Page 23 of His Perfect Fake Engagement

“You know it, big guy.” They fist-bumped carefully, their prostheses making a clickety sound. Twenty-five-year-old Cherise, an aspiring commercial artist and graphic designer, had lost her right arm to bone cancer. Her goal was to be able to draw again.

Cherise seized Jenna in a tight hug, patting her back with the prosthetic arm. “Hey, Professor! Ava was telling me you’re engaged again! Last I heard, you’d just unloaded that useless tool Rupert. Screw that guy. Onward and upward.”

“Absolutely. This is, uh, pretty new,” Jenna said, flustered. “Cherise, meet Drew.”

Cherise gave Drew a long, lingering once-over, and looked back at Jenna, owl-eyed. “You go, girl,” she said in hushed tones. “This one is fine.”

“Don’t overdo it, Cherise,” Jenna murmured. “It’ll go to his head.”

“I’ll try to contain myself. Ava said to tell you we can get started. I go first today, boys. Before I start sweating under the lights and my mascara starts to run.”

They got underway in front of the cameras. Jenna started by filming the process of fitting the sensor map sleeve over Cherise’s stump. Then they attached the muscle-reading ring, and fitted the prosthesis directly onto the titanium plug emerging from her stump that she had gotten in the osseointegration surgery. It allowed the prosthesis to attach directly to the bone without stressing her skin. Twist, click, and it was in place.

“Flex, and clench,” Jenna directed.

Cherise did so smoothly.

“Thumb to every fingertip,” Jenna directed.

Cherise did so: tap, tap, tap, tap. Then back again, swiftly and smoothly.

“Excellent,” Jenna said, delighted. “Your control improves every time.”

“You better believe it,” Cherise said fervently. “I practice sixteen hours every damn day with this thing. I want my life back.”

“What is it that you want to do?” Drew asked.

“I’d just applied to a bunch of graphic design schools last year when I got diagnosed,” Cherise told him. “I got distracted. But I’m not giving up. Let me show you this latest thing I’ve been working on.”

They moved closer, along with the cameramen, as Cherise hoisted up a big folder. She laid it on the table, struggling for a few seconds to open it with her prosthetic fingers.

When she finally got it open, she showed them a series of bold-colored drawings of prosthetic arms like her own, with various decorations superimposed on them.

“I have a bunch of ideas,” she said, leafing through them. “These are just a few. This is Fairy Kingdom. This is Thunder Dragon. Then there’s Skull Snake, Sith Lord, Starsong, Elven Realm, and this is my favorite, Goblin King. You put these on with a light adhesive so they can be switched out easily whenever you need a different look.”

“Those are amazing, Cherise,” Jenna said. “What a great idea.”

“You drew these with your prosthetic hand?” Drew asked.

“Yes. I’m slow, but it’s getting better, bit by bit. I’m training my left hand, too.” Cherise looked at Jenna. “I want to propose a series of decorations for the prosthesis for your brochure and your online catalog. Amputees need to make fashion statements, too.”

“Great idea,” Jenna said. “We’ll discuss it.”

“I also really need for you guys to put some sort of base to apply decorative fingernails to the prosthesis,” Cherise said. “A girl needs her fingernails.”

“We’re on it,” Jenna promised.

“Was this project in your design school application portfolio?” Drew asked.

“No, I applied before I started these,” she replied. “I’ve already got a bunch of rejection letters in my collection. You gotta hang on to those, you know? Every good success story has a big fat wad of rejection letters in it.”

“A project like this would attract their attention,” Drew said. “I bet they don’t see this level of dedication and commitment every day.”

“Aw.” Cherise beamed at him. “Thanks, handsome. You made my day.” She looked over at Jenna and mimed fanning herself vigorously. Lucky girl, she mouthed.

Jenna felt a clutch in her throat. It felt just as wrong to fake an engagement with Drew in front of Cherise and Roddy as it had in front of Bev. It felt disrespectful to misrepresent something that important to people whom she loved and respected.

But she’d recommitted to this strange charade herself, in the café this morning. And she’d deliberately goaded Drew into recommitting to it, too. All because being the failed plaything had stung her pride. Wow. Talk about shallow.

Nothing to do now but grit her teeth and tough it out.

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