My Ex's Wedding: A Fake Boyfriend Romance Read online

  It doesn’t help that we ran into a friend of mine here. Well, not a friend. I know Parker Ashmont from work, where he’s got the office next to mine, except we’re both eyeing the big corner office with all the windows. Parker is the biggest asshole I know, and he’d gladly step on my face just to give himself a one-percent higher chance of getting that office. I play the game too, but I’d like to think deep down, I’m a decent person. But maybe not. Maybe I’ve been around those douchebags too long and I’ve become one of them. I don’t want to think about that possibility.

  Parker is here with a blonde with big tits, and it’s pretty clear he’s not asking her to marry him any time soon. Women always think Parker is the best looking guy in the room, and they flock to him in an almost sickening way. Before I had Isabelle, it used to piss me off, but now I laugh it off.

  Parker will never get married—he’s made that life choice really clear. All wives do is get older. Parker’s going to keep bouncing from twenty-year-old blond to twenty-year-old brunette until one day he drops dead while fucking one of them. That’s going to be Parker’s life in a nutshell. He’s looking forward to it.

  In any case, Parker’s not the kind of guy you want to have at your table when you’re about to pop the question.

  When I get back to the table from the restroom, Isabelle isn’t there. It’s just Parker and his bimbo date. I slide into my seat and grab my beer, which is now lukewarm. It’s fine though—I’ll drink it. I wasn’t a big drinker in college, but working at Coleman-Roth has upped my alcohol tolerance considerably. Every day, we work till the sun goes down, then we drink till we conk out. At this rate, I’ll be an alcoholic by the time I’m fifty.

  “Your date’s been in the bathroom a long time,” Parker comments. He’s got this way of saying assholish things so casually that you don’t even notice it till you’re seconds from punching him in the nose. “I wonder what she’s doing in there.”

  “I heard there’s a long line,” I mutter.

  “Maybe,” Parker says vaguely.

  I don’t know what the hell he’s implying. Is he suggesting while Isabelle went to the bathroom, she met another guy and is currently fucking him right now within this bar? Is that what he's trying to say?

  Christ, I want to punch him in the nose.

  “I’m sure she’ll get back before the next act starts,” I say instead.

  Parker looks me over, his blue eyes narrowing in my direction. He leans toward me and says in a voice just low enough that his date can’t hear: “Don’t do it, Warner.”

  My stomach sinks. “Do what?”

  “You know what.” Parker shakes his head at me. “Isabelle is hot, but you’d be making a big mistake marrying her.”

  “Jesus Christ, Parker!” I glance around, making sure Isabelle isn’t in earshot. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” he shoots back. “Alex, you’re… what? Thirty? Thirty-one? At the prime of your life and your career. You really want to tie yourself down?”

  My right hand squeezes into a fist. “I’m not going to talk to you about this. It’s none of your goddamn business.”

  “It’s a mistake.”

  “Fuck off.”

  Parker laughs the way he always does when he knows he’s gotten under someone’s skin. “Just think about it, okay?”

  It’s at that moment Isabelle materializes from the ladies’ room, having braved the apparently endless line. She sashays between tables, attracting the attention of every man in the room. Isabelle is a buyer for Macy’s but she could be a model. Tall, shiny blond hair, long legs, and two of the most perfect breasts I’ve ever seen. I almost didn’t bother asking for her number that night we met at the bar downtown, because I didn’t honestly think I had a chance with a girl like her. Don’t get me wrong—I do good with the ladies. Very, very good. But Isabelle’s on a whole other level.

  Even when Isabelle and I started dating, I didn’t think it would last. I figured we’d find out we had nothing in common—or worse, that she was a superficial bimbo like blondie over there. Instead, I fell for her so hard it hurt. Isabelle’s smart—graduated summa cum laude at Yale. She loves to travel and spends days reading up on every place we go so that when we’re walking hand-in-hand around Milan, she can point out the sights like she’s my personal tour guide. She loves to eat good food and refuses to go to the same restaurant twice because she wants to experience only new things—except for this one diner on seventy-third street where we go when we’re lazy and just want to be comfortable and eat greasy burgers. And she’s a planner, just like me.

