The first public outing happened two days later, and I prepared for it the way I’d prepare for surgery: with dread, nausea, and the faint hope that anesthesia was involved.
Trisha had orchestrated a casual lunch at a restaurant in Coral Gables where the paparazzi were reliable, the lighting was flattering, and the tables were spaced just far enough apart to seem private while being perfectly visible from the street. The whole thing was a stage production disguised as a meal, and I was the understudy who’d been shoved into the spotlight with no rehearsal.
I wore a dress she helped me pick. Simple and expensive, fitted like it was made for my body. I looked good, and I knew it. But looking the part and feeling it were two entirely different things, and right now I had one without the other.
Christopher opened the car door and offered his hand. I stared at it for a second, hesitated, then offered mine. His fingers were warm, his grip steady. He leaned close as we walked toward the restaurant entrance and said, against my ear, “Smile. You look like you’re walking to your execution.”
I pasted on a smile. “I’m imagining yours.”
We sat. We ordered. And then something happened that I wasn’t prepared for.
Christopher transformed.
The cold, distant man from the house disappeared. In his place was someone warm, friendly, I barely recognized.
“So tell me about the reconstruction,” he said, leaning forward on his elbows. “How’s the new layout coming?”
“It’s… coming.”
“And the menu? Have you finalized it?”
I looked at him. He was watching me with full attention, his blue eyes focused, his body angled toward mine like I was the only person in the restaurant. A waiter passed and Christopher’shand found the small of my back, casual and warm, guiding me closer to the table without seeming to think about it.
“Why are you being nice?” I asked.
“I’m always nice.”
“No, you’re not.”
He had the decency to look slightly uncomfortable. “I’m working on it.”
“Working on being nice?”
“Working on deserving the food I steal from the fridge.” He picked up his menu. “The prices here are reasonable, by the way.”
I glanced at the menu. The appetizers started at a hundred dollars. “Your definition of reasonable concerns me.”
“Order whatever you want.”
“I want to order something that doesn’t require a second mortgage.”
He grinned. I watched this transformation with the same fascination I’d felt at the resort. The gap between the performance and the person. He was good at this. Terrifyingly good. The question I couldn’t stop asking myself was where the performance ended and where, if anywhere, the real man began.
I played along because I’d signed a contract, because Trisha told me to, and because—if I was being honest, which I was trying not to be—it wasn’t entirely unpleasant being looked at the way Christopher was looking at me right now. Even if it was fake. I had to keep reminding myself of that.
I told myself repeatedly. Every time he leaned closer. Every time his hand found the small of my back. Every time his eyes held mine for a beat longer than necessary.
Fake. Fake. Fake.
We were photographed leaving. Christopher’s arm around my waist, me leaning into him slightly because Trisha had coached me on body language for forty-five minutes thatmorning andleaning inwas item number three on her list. Both of us were smiling. The photos hit the internet within hours.
The narrative was beginning to shift. The parking garage incident was becoming a passionate argument between newlyweds, not an unusual situation. Trisha texted me a thumbs-up emoji followed by a text.
TRISHA
Christopher is not the only good performer. Did you by any chance take acting classes?
Over the next week, the outings continued.
