The Fake Heartbreak (Searching for Love Book 3) Read online

  Finally, Leo steps up the register and orders, glaring daggers at Todd the whole time. I start to feel sorry for Todd; Leo can’t be much older than I am, but he has a glare that could rival those of the grumpy old men that frequent the shop. As he pays, I place the coffee down in front of him.

  “Here you go, Leo.” I give him a cheerful smile.

  I don’t expect my smile to change his mood, it never has in the past, but for once, Leo offers me a smile back. It’s small and tight, and it doesn’t reach his dark eyes, but it’s still a smile.

  I turn back towards the bar, my long ponytail swinging over my shoulder as I move to make the next drink. When I look up, I see Leo, hovering on the other side of the espresso machine.

  “Thanks for remembering my drink.” Leo’s voice is stilted, but I can tell he’s trying to be friendly. I would bet a lot of money that whatever his fancy job is, it doesn’t require a ton of customer service skills. His friendly voice is almost disturbing, it’s so stiff. “Marianne, right?”

  He’s glancing right at my name tag as he asks, but I give him a happy nod as if I’m thrilled he’s paid me the biggest compliment. Not like we see each other almost every morning or anything. He really shouldn’t need the nametag.

  “It’s no problem,” I say. “You’ve got an easy order.”

  Instead of turning around and heading out like I expect (Leo seems to be in a rush literally every morning), he leans further forward. “You’re the actress, right? Or you act?”

  I furrow my brow, trying to remember mentioning my performing background to Leo. I definitely haven’t because this constitutes the longest conversation we have ever had. I chat with other customers though, and most of the regulars know about my singing, so he must have overheard me one morning when I discussed a play I was in a while ago.

  “Yeah, on the side.” I look down as I steam milk for another drink.

  “That’s cool.”

  “Thanks.” I give Leo another smile since I really don’t know what he expects.

  He shifts from foot to foot and looks to the side. Clearly this conversation is painful for him, so I’m not sure why he’s even doing it.

  I don’t mull over possible reasons; I’ve got too many drinks to worry about.

  “Well, have a good day,” Leo says in a flat monotone.

  “You too!” My voice comes out in a high-pitched chirp. I hate it, but that’s what happens when I have to wear my Customer Service hat.

  Leo turns and walks away, his precious dark roast with two splendas clutched in his hands. I spare him a glance as he ducks out the door. It’s the middle of July, so he must be roasting in that suit, but still he manages to look totally at home in his polished clothes. As if he’s more comfortable in an expensive suit and tie than he would be in jeans and a T-shirt. I can’t even picture him in jeans.

  A few minutes later, there’s a lull, and Debbie comes up to me. “What was Leo talking to you about?”

  I shrug. “He was just thanking me for the drink.”

  “I’ve literally never seen that man say thank you, much less exchange pleasantries.” Debbie gives me a teasing grin. “Looks like you’ve conquered another heart. The guy must have a crush.”

  I roll my eyes. It’s an ongoing joke at the store that customers have crushes on me. I’m not too arrogant about it because I’m pretty sure it’s mostly because I make their drinks really fast. I’m also the exact type that generic guys fall for. I dress well, and I have a pleasant face with big eyes and good hair. Plus I smile a lot. All my life, guys have had crushes on me. Then they get to know me, and the crush dies. Guys see me and think I’m pretty and fun and simple. I’m not simple. And, people get tired of my version of fun in no time at all. All my past flings have said the same thing: I got to be too much. Too crazy. Too impulsive. Too irresponsible.

  And guys think the whole singing thing is cute until I’m out at gigs every night.

  “Leo is cold as ice,” I say to Debbie. “He’s definitely not crushing.”

  Debbie giggles and shrugs. “Whatever you say.”

  She waltzes into the back, and I grab a rag to wipe down the counter space. My head begins to throb. It’s an unwelcome reminder of how late I was out last night. I made myself an iced coffee when I arrived, but I haven’t had time to drink more than a few sips.

  I make a resolution: no more drinking on nights before a shift.

