Faking It (28 page)

I think maybe Luc is trying to not laugh because his lips are twitching and his eyes aren’t as flat as they were a few seconds ago.

“Who is
we
?”

“What?”

“You said, ‘I think
we
flooded the engine,” Luc says, narrowing his gaze. “Who is we, Vivia?”

Shitballs.

This is the moment I’ve been dreading. The moment when I tell Luc that I didn’t ride to Poggibonsi but hitched a ride with the handsy horseman.

“Who is
we
, Vivia?”

I open my mouth, but close it again when I hear a truck approaching from the other side of the river. A door opens, slams shut, and Simone calls my name.

Luc looks across the river and his face hardens. He doesn’t need to say a word; it’s written all over his face. Jealousy, anger, disappointment, disbelief. I know how this looks and it’s not good.

“So you decided to take Horse Boy up on his offer to give you a ride?” Luc moves closer to me and lowers his voice. “And here I thought…” He runs his hand through his hair. “I’ve been an idiot. When you didn’t come back, I imagined the worst. I’ve been driving all over Poggibonsi looking for you, praying you were safe. I never imagined—”

“It’s not what you think.”

“Really? What is it then?”

Simone wades across the river and joins us.

“It looks like your gig is up,
bella
,” Simone says, oblivious of the tension crackling around us. “So much for putting the wool on your Frenchman.”

“Jig, Simone.” My patience for the grammatically challenged Italian has reached the limit. “It looks like the
jig
is—never mind.”

Luc glares at me. “What does he mean, ‘putting the wool on your Frenchman?’”

“I find her on the side of the road,” Simone says, apparently happy to sell me down the river, no pun intended. “I give her ride to Poggibonsi so she gets there before you. She is a sneaky girl, no?”

Luc doesn’t answer Simone. He looks at me and shakes his head. His pained expression reminds me of the face Ricky Ricardo would make after discovering Lucy in another ridiculous situation. I’m half expecting him to say, “Lucy, you got some ’splainin’ to do.”

Instead, he says, “Where’s your bike?”

“In the back of the truck,” I say, feeling like a kid who’s been caught out after curfew. “I’ll go get it.”

“Stay, Vivia.”

Luc walks into the river heedless of his expensive loafers and suit, lifts my bike out of the flatbed, and stows it in the back of his van.

He returns, shrugs out of his suit coat, and wraps it around my shoulders.

“You’re shivering,” he says, rubbing my arms. “Why don’t you go wait in the van? I’m going to see if I can help your horseman.”

My horseman. The words are like two little daggers piercing my heart.

Luc says something to Simone in Italian. Simone responds. They walk to the truck.

I take my muddy shoes off and carry them to the van. My shoes feel as if they weigh a thousand pounds. So do my limbs…and my heart.

I hop into the van and watch Luc. His suit coat is still around my shoulders, warmed by the heat from his body. I pull it closer and inhale. The lingering scent of his warm, sultry cologne reminds me of our day together in Cannes, when he made love to me in the bright Mediterranean sunshine. Tears and a thick lump clog my throat.

What is wrong with me? Why do I keep making the same mistakes? I pretended to be a virgin with Nathan. I skirted around the truth like it was a land mine. When it finally, inevitably, detonated, it obliterated Nathan’s love for me. I climbed out of the wreckage, vowing to learn from my missteps, to be authentic. So why didn’t I just skip the ride and tell Luc the truth; that I hate everything about bike riding?

Luc pulls his head out from under the hood and motions for Simone to try the ignition. Simone turns the key. The engine sputters to life.

Simone hops out of his truck, wades through the river, and shakes Luc’s hand. Luc slaps Simone on the shoulder and they laugh.

Luc wasn’t happy to find me with Simone, but he still helped the Italian fix his truck. Most guys would have driven off without a glance in the rearview mirror. Not Luc. He’s too decent a guy to leave someone stranded in the middle of serial killer land. He rolled up his sleeves and fixed it.

That’s it. Luc is a fix-it guy. I really dig that about him. Nathan wasn’t a fix-it guy. He was a pay someone to fix it kind of guy.

Luc gets into the van, starts the engine, and begins driving down the dark dirt road without saying a word. The silence is killing me, but I don’t know how to break it. What do I say?
I know your last girlfriend lied to you, but please believe me, a virtual stranger who has already had crazy monkey sex with you, when I tell you nothing happened between me and Horse Boy.