  Christ, I hope she wants to marry me. I don’t know if I’ve ever wanted anything this bad before. I don’t know if I believe in The One, but if there ever was a One, it’s Isabelle.

  Isabelle plops down into the seat next to mine and gives me a big sloppy kiss. She’s not shy about expressing affection in public. If Parker weren’t staring, I’d considering breaking out the ring right here and now.

  “Long line, Izzy?” Parker asks her.

  Isabelle does not appreciate being called “Izzy” and Parker knows it. Her asking him not to call her “Izzy” was one of their first interactions. But she doesn’t rise to the bait.

  “Endless,” she says. “Women have smaller bladders than men. We really should have more bathrooms.”

  For a moment, I consider telling Isabelle about that girl who burst into the men’s room. Nellie Levy. The standup comedian. But I don’t know if my girlfriend would appreciate a story about a girl walking in on me with my dick out, even if it wasn’t my fault, so I keep my mouth shut. And anyway, the emcee is quieting us down for the next comic, who is preparing to take the stage.

  And it’s none other than the chick from the bathroom.

  I knew it would be. She told me she was about to go on, so I shouldn’t be surprised. But after seeing her in the men’s room a few minutes ago, it’s jarring to see her come onstage. And even though I’d never cheat on Isabelle in a million years, it’s hard to push away the thought running through my head:

  Nellie Levy is hot.

  There’s something about her—that’s for sure. She’s the opposite of Isabelle in every way I can think of. Isabelle is blond while Nellie has cropped dark hair, shaved on one side, and olive skin. Isabelle is slim and elegant, whereas Nellie is short and stacked. I can’t imagine Isabelle getting up on a stage and spouting out details of her personal life for a laugh like Nellie did when I saw her the other week. I bet anyone who spends time with Nellie Levy ends up laughing a lot.

  Isabelle is the girl you bring home to your parents. The one you marry. I can’t even imagine what my church-every-Sunday-unless-you’re-in-the-hospital mother would make of Nellie’s short, spikey hair and rings all over her face. She’d probably start praying on the spot.

  Anyway, who cares? I love Isabelle. I’m not like Parker—when I’m with someone, I don’t mess around.

  “God, I love bars,” Nellie says into the microphone, which nearly touches her dark red lips. She’s got a hint of a New York accent I didn’t hear in the men’s room, but it’s more pronounced when her voice is booming through the room. “They’re great places to meet men. And considering I’ve dated all but six of the men in this entire city, I need all the help I can get.”

  Isabelle laughs. She has a sexy laugh—it’s one of the first things I loved about her.

  “You know what the trick is when you meet a man you like?” Nellie goes on as she strides across the stage. She’s so comfortable up there. If I were on a stage in front of a crowd this size, I’d be shitting myself. “Lying. Through your teeth.” She raises her eyebrows. “Ladies, you know what I’m talking about. Don’t act like you don’t!”

  The crowd laughs again, and I look over at Parker, who is outright leering at Nellie. She’s not his type, as far as I can tell, but he likes big tits and she’s got ‘em. So maybe she is his type.

  “Last week, I had this gorgeous guy
absolutely convinced I was the world’s greatest surfer,” Nellie says. “Me. The goth chick who owns exactly one bathing suit that’s never even been touched by water. The only reason is I have it is for when I run out of underwear and am too lazy to do the laundry.”

  The crowd laughs, but Parker can’t hold it back another minute. He points in Nellie’s direction and yells out, “Let’s see that underwear, baby!”

  Fucking dick. I slug him in the arm, hard enough to make sure he feels it. He gives me a dirty look and shoves me back. “Show some respect, asshole,” I hiss at him.

  Nellie’s eyes rest on the two of us, and I look away, embarrassed this smart, talented woman saw me with an idiot like Parker. She strolls to the side of the stage so she can get a good look at him. She smiles, and she’s just close enough that I can see her slightly crooked incisor. Her parents didn’t force her to get braces for three years like mine did.