  It’s not the first time I’ve made such a resolution. Again and again, I’ve promised myself not to stay out too late. It never sticks. I just get caught up with friends and the excitement of being young and surrounded by other artists, so I can’t say no to one more drink, or one more dance.

  I press my lips together and adjust my ponytail. I remind myself I’m still young. Twenty-six isn’t ancient, after all. Sure, I have a small headache, but my body is still bouncing back just fine after a night of drinking and little sleep.

  Then again, at what point will my art be affected? I like to think that my spontaneity and willingness to experience new things helps me as a creative person, but I sometimes wonder if I sacrifice discipline for spontaneity too often. Maybe, if I had said no to parties or road trips or dancing or drinks a little more often over the last few years, I would have written more songs. Better songs. And maybe then I would have been signed as a songwriter and not still working at a coffee shop.

  I nip that spiral of doubt in the bud. It’s too early in the morning for it, and it’s not like I can go back in time and change anything. I just need to reassess my life choices. As per usual.

  3

  My feet ache as I meander through the hot summer evening back towards my crowded apartment. A drop of sweat trickles down my back, and I pray that the AC is working in our apartment. The old window unit tends to shut down at the most inconvenient times.

  Normally, I love to walk through Wicker Park. I adore how walkable Chicago is as a city, and whenever I’m walking, I feel like any old adventure might occur. Maybe, I’ll meet some dashing stranger, or perhaps I’ll discover some treasure tucked into an alleyway. So far, nothing of the sort has happened, and the only thing I’ve discovered in alleyways are giant rats that a girl wouldn’t dream about.

  Today, my walk is not so pleasant. After my shift at Lucy’s, I forced myself to message Brie and Angelica so we could meet up for a songwriting session. It’s useful to bounce drafts of songs off of other writers, and it’s a good way to push myself to produce even when I’m tired. After a few hours of working on the floor of Angelica’s apartment, I’m headed home. It’s only seven, so it’s still light outside, but feels it might as well be midnight, I’m so tired.

  I want to sleep in tomorrow, but I already told Debbie I would cover another barista’s morning shift. I need the extra cash. I thought at some point, I would manage to get better about saving money, but it’s never happened. As it is, I barely manage to make rent and pay for groceries every month, much less tuck money away for rainy days.

  It’s alright though. That’s the life of an artist, and all my performer friends are in the same boat. My friends from college, Elena, Zoe, and Bea, are different. They love me and believe in me, but even they think I should be more worried about saving money. Zoe looked like she might have a heart attack when I told her I don’t really have health insurance, and not even Bea, who jokes about everything, could make a joke out of that one.

  I shift my guitar bag higher on my shoulder and continue down Milwaukee Avenue. Just a few more blocks to go before I turn off to my street. Once I’m home I can throw myself into bed and drown all my worries in a deep sleep. I was planning on working a bit more on some lyrics and maybe poking around the internet to see any auditions, but I’m too tired for any of that.

  “Hey.” A low voice startles me from my thoughts. “Marianne.”

  I look up, and it’s Leo. I blink a few times, and for a second I don’t even realize it’s him. It’s strange seeing customers outside the context of Lucy’s. I assumed he m
ust live in the neighborhood, but I’ve never seen him outside the coffee shop before.

  He’s giving me a slightly startled look as well. It must be just as strange for him, especially since I’m not in my apron, and I’ve exchanged my black pants and white button-down for flowing green pants and a lace crop top.

  “Hi.” I give him a nod and a smile. I figure he’s going to just continue walking to wherever he’s going, but he keeps his eyes fixed on my face. “I can’t believe I ran into you, I actually wanted to ask you something.”

  Great. Looks like Debbie was right about his little crush.

  How do I explain to Leo that he’s not exactly my type? I have zero attraction for corporate guys who like to flash their big wallets. And to be frank, I’m shocked that I’m his type. I figured Leo would be looking for some lady with an MBA and a power suit. I look up at his somber face with its dark stubble. He’s tall, and he’s got those intense dark eyes and dark hair, and I bet women don’t tell him no often. He won’t be used to rejection.

