me but also for my substitute mom. And Jamie—I’m not sure if we can restore our former closeness. There was a moment, when we were in my apartment, but it was based on our shared childhood. The wind is against me. I peddle harder.
I should have created a fake job, not a fake boyfriend. I should think more seriously about an alternate career, one that would make Theresa worry less for me. But an alternate career just makes me feel like one of those dark clouds above. My mix of jobs works for me—making minis and miniature scenes feeds the creativity in my writing. They may all end up making money. Like those stones in The Met exhibit, these things take time.
Even though it’s mid-September, I still go with a “back to school” theme for the store windows. One mannequin is bench-pressing various books that we sell—workout books, biking books, bike trails in NYC—and another is running with a backpack overloaded with books. The mannequin’s running clothes, in sunshine yellow and gray, along with the pops of colors on the book covers, give an inviting impression.
As I am putting the window together, Kareem fits a customer for sneakers. Kareem is a runner and even coaches a high school team. He’s getting a master’s degree and working here in the meantime. Kareem asks the customer questions about her running style and looks at her foot arch to find her the best-fitting sneaker. He’s really a treasure trove of knowledge. And he’s so passionate about running that his enthusiasm just shines through.
She tries on several pairs. Kareem suggests she take a walk around the store in them. She’s found a pair she likes, but then she checks her phone. She says she’ll think about it and leaves. Kareem looks disappointed.
“I can’t believe she didn’t buy the pair,” I say.
“She might come back, but she might get them cheaper on Amazon,” Kareem says. “We’re not selling enough. I hope your windows lead to an uptick in business.”
No pressure.
“We should do an Instagram video with you demonstrating how you fit a shoe to advertise your expertise.”
“That will just get us a whole bunch of people trying on shoes and using Kareem’s expertise, but then buying elsewhere,” Brian says. Brawny Brian is my least favorite employee. He scoffed openly at my little mini gym.
“At least they’ll come into the store,” Kareem says.
Brian films us as Kareem fits me for a pair of sneakers. Kareem looks at my flat-footed arch and recommends this brand of sneakers that specializes in this, as well as an extra insert. I try them on, and I feel like I’m walking on air. I bounce all over the store.
“I love them.” I buy the sneakers with probably my pay for the day. I’ll check later to see if they are cheaper on Amazon.
We play back the video. Brian filmed me bouncing all around the store. Brian and Kareem both laugh when they watch it. I thought he had stopped filming.
“It’s good.” Brian nods. Kareem nods, too.
I don’t trust Brian. Yet it seems joyful to me. I think it has the emotional honesty needed to bring in customers. I send it to Jamie for approval. He approves it, and we post it.
I take pictures of the windows and post them on the store’s Instagram account.
And then I bike home.
I set my timer for twenty minutes to write five hundred words. And if I write one thousand words, I can watch fifteen minutes of clips of my favorite scenes inThe Proposal. And call it research. Even if it does make me feel like I’ll never measure up to the brilliance of that banter.
In the next scene in my fake dating novel, they practice like Rory and I have practiced. The heroine, Piper, is an artist, and she and the hero, Rob, decide to practice their fake dating at an art opening.
“Piper!”
That voice haunted my dreams, but it couldn’t be. Julian. Julian had crushed my heart when he’d broken up with me and moved to England. Where, after a year, he was now engaged to a Miss Charity Heath—a name seared into my mind in flowery script from the wedding invite I’d received.
I turned. Julian.
He looked the same. My wish of a steady diet of scones and sugared tea fattening him up had definitely not come true. If anything, his European-cut jacket made him look sharper, as if I’d put on my glasses and all the blurred edges had become defined. And I still felt that pang of pain that he hadn’t wanted me.
