“Ten months without a relationship, you mean?” I ask, since I know she hasn’t been involved with anyone since the split. But come to think of it, she hasn’t mentioned any dates either. Even though she doesn’t kiss and tell, she still probably would have said something if she’d had a good date.
She shakes her head. “No relationship. No dates. No kissing. Nothing.”
Ten months without sex. That’s like a lifetime. Not sure I’ve gone more than ten days. Maybe fourteen tops, but that was a rough two weeks. She must be working her toys hard.
Ah, fuck. Now, I’m picturing Charlotte in bed with a purple vibrating rabbit, legs spread, hand working the ten-speed controller, breath coming fast.
Thanks, brain, for putting that fantastic image in my head to derail any intelligent thought.
Some days I wonder how men get anything accomplished at all with sex on the brain constantly. In fact, I wonder how men have ever gotten a single thing done across the whole vast expanse of time. It’s a miracle we manage to tie our shoes and comb our hair.
Then it hits me. That kiss on her couch. That kiss on the street. Those were the first kisses she’s had in nearly a year. My kisses. It makes me kind of happy that I’m the first guy she’s kissed in a long time. Even though it makes no sense that I’d be glad about that. It also doesn’t make sense that a dose of possessiveness over Charlotte courses through me, too. I don’t want anyone else to kiss her.
I mean, not for the next week, of course.
That’s all this possessiveness is about.
“By the way,” she says as the car arrives at the store, “how does this end?”
“Us?”
She nods. “The fake engagement.”
“I guess we have a fake breakup,” I say, even though I hadn’t thought out the end of this. Maybe because I hadn’t scripted the beginning either. It’s all been me flying by the seat of my pants.
“At the end of the week?” she asks, as we reach the gleaming glass doors of the New York institution that’s been part of my life for as long as I can remember.
“Yeah, a real fake breakup,” I emphasize, before I buy her the ring to seal the deal. A ring that has an expiration date, just like this fake affair that we’ve now planned the ending for.
The real ending.
* * *
Things I learn about Charlotte in the next hour at Katharine’s:
She likes holding hands.
She likes snaking an arm around my waist.
She likes running her fingers through my hair.
She’s quite handsy when we’re playing pretend—it’s downright impressive, her commitment to method acting.
She also has impeccable taste and selects a princess cut two-carat diamond set in a platinum band. “This is the ring I’ve always wanted,” she declares to Nina, my dad’s right-hand woman, and I swear Charlotte’s going to float away on a cloud of happiness. The woman absolutely sounds like a blushing bride-to-be.
Nina smiles brightly. She’s tall and neatly dressed in a silk blouse and gray skirt, and her brown hair is swept into a bun. “Then let’s make sure the glass slipper fits you perfectly,” she says, and disappears to the back of the store to have the ring sized.
“You’re a pro,” I say once Nina’s out of earshot. Charlotte waves a hand dismissively, and I tell her, “No, seriously. You’re going to be accepting an Oscar soon for nailing the role of ecstatic fiancée.”
She drags her fingers along a glass case and shrugs, like her performance is no big deal. “I like diamonds. That makes it easy for me.”
“Ah, so this is Honest Charlotte in action? And Honest Charlotte loves jewelry?”
She nods. “Honest Charlotte adores princess-cuts and platinum. When my friend Kristen got engaged last year I was thrilled for her, and couldn’t stop staring at her princess cut diamond. It was gorgeous, but more importantly, she’s so happy, and she’s madly in love. Being elated over an engagement ring isn’t an emotion I have to fake,” she says, meeting my eyes. I can see her sincerity written in them—in this moment, those brown eyes are completely guileless.
She loves the idea of being committed. Maybe not to me. But just in general.
The truth of that emotion is almost too big for me. I gotta go for a joke. “What if it were a pinkie ring, though? What if I wanted to get you a gold pinkie ring with a big, fat rock? Would that fit your style?”
She leans in closer and wiggles her eyebrows. “Thanks for the hint, snookums. Now I know just what to get you for a wedding gift.”
Nina returns to tell us the ring should be ready in fifteen minutes. “Thank you. I can’t wait,” Charlotte says, and now I know she means it. She’s telling some sort of truth to Nina.
But I’m lying, and that makes me feel like a bit of a schmuck. I’ve known Nina for years, and she even babysat for Harper and me when we were younger. She was my dad’s first employee when Katharine’s started as a small boutique off Park Avenue. A sales clerk, she worked her way up over the years, rising to VP as that one shop grew into an international business. My father has often said that Nina and my mother have helped him make most of his important business decisions in the last thirty years. They’re his key advisors.
“I’m so thrilled for the two of you, and I’m so glad you’re the woman who brought him to one knee,” Nina says to Charlotte, who looks away. Nina rests a hip against a display case of diamond tennis bracelets and turns to me, gently swatting my arm. “I still can’t believe you’re getting married.”