  Oh well, he can’t always get what he wants.

  I try to inject as much sympathy into my face as I can as I cock my head and offer him a consoling smile. “Sorry, I don’t really date customers.”

  Leo’s mouth drops open and, to my shock, he lets out a sharp laugh. “Oh no, I’m not asking you out.”

  I reel back. The man could not sound more disdainful about the concept of dating me if he tried. Not that I want to date him, but still, it’s a little offensive.

  “Ok then.” I cross my arms, all patience leaving my body. “What is it?”

  Leo’s laughter fades, and an uncomfortable look settles over his face. “Well, it’s because you’re an actress, I might have a job for you.”

  I purse my lips. Of all the things Leo could have said, I was not expecting this. I’m also incredibly doubtful of any acting job Mr. Brooks Brothers could possibly know about.

  “Ok.” I flick a chunk of my hair over my shoulder.

  Leo stares down at me in silence for a second, as if he’s deciding if he should actually continue. At last he speaks: “So my two friends are getting married, and they’re having a bridal party, and I was wondering if you could act like my date. Just for the bridal shower. Just acting.”

  Now it’s my turn to laugh out loud. It’s a preposterous idea. “I’m sorry, do you know what an actor is? They act on stage or on film.”

  “I mean, it’s not like you’re a real actress,” Leo mutters.

  I widen my eyes. Where does this guy get off? All I’ve ever done is make his stupid dark roast coffee every single morning, and he feels he has the right to insult my entire existence.

  “Sorry, sorry,” Leo says. “I just meant, it would be like a gig. I would pay you whatever you feel is fair, and you would be acting the whole time. I just thought you might be interested, that’s all.”

  Leo holds up his hands, and I can tell he’s about to give up on his little scheme and possibly find some other coffee shop to frequent.

  And, if I were a better person with a functioning moral compass, I would let him walk away. But, I’m not.

  His plan is absurd. It’s also morally dubious. Sure, it’s not exactly prostituion, but he would be paying me for a personal service.

  Except it wouldn’t be personal. I would be acting. It’s not even in the same ballpark as prostitution, not really.

  Plus, it would make a good story. I’ve always been drawn to the more far-fetched suggestions in life. All my friends know that if they want me to go along with a plan, they just have to make it weird and a little bit crazy. I’ll say yes to anything that sounds new and exciting.

  Also, I could use the money. Maybe I’m totally greedy, but when Leo asked me to name my price, my little ears perked right up.

  “Hold on,” I say before I even realize what I’m doing. “You’re saying it would just be a few hours, right? A dinner and some mingling?”

  “Yeah, that’s it.” Leo’s eyes light up at my altered tone, and my heart starts to race. This guy is desperate. I assess his nice clothes and Rolex watch as I start to wonder how much I can get off him. Enough for a new amp? Maybe, even a weekend away? Or, the chance to treat my friends to a nice dinner?

  “And there’s no other details I should know about?” I ask. “You’re not doing this to win a bet? Because if so, I’m gonna want a cut of your winnings.”

  “No, no way,” Leo says. “Just want my friends to get off my back.”

  I narrow my eyes. It’s a pretty flimsy excuse, but I don’t need a life story from Leo. I’ve made up my mind.

  “It’ll be an even 1,500,” I say.

  Leo laughs in my face.

  “I’m desperate, but I’m not that desperate,” he says. “Come on, there’s no way you would even make half that working a real gig.”

  He’s definitely guessing, but unfortunately, he has a point. The play I was in last winter ran for several weeks, and it only paid $600. For singing gigs that are only one night, I’m lucky if I get more than 70 bucks.

  “Tell you what.” Leo’s eyes glint as he regards me, and I can tell this type of negotiating is in his comfort zone. “I’ll pay you twice what you would make on a shift at Lucy’s. I’m assuming you make around $15 per hour, right? So say the bridal shower is at most 5 hours, at twice your hourly wage, that will be 150, but I’ll round up to 200, just to be generous.”

  I roll my eyes at his audacity, but I’m grinning. Who knew bartering over how much a fake girlfriend is worth could be so fun?