  “I’m so sorry, sir,” she says to Parker. “Don’t feel bad—this kind of mistake… it happens all the time. Really. The brothel is two blocks east of here.”

  As the audience erupts in laughter, Parker looks flustered for the first time I’ve ever seen. Nellie’s eyes meet mine for a moment, and she winks at me. Looks like she can take care of herself.

  “I like her,” Isabelle whispers in my ear.

  “Yeah,” I say, and I put my arm around my girlfriend’s shoulders.

  Nellie straightens up and returns to the center of the stage. She’s quiet for a moment, as if carefully considering what she’s going to say next. I wonder if Nellie is a planner. No, she’s not. She doesn’t plan a day in her life. She does whatever she wants, whenever she wants. I mean, this is a girl I met in the goddamn men’s bathroom.

  “So right before I came in here, I met this guy by the bathroom,” Nellie tells the audience.

  My stomach sinks. Shit. She’s not really going to tell this story, is she? At least she didn’t say “in” the bathroom. Not that I did anything wrong here.

  “This guy…” She pauses for a moment. “He was a nice guy. And it turned out he was one of the only six men in the city I hadn’t already been on a date with, so I was pretty psyched.”

  I glance at Isabelle, hoping she’s not paying attention to the act. She is. Isabelle has a great attention span.

  “Also,” she adds, “just being real here—this guy was pretty damn hot. Maybe not as hot as he thought he was…”

  Ouch.

  “But really sexy,” she says. “Nice eyes. I always thought the eyes were the window to the soul, which is something those romance novels tell you so you get suckered in by jerks with pretty eyes. His were sort of… gray.”

  She’s got it wrong. My eyes are blue. Maybe she’s talking about some other guy. Please, God, let her be talking about some other guy.

  “He’s got on a tie, which is a little fancy for a bar, if you ask me. And he’s wearing this dress shirt and pants that are…” She rubs her thumb and index finger together. “You know what I’m saying. The guy’s loaded.”

  And now Isabelle is looking back at me, an unreadable expression on her face. I’m the only guy in this whole goddamn place wearing a fucking tie. Great.

  “So of course, I offer him my phone number,” Nellie says. “It’s not like I’m going to let one of the Final Six leave without my digits.”

  Isabelle’s expression isn’t so unreadable anymore. “Alex!” she hisses at me. “Did you—”

  Goddamn it. This is just what I need tonight. Remind me never to talk to any girls in the men’s room again.

  “But get this—he wouldn’t take it,” Nellie snorts. “He turned down all of this.” She juts out her hip at the audience, and they titter appreciatively. “Said he had a girlfriend and he ‘doesn’t cheat.’ Just my luck—the only guy in the whole city who doesn’t cheat.”

  Isabelle’s shoulders relax. Yeah, damn straight.

  “But you have to hear the best part,” Nellie goes on. “Not only has this hot guy got a girlfriend, but we get to talking and he admits to me—get this—he’s been carrying around a ring all night and trying to find the right time to pop the question.”

  Holy shit.

  Isabelle’s blue eyes have gone gigantic. Well, it looks like this is going to happen. Now. Thanks, Nellie.

  Parker is staring at me. No, glaring at me. He knows as well as Isabelle that I’m the guy Nellie is talking about. He mouths the words, “Don’t do it, Warner.”

  “The thing about proposals,” Nellie says, “is there’s never going to be a perfect time, is there? So if she’s the one, you should just man up and do it, Alex.”

  And now somehow there’s a fucking spotlight on me. Are they serious with this crap? I have to ask Isabelle to marry me with a spotlight blinding me and the whole room staring at me and probably getting recorded by ten iPhones. If she says no, I’ll be all over YouTube tomorrow morning. It’ll go viral. Epic proposal fail in comedy club.

  Well, what choice do I have?

  I fumble around in my pocket. I’m so fucking nervous. The stock market doesn’t make me nervous, women don’t make me nervous, even spiders don’t frighten me—but asking Isabelle to marry me is the scariest thing I’ve ever done. I catch her eye, trying to read the expression on her face. She’s not smiling—a bad sign.

