Emma and Luke Are Totally Together Page 3

  “Fine,” I say. “I’ll do it.”

  Luke smiles. “Yeah? Cool.”

  “We’re going to need a story, you know.”

  “A story?” Luke asks. He spoons a small amount of spice over his khao soi and mixes it in.

  “About how this came about. Our…reciprocal attraction.”

  “Well, first off, let’s maybe not use the phrase ‘reciprocal attraction.’ Because that’s definitely not going to convince anyone.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Luke takes a bite of his lunch and studies me thoughtfully as he chews. Feeling suddenly self-conscious, I grab another spring roll. I bite, chew, swallow. But of course that only makes me feel more self-conscious. No one likes to be watched while they eat.

  Luke swallows and snaps his fingers. “I know,” he says, wiping off a near-invisible smear of sauce from the side of his mouth. “It happened during the team building exercise. Our eyes met from opposite sides of the spaghetti tower, and the rest was history.”

  That is eerily too close to how I came up with this idea in the first place. I can’t explain why, but I can’t have that be our story. “No. That’s just…no.”

  “Got any other suggestions?”

  “Not yet. I’ll think of something.” I clear my throat. “We also need to set some ground rules. Like…no going on actual dates with other people, obviously.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “And no PDA.”

  “Of course not,” he says, screwing up his face in a way that I would be offended by if I wasn’t making the same face myself.

  “We’ll have to fake a breakup, too. Once the vacation’s over.”

  “What if we break up during the vacation? I mean, obviously, we wouldn’t tell your family that, but…”

  “…it could be the story we tell people at work,” I say. I squeeze a wedge of lime over my pad thai. “Let’s see. Maybe I could catch you oogling the hula dancers?”

  “Googling the hula dancers? What?”

  “Oogling,” I repeat, slightly louder.

  Luke bites back a laugh. “It’s ogle. Not oogle.”

  “What?”

  “Have you really been saying oogle your whole life instead of ogle?” It’s clearly taking him an immense amount of willpower to not burst out laughing at me.

  I exhale. “Can we focus, please?”

  “Sorry.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, I’d prefer if we didn’t break up over me ‘oogling’ other women. I’m trying to show Erin that I can commit to a relationship, remember?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say.

  By the time we’re done eating, we’ve figured it all out. Our story, if asked, is that we fell for each other one night over drinks (not too many drinks, I clarify; we don’t want people thinking we were drunk), and at the end of the Hawaii trip, we’ll split amicably, simply deciding that we’re better off as friends. It’s a boring breakup story, but one that will easily allow us to go back to being friends. We’ve also agreed that we’ll come up with dates each week—not dates that we’ll actually go on, but outings that we’ll be able to reference around others if need be.

  “Sounds like we’re all set, then,” says Luke.

  I nod. “Well—actually, there is one other little thing.”

  He raises his eyebrows. He waits for me to continue.

  “Would you…be open to telling my family that you own your own business?”

  “Uh, why?”

  I try to make it sound like it’s no big deal. “It would impress my parents.”

  “Right,” says Luke. He looks a little tired, but I’m hoping it’s just from the Thai food. “Okay. Whatever. That’s fine.”

  I let out a breath. “Thanks, Luke.”

  We don’t say much to each other as we walk back to work. As we’re riding the elevator up to our floor, though, Luke glances over at me and says, “So, we’re starting now, right?”

  “Uh, sure,” I say, as the elevator slows to a stop. “I guess so.”

  And with that, we walk back into work together, officially in a fake relationship.

  It feels as if it should be obvious that something is different with Luke and I when we arrive back in the office. But of course nobody can tell that anything’s changed. On the surface, we appear exactly as we did when we left, just as the office looks and sounds and smells like the same old office as ever. Same old whirr of the copy machine, same old trill of the phones, same old looks on our coworkers’ faces in the maze of cubicles.

  There is something going on over by Luke’s desk, though. A small group of people have gathered by the window over there. After exchanging glances, Luke and I walk over and join them. From the edge of the gathered group, I rise up on my tiptoes to see what they’re all so captivated by. And what I see is the last thing I would expect: down on the sidewalk, a crow and a squirrel are in some kind of standoff.

  The squirrel darts toward the crow. The crow gives a warning flap of its wings and the squirrel backs off again. Half the people around us cheer. I scan the crowd for Erin from Accounting’s face—I keep thinking about how nuts it is that Luke likes her—but she’s nowhere in sight.

  “Oh, come on, squirrel!” someone says. “Don’t back down!”

  “He’s gonna lose,” someone else says.

  “Five bucks says he won’t,” says a third.

  It goes on like that—the standoff, the cheering—for another full five minutes. Then someone notices Sherrie coming and the group scatters like buckshot. Back at my cubicle, I open my desk’s wonky upper drawer, fish out a mint from the pack I keep there, and then I get back to usual grind: sorting through the non-stop queue of vendor applications that have come in from potential artisans.