  “For a bridal shower with your friends, I’m assuming I’ll need a nice dress, some heels,” I say. “Plus, I’ll have to pretend to be accomplished, intellectual, all those lovely things. Plus, there will be no script, so it’s all improv. That kind of nuance and details is worth way more than 200.”

  Leo raises one dark brow at me, and I feel a shiver of excitement. All day, I’ve been beating myself up and feeling glum and sick of my life, but now I feel like my old self. Ready for a new adventure.

  “A thousand dollars,” I say. “Plus a budget for a new dress.”

  “800,” Leo barks. “And no dress budget, I’m sure you already own something that will suffice.”

  He’s right, and it’s more than I thought he would settle for, but I pretend to mull it over, just for the fun of it.

  Then I give him a honey-coated smile. “Deal.”

  Leo gives me a short nod and fishes into his pocket. “Here’s my business card, shoot me an email so I can give you all the details.”

  “Um, ok, I do own a phone, but fine,” I say as I accept the card. Of course, Leo would give me a business card. And of course, he’s far too self-important to text.

  He ignores me as he points to the second email on the card. “Use this personal email, not my work email, ok?”

  I glance at the card. He works at an Investment Banking firm. Shocker. From what I’ve heard about investment bankers, arranging a fake date to a bridal shower is nowhere near the most scandalous activity that could be planned over email, but I nod.

  “Thanks,” Leo says. He looks down at me as I stare at his business card. “Well, I’ll see you around.”

  Then Leo walks down the street in long ground-eating strides. I watch him go. He walks with his head down, and he moves at a rapid pace. He’s not daydreaming about what adventures might befall him. He’s just getting from Point A to Point B. So boring.

  I look back down at the card: Leo Wilson.

  I start to drift towards my apartment, my head spinning. I almost think I’ve hallucinated the whole thing, but the card is right in my hand.

  I’ve done a lot of bizarre things to make a quick buck. I used to give people rides to the airport in college, before riding apps were big, and I used to house sit for crazy neighbors. I’ve even dressed up as Disney princesses for children’s birthday parties.

  But I’ve never pretended to be someone’s girlfriend.

  My friends are going to think I’ve lost
my mind. I smile to myself just imagining their reactions. We’re all getting together for dinner tomorrow, and I’m suddenly excited to tell them this latest development. It’s a far better conversation topic than discussing my growing dissatisfaction that I’m still only a barista and no closer to becoming a professional singer than I was a year ago.

  They will have questions though. And as I continue walking home, I realize that I have questions too. I was so focused on negotiating a good price, I didn’t stop to wonder why Leo had chosen me for this. And, why he needs a fake date in the first place. Are his friends that judgmental that they would mock him for showing up solo? Or, maybe he wants to impress someone who will be there?

  I shrug to myself. I don’t really need to know the answers. Either way, I’m about to be 800 dollars better off than I was this morning.

  4

  I sprint up the stairs to the train platform, my purse slamming against my hip. My legs scream in protest as I get to the platform, and I bite back a scream of frustration as the train pulls away. I’ve just missed it.

  At least my friends won’t be surprised that I’m ten minutes late to our dinner. They’re used to my chronic lateness.

  Besides, the story about my new acting job will be worth the wait.

  I chew on my lip and pace across the wooden platform as I await the next train. I don’t regret agreeing to Leo’s offer, but I’m starting to wonder if there’s something sketchy about the whole thing. He came into Lucy’s this morning, as usual, but he acted as if our conversation didn’t even occur. He just took his dark roast and split without giving me a smile or even a second glance, as if I was just his usual barista, not someone he requested to pretend to be his girlfriend.

  Exactly how often does he pay women to be his fake date?

  I haven’t even heard back from him. Last night before bed, I sent an email at his personal email as requested, but there’s been nada in return.

  The train pulls up with a shriek, and I hop on. I tell myself he will respond soon. He’s been at work at his fancy banking firm, he’ll get to it. And once I have the details, I’ll feel better. Or at least, I’ll have the information necessary to do some internet stalking.