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“Genital warts?”
“Mmm. Maybe?” He massages his temple. “The only good thing is that my brother’s coming.”
I tense. “Jack?”
“Yeah.”
Stupid question. Greg only has the one. “I thought you said he’d be gone?”
“His work dinner got canceled.”
I groan inwardly.
“What?”
Shit, I groaned outwardly. “Nothing.” I grin and squeeze his arm through his coat. Greg Smith is my favorite client, and I will see him through this evening unscathed. “Let me handle your family, okay? It’s what you pay me for, after all.”
It really is. And I’m grateful every day that I’ve never had to remind him. Many of my clients wonder more or less openly what other services I might offer, even though the terms of service in the Faux app are pretty explicit. They clear their throat, stroke their chin, and ask, “Whatexactlyis included in this... fake-girlfriend rate?” I’m often tempted to roll my eyes and knee them in the nuts, but I try to not take offense, to smile kindly, and to say, “Notsex.”
I also—to answer the standard follow-up questions—don’t kiss, frot, dirty talk, get naked, do butt stuff, give BJs, HJs, TJs, and whatever other Js might exist that I’m not aware of. I don’t let them pee on me or fondle my feet, nor do I facilitate and/or allow orgasms in my general vicinity.
Not that there would be anything wrong: sex work is legitimate work, and people who engage in it are just as deserving of respect as ballerinas, or firefighters, or hedge fund managers. But ten months ago, when I graduated with a Ph.D. in theoretical physics from Northeastern, I figured that by now I’d have a reasonably remunerated academic position. I didnotimagine that at twenty-seven I’d be paying my water bill by helping adult men pretend that they have dating lives. And yet here I am, fake-girlfriending my way through my student loans.
Not to kill anyone’s buzz, but I’m starting to suspect that life might not always turn out the way you want. An unavoidable loss of faith: there are only so many times one can be hired to project the idea that a client is a charming, well-adjusted, emotionally available human being capable of holding on to a medium-term relationship with an equally high-functioning adult, in order to... Well, it varies. I’ve never asked Greg why Caroline Smith is so obsessed with the idea of her thirty-year-old son having a significant other. Based on snippets of overheard conversations within the Smith CinematicUniverse, I suspect it has to do with the massive estate that will come into play once the matriarch dies, and with the belief that if he provided the first great-grandchild, he’d be more likely to inherit... a diamond-studded water hose, I assume?
Rich people. They’re just like us.
But Greg’s nosy mom is still much better than his brother, who’s bad news for a whole bunch of reasons that do not bear contemplating. Frankly, it’s a relief thatsheis my target. It means that when the front door of Smith Manor opens, I can focus solely on her: the withholding, PVC-hearted woman who manages to air-kiss us, fuss with Greg’s hair, and push two full glasses of wine into our hands all at once.
“How’s life in finance, Gregory?” Caroline asks her son. He downs half of his drink in a single gulp—I suspect because I’ve heard him explain that he does not, in fact, work in finance. At least four times. “And you, Elsie?” she adds without waiting for a reply. “How are things at the library?”
Following Faux’s guidelines, I tell my clients nothing about myself—not my full name, not my day job, not my true opinions on cilantro (excellent, if you enjoy eating soap). And that, in a nutshell, is what fake-girlfriending is about. It initially seemed sketchy that people would pay for a fake date in the age of Tinder and Pornhub, and that they’d payme—unremarkable Elsie Hannaway of the medium everything. Medium height. Medium-brown hair and eyes. Medium nose, butt, feet, legs, breasts. Pretty, yeah, sure, but in a medium, nondescript way. And yet, my medium mediumness is the perfect blank slate to fill. An empty canvas to paint on. A mirror, reflecting only what others care to project. A bolt of fabric that can be custom tailored to—well. I’m sure everyone’s tracking the metaphor.
The Elsie that Caroline Smith wants is someone able to fit in with people who usesummeras a verb, not flashy enough to attract a better catch than Greg, and with the nurturing instincts to take care of the son she might love but cannot be bothered to know. Children’s librarian seemed like a great fake profession. It’s been fun scouring online forums in search of charming anecdotes.
“Today I found three Goldfish crackers in our best copy ofMatilda,” I say with a smile.Or at least, Reddit user iluvbigbooks did.
“That ishilarious,” Caroline says without laughing, smiling, or otherwise displaying amusement. Then she leans closer, whispering as though her son, who’s a foot away, cannot hear us. “We aresoglad that you’re here, Elsie.”We, I believe, includes Greg’s dad, who stands silently next to her, popping three cubes of colby jack into his mouth with the vacant smile of someone who’s been dissociating since 1999. “We weresoworried about Gregory. But now he’s with you, and he’s never been happier.”Has he, though?“Gregory, make sure to spend lots of quality time with your grandmother tonight. Izzy is taking pics with her Polaroid to give her at the end of the night—make sure you’re inallof them.”
“I’ll make sure he is, Mrs. Smith,” I promise, weaving my arm through Greg’s. I break that promise fifteen seconds later, at the end of the glitzy hallway. He downs what’s left of his wine, steals two large gulps of mine, and then stage-whispers “See you in ten minutes” before locking himself inside the bathroom.
I laugh and let him be. I feel protective of him—enough to break Faux standard protocol and agree to repeat fake dates, enough to want to defend him from muggers and pirates and his extended family. Maybe it’s that his first sentence to me was a panicky “My mother won’t stop asking why I don’t date,” followed by a hesitant, frazzled explanation of whythatwasn’t going to happen anytimesoon—an explanation that hit too close to home. Maybe it’s that he always looks like how I feel: tired and overwhelmed. In another timeline we’d be best friends, bonding over the unavoidable stress ulcers that will soon ravage the linings of our stomachs.
I find the empty kitchen, duck inside, and watch the red swirl down the drain as I pour what’s left of my glass into the sink. A waste. I should have just refused it, but that would lead to questions, and I don’t want to explain that alcohol is a dangerous, glycemic terrorist and that my struggling pancreas doesnotnegotiate with—
“Not to your taste?”
I jump. And yelp. And almost drop the glass, which probably costs more than my graduate education.
I thought I was alone. Wasn’t I alone? Iwasalone. But Greg’s older brother is in the room, leaning against the marble counter, arms crossed over his chest. Those unique multicolored eyes of his are staring at me with the usual inscrutable expression. I’m standing between him and the only entrance—either I overlooked him, or he bent the space-time continuum.
OrI mixed him up with the refrigerator. Theyaresimilarly sized, after all.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“I—yes. Yes, sorry. I just...” I force a smile. “Hi, Jack.”
“Hi, Elsie.” He says my name like it’s familiar to him. The first word he ever learned. Second nature, and not just a bunch of vowels and consonants he’s barely had reason to use before.