  When I first started this job, the idea that I was going to get to decide who got through to the senior inventory buyers and who didn’t was definitely an ego boost. I had so much power! I could tell people no! Or yes! (Well, not yes, exactly, but I could pass them on up the chain.) But when I actually started doing it, it quickly became apparent how unglamorous the task is. The majority of the artisans who apply can be put into the no pile within a matter of seconds, either because of their far-too-homemade-looking wares, their poorly filled out application, or, in the majority of cases, both.

  I am, essentially, a human spam filter.

  I open up the folder on the server where all the applications get funneled. And for the next few hours, that’s where I stay. Of the forty-seven applications I review, only five are decent enough to forward on to the senior buyers. One is so bad that I can’t not email it to Luke. The applicant in question is a maker of handsewn hemp underwear—and under the Location section of her application has written MOTHER EARTH.

  From my chair, if I sit up perfectly straight, I can see the back of Luke’s head and some of his desk. And I can see his monitor just well enough to see him immediately open the link I’ve sent him and take in the glory that is this woman’s portfolio.

  A few seconds later, an instant message from Luke pops up on my screen. So you’re saying you want a bunch of these undies for Christmas?

  Very funny, I type back.

  Looks like she’ll even sew your name in them…

  Don’t do it. Don’t you dare.

  I force myself to go back to the applications. If I don’t keep up with them, the backlog will quickly become unbearable. But I can only get through another half dozen before switching back over to the chat conversation with Luke.

  So, I type. What’s the new couple up to this weekend?

  Hmm…movie? he types back.

  Sure.

  Let’s see that new superhero one. Saturday night?

  It’s a date.

  A few minutes pass, and then a new message from Luke pops up. There’s an 8pm showing. Pick you up at 7:30?

  My fingers hover over the keyboard. Wait, we’re not making real plans, are we? I assumed we were just coming up with our shared alibi. I glance over at Luke—at the back of
his head, that is—but of course that doesn’t help me out at all.

  I feel dumb typing what I type next. But I need to make sure we’re on the same page. Um…we’re not actually going, right?

  He replies, Correct…

  My feeling of dumbness doubles. Okay. That’s what I thought. I was just checking. Sorry.

  Right, Luke replies.

  That weekend, I do all my normal weekend things: sleep in, cook myself a decent breakfast, read, soak in the tub, deep clean my apartment. I don’t think about the movie date that Luke and I supposedly have gone on until late Sunday evening, when I realize that I should probably read a review or something so that if it does come up in conversation, it’s not totally obvious that I haven’t seen it.

  “I mean, I thought the visual effects were amazing,” I practice aloud, after reading up on the superhero movie. “But talk about plot holes, am I right?”

  I couldn’t sound less convincing if I tried.

  That night, I doze off in the middle of reading more reviews. In the morning, I wake up from a dream that I was in the movie. Not as in acting in it, but as in existing in that world. I am relieved, to say the least, that this is not actually the case.

  I get up, I get ready for the day, I get myself to the office. As usual, I head to the break room to pour myself a cup of coffee—using another communal mug, since, much to my disgruntlement, my cat cup still hasn’t turned up. I’m stirring in the sugar when footsteps enter the break room and Lucinda’s voice greets me. Lucinda works with the marketing team. She’s also the office gossip.

  “Morning, Emma!” she sings.

  “Hi, Lucinda.”

  “Have a nice weekend?”

  I nod. “I did. And you?”

  “Oh, it was wonderful. It was so beautiful out, wasn’t it? I love this time of year.” Then, slightly lowering her voice, she says, “So, you and Luke, huh? That’s so exciting, Emma.”

  I clank my spoon against the cup. “Come again?”

  “I heard about you two love birds,” she says. She gives me a knowing grin. “I think it’s really sweet.”

  I smile nervously. “Who did you hear that from?”

  “Luke, silly,” she says. “I rode the elevator up with him this morning, and he told me about your date this weekend.”

  “Ah,” I say. Well, at least it came from the source. “Right. Yeah, the movie, it, um—it was great. The acting…and the plot…”

  “Wait! Don’t ruin it for me,” says Lucinda. “I’m going to see it next weekend. I can’t wait. Oh! Emma. I just had a thought. You and Luke should come bowling with Beau and I tomorrow night. We’re going to Balmer Lanes.”

  “Um, sorry?”

  “Bowling,” she says. “You know.” She pantomimes throwing a bowling ball down a lane, as if I’ve never encountered the activity before. “Now that you and Luke are an item, we can go on a double date together.”

  “Oh,” I say. The word comes out of my mouth far too high-pitched. “Well, I’ll have to check with Luke.”

  “Please do,” says Lucinda. “Let me know as soon as you talk to him, okay? I really hope you two can make it.”