We come to the four way stop, but instead of going straight to the Agriturismo, Luc takes a left.

“Aren’t we going back to the Agriturismo?”

“No,” Luc says, keeping his eyes on the road. “We need to talk and I want to do it before we go back to the Agriturisimo.”

Did you hear that sickening thud? It was just my heart dropping to my bare feet. This is it. Luc’s about to tell me he thinks I’m cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. He won’t use that slang, of course. He’ll probably say it in some mature, sophisticated way.

Adieu
Sexy Frenchman.
Bonjour
Sad Spinsterhood.

To The Curb

Luc parks on a hill facing San Gimignano. He turns the engine off, and we stare at the full, gigantic moon suspended over the medieval city. Moonlight is spilling over the towers and walls like liquid gold, splashing its shimmery brilliance over the hills and valleys. It’s a scene straight out of a fairy tale.

Luc’s silence is the spoiler. I know how this story is going to end, and it’s not going to be happily ever after.

Luc clears his throat.

I turn to look at him, and my heart doesn’t flip. It lurches. Goodbye is written all over his handsome face.

“Just one question, Vivia.” He smiles sadly. “Why?”

I remember what Chantal told me about Celine, how she lied to Luc about many, many things, how she broke his heart.
She was false and faithless
. Luc thinks I have been false and faithless with Simone.

“Luc, Simone gave me a ride in his truck, nothing more. I promise.”

“You think I am jealous? Is that what you think?”

I nod.

“I’m not jealous, Vivia. I don’t think anything happened between you and the Italian.”

“Then what is it?”

Luc looks back at the moon. I study his profile, memorizing every angle and shadow, collecting one last snapshot of him. When he looks back at me, I brace myself for the blow.

“I’m disappointed.”

Ouch! His words are like an uppercut to the heart.

“I’m sorry.”

“You could have told me you didn't want to ride. Why didn't you just tell me the truth?”

I didn't want you to stop liking me. It sounds so pre-teen, but I can’t think of any other way to say it.

“I didn’t want you to stop liking me,” I whisper, staring at my lap. “I’ve finished every ride dead last. I didn’t want you to think I was completely hopeless.”

“Isn't that what you did with your ex-fiancé?”

I look at Luc in confusion.

“You pretended to be something you weren’t, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“How did that work for you?”

Ouch. Again. First the uppercut to my heart and now a sucker punch. I’m too stunned, too ashamed to speak, so I just stare at him with tear filled eyes.

Luc shakes his head.

“Honestly, I expected more from you. I thought what happened with Edwards would have taught you the importance of being genuine. I thought you were confident enough to be yourself, but I guess I was wrong. Who are you? Really?”

He’s killing me. Kill. Ling. Me.

“Who am I?” I say, tears spilling onto my cheeks. “I’m Vivia Perpetua Grant, unemployed, homeless, frightened, insecure. I’m not as perfect as you. I can’t speak multiple languages, or sail a boat, or conduct basic automotive repairs, or cycle long distances.”

There’s a long, painful pause while Luc stares at me like he’s never seen me before. Tears are dripping off my nose, but the last vestiges of my pride won’t let me wipe them away.

“I never expected you to be perfect, Vivia,” Luc says, turning the key in the ignition. “Just honest.”

And there it is: the knock-out blow.

I want to tell Luc that I
have
been honest with him, painfully, embarrassingly honest. My Poggibonsi prank was just that—a prank. It didn’t really mean anything. Did it?

Luc throws the van into reverse. I take a last look at San Gimignano glowing in the golden moonlight like a mirage, shimmering and then finally fading away. Is that what’s happened to Luc’s feelings for me? Did they burn bright and fade away?

We don’t talk on the way back to the Agriturismo. Luc stares at the road, his jaw clenched, his lips pressed together in a grim line. I look out the window and hear a playlist of sad break-up songs in my head. I play Christina Perri’s “Distance
”
over and over, especially the part about broken heartbeats. My chest aches with my own broken heartbeats.

Broken heartbeats are all I have left to give. I sound melodramatic, don’t I? I’ve only known Luc for two weeks. It’s not like I’m in love with him.