  “Isabelle,” I say. And my voice cracks. Shit, this is going to be so bad if it ends up on YouTube. The guys at work will never let me hear the end of it.

  I fall onto one knee. I try not to think of everyone looking at us. This isn’t about them. Or YouTube. This is about Isabelle and me.

  “Isabelle,” I say again as I reach for her hand. She gives it to me, which I take as a good sign. “I love you so much.” I swallow hard. “Will you… will you marry me?”

  There’s no hesitation. No moment to think about it.

  “Yes,” she says.

  Wow.

  I did it.

  I’m going to marry Isabelle.

  Then we kiss. The whole room bursts into applause, and it’s a great moment. Everyone is clapping but Parker, but to hell with him. Isabelle is going to marry me. She’s going to be my goddamn wife. I’m going to make her so happy.

  At this moment, this feels like the best night of my life. A night I’ll always remember. Something I’ll recount to everyone at work and my family. It feels like a moment I’ll be describing to the kids Isabelle and I will have together.

  Except I’m wrong.

  I won’t tell people at work about this night. I won’t tell my parents or my brother. I won’t tell the kids Isabelle and I will have together, because we’ll never have kids together.

  I thought tonight would be the best night of my life, but instead it’s the worst.

  But I was right about one thing—I’ll always remember it.

  Chapter 3

  FOUR YEARS LATER

  Alex

  “The wedding is in four weeks.”

  Isabelle is watching my face as she speaks. She’s talking to me in a slow, sweet voice, like I’m some kind of fucking mental patient. A lot of people speak to me that way these days, but I don’t expect it from Isabelle. She knows me better. She should, anyway.

  Or should I say, she used to.

  “We’re having it in Las Vegas,” she goes on, as if I had responded in some way. A smile touches her lips but not her eyes. Isabelle turned thirty a few months ago, but she doesn’t look any older than she did when we first met. I, on the other hand, hit the big three-five six months ago and immediately noticed a few strands of gray at my temples.

  But let’s face it—that’s the least of my problems.

  “We just thought it would be fun to have a big party in Vegas with our friends,” Isabelle babbles on. She’s nervous. I can tell by the way she’s gnawing on her lip. She’s sexy when she’s nervous.

  Why am I thinking about how sexy Isabelle is? Why torture myself?

  “And of course, you’re invited,” she finishes.

  Of
course I’m invited. Of course you ask your ex-fiancé to your wedding. That’s a perfectly normal thing to do.

  “Alex?” Her light brown eyebrows knit together. “Can you please… say something?”

  “Something,” I say uncreatively.

  “Alex…”

  “Fine,” I spit out. “Congratulations, Isabelle, on your upcoming nuptials. I’m so happy for you.” I raise my eyebrows at her. “Is that better? Is that a little more in line with what you were hoping I would say?”

  And now she’s crying. Well, not exactly crying. But tears are gathering at the corners of her eyes and she gives a brave little sniffle. “This isn’t my fault,” she whispers.

  In the old days, this would have been a sign for me to reach out and hug Isabelle. That’s not happening today. It won’t happen ever again.

  “Look,” I say, trying to get the anger in my voice under control. “I’m not sure what you want from me. You’re getting married, so…”

  And now there’s a goddamn lump in my throat. I swallow it down, squaring my jaw. I’m not going to let Isabelle know she got to me today. I can’t tell her when she walked into the living room, all I could think about was how she’s just as sexy as she was the moment I first saw her. And how every word she says reminds me of the reasons I fell in love with her.

  That’s not shit you say to your ex-fiance. I don’t need anyone to tell me that.

  “I still care about you,” she says, swiping quickly at her left eye with the back of her hand. Good thing her mascara is waterproof. “I want to be friends again.”

  I don’t point out that we can’t be friends again if we were never friends in the first place. We were boyfriend and girlfriend, then we were engaged, then we were nothing. Friendship was never on the table.

  “Yeah,” I mumble. I catch her eye, feeling a pang at the tears. “Look, don’t worry about me, Isabelle.”

  She manages a tiny smile.

  “The truth is,” I say, “I’ve been seeing someone new. A woman. So, you know.”