But if I’m not in love with him, why do I feel as if I have been shattered into a million jagged pieces that can never be put back together again?

Luc turns into the Agriturismo’s private drive, follows it around the hamlet, and pulls to a stop in front of the castle. He gets out, comes around the car, and opens my door for me.

There’s nothing for me to do but grab my shoes and get out.

“
Bonne nuit
, Luc.”

“
Bonne nuit
, Vivia.”

He gets back into the van and drives away, leaving me standing on the curb holding my muddy cycling shoes to my chest.

Riding into the Sunset

Ronnie Radke reaches into my dreams and drags me out of my lovely netherworld. Reluctant to face reality, I keep my eyes closed and my mind focused on the wispy images of my dream. Something about Josh Todd begging me to star in Buckcherry’s new video.

It takes me a while to realize my mobile is ringing, not my alarm.

“Sorry, Fanny,” I say, blindly groping for my wailing iPhone. “I’m getting it.”

By the time I locate my offending iPhone, it’s stopped ringing. I’ve missed the call.

“Who’s calling me this early?”

Fanny doesn’t answer. I reach over to shake her awake, but find an empty spot where my best friend should be. I’m alone.

I look at the clock on the nightstand. 9:12 a.m.

Shit!

I must have overslept. It’s our last day in Italy and we were supposed to meet in the lobby at eight for an architectural and historical tour of Florence. Why didn’t Fanny wake me? How could she abandon me?

A note is propped against the alarm clock.

V,

You’re pissed at me because I didn’t wake you up, right? You’ll get over it by the time you finish reading this note. I promise. Jean-Luc called while you were still asleep. He wants to take you on a date (Use protection and obey your curfew). He’ll meet you in the lobby at 10:00. I turned your iPhone on and set your alarm for 9:30. I left a fiber bar and an orange on the mini bar. Have fun and remember: No more tattoos!

Fanny

I read the note two more times just to make sure I’m not wishful reading. Jean-Luc called and wants to take me on a date?

Hold on. Did I miss something?

How did we get from disappointed to date? Luc literally kicked me to curb last night, but this morning he wants to take me on a date?

Unexpected phone calls. Luc’s sudden change of heart. It’s proving to be a morning of mysteries.

I look at my missed call log to see determine the identity of my mysterious morning caller. Mum!

I play the message.

“Hello Vivia. Mum, here. Did you remember to sign up for the international plan? I hope so or you’re going to get a dreadful bill and end up in debtor’s prison. Frightening thought, that. I don’t want to visit you in the pokey—”

Since when did my mum start calling prison the pokey?

“—Anyway, I’m calling to see if you would like me to pick you up from the airport. You arrive Tuesday at 10:30, right?”

My mum asks a question and then pauses for the answer, as if she’s not talking to my voicemail. She’s quirky and sometimes annoying, but her message makes me suddenly homesick.

“I have my Hip Hop Abs class then, but I can miss a day. Just let me know, Luv. Okay? I’ll let you go. Oh, wait! One more thing: an editor from some magazine called looking for you. I gave her your e-mail address so be sure to check your e-mails. Ta, Luv!”

I’m probably the only twenty-five year old with a mother who goes to Hip Hop Abs classes and liberally sprinkles her vernacular with words like
pokey
and
jiggy
. I would be embarrassed if I didn’t feel sorry for her. Ever since my dad left her, Mum has been trying to forge a new independent identity. One week, she’s hanging around City Lights, sipping coffee and writing poetry. City Lights is a San Francisco institution. The bookstore/publisher was beatnik center in the fifties and hippie headquarters in the sixties. The next week she’s volunteering at a shelter in Oakland and taking Hip Hop Abs.

Meanwhile, Dad is shacking up with a vegan Professor of Agriculture, who collects creepy porcelain dolls with soulless eyes. She tries to foist her carob and bean paste brownies off on me, but I’d rather bust a move with mom in Hip Hop Abs than eat one of those bricks.

My alarm goes off, reminding me that I have only thirty minutes to fire up my flat iron and fix my face before meeting Luc in the lobby.

Curious, I quickly open my e-mail box and scroll through the messages until I come to one from Louanne Collins-London at
GoGirl!
Magazine
. My breath catches.

Subj: Travel Correspondent Job Offer