  I force my mouth into a smile and nod. Then I grab my coffee and leave the break room. As I walk to my desk, I swear that I can feel the news about Luke and I spreading through the office.

  My desk feels like it’s miles away. Finally, having reached it, I drop down in my chair and open my ongoing instant message conversation with Luke.

  You told Lucinda?

  Luke’s reply comes swiftly. How else were people going to find out?

  I guess he has a point. It’s not like we can sashay around the office holding hands. Telling the office gossip will easily take care of spreading the word.

  Fine, whatever, I type. But FYI, we’ve been invited to go bowling with Lucinda and her husband. Any great ideas for excuses?

  There’s a pause before Luke replies. Why do we have to give an excuse?

  You actually want to go?

  It’s not about wanting to go. It’s about doing things that couples do.

  I quietly grumble to myself. I thought we didn’t have to go on any real dates.

  Don’t think of it as a date, then. We’re just hanging out.

  Well, that wasn’t the reaction I was expecting from Luke. But fine. If he thinks it’s a good idea to go, we’ll go.

  Okay, I type. I’ll tell her yes.

  4

  Luke picks me up outside my apartment just after seven on Tuesday night. It’s weird seeing him outside of work. It’s because of the clothes, I think. I’ve gotten so used to his long-sleeved collared shirts and business casual chinos that seeing him in anything else delivers a little shock to my system.

  He’s dressed in jeans and a short sleeve tee that leaves his arms all...exposed. It’s strange that I’ve worked with Luke for six years and never actually seen his arms, right?

  No, actually, what’s strange is that I’m thinking about his arms in the first place.

  I shift around uselessly in the passenger seat, but I’m uncomfortable no matter how I position myself.

  “Everything okay over there?” Luke asks, not taking his eyes off the road.

  “Uh huh,” I cough out. “Peachy keen.”

  I snap down the sun visor and check what little makeup I’ve put on. It’s all still there. I squint at my reflection, commanding myself to have no more mystifying thoughts about Luke. But then I catch a flash of stripes in the mirror, and I realize something that makes my chest constrict.

  I’m wearing a shirt that is identical to Luke’s.

  My eyes dart over to confirm it. Oh, no. It’s not just our shirts. It’s our jeans, too. They look like they’ve been cut from the same bolt of distressed indigo wash denim. Even the stitching is identical.

  “Turn the car around,” I say, squeezing my hands into fists to stop them from grabbing the steering wheel. “I need to go home and change.”

  Luke shoots me a split-second glance. “What?”

  “We’re twins, Luke. We can’t show up like this.”

  “Twins?” he says. Then he looks over again, sees what I mean, and laughs. “At least everyone there will know we’re together.”

  “Please turn the car around.”

  “Sorry. No can do. We’re already late as it is.”

  “Luke!”

  “Relax. Nobody is going to care.”

  “I care. I don’t want to be one of those weird matchy-matchy couples.” I desperately swivel to survey his back seat. There’s a gym bag, some windshield flyers, a stray phone charger. But not a single spare shirt. “Tell me you have one of your work button-ups in your trunk.”

  Luke snorts. “You really don’t want to go bowling, do you?”

  “It’s not—I just don’t—” I huff out a breath. I hate that we’re dressed like this. I hate looking like an idiot. But, apparently, it’s out of my control. Luke’s not turning this car around. I’m just going to have to grit my teeth and bear it.

  Ten minutes later, we’re circling the packed-full parking lot of Balmer Lanes like a vulture waiting for its prey to croak. Finally, Luke sees a car backing out and careens into the spot as soon as the sedan pulls away. There’s barely any space for me to open my door and squeeze out of the car, and I’m about to be annoyed at Luke, until I look over and see him having to squeeze out of his side of the car, too.

  Then, side by side, in our stupid matching outfits, we head into the aging one-story building. We’re immediately enveloped in the noise as soon as we open the front doors. It’s busy in here tonight, packed in as if lives depend on it. The woody crash of pins falling punctuates the air. It smells like wood and grease and sweat and nerves.

  Among the crowd, I see a hand waving, a flash of bright auburn hair coming over to greet us.

  “Hey, you two!” Lucinda calls out as she approaches. “Aw, cute. You color coordinated!”

  I shoot a look at Luke.

  “Hi, Lucinda,”
he says, ignoring my glare. “Wow. It’s busy in here tonight.”

  Lucinda’s voice goes up half an octave. “Right? We lucked out and got the last lane of the night. Oh, and by the way, I invited—”

  As Lucinda talks, it’s as if the volume of the alley suddenly turns down, and I hear with perfect clarity a familiar laugh. I lean slightly to the left and see none other than Paige.

  Lucinda is saying, “—figured the more the merrier, you know? Have you two ever met Paige’s boyfriend?”

  I’m too busy trying to think of an escape plan to answer.

  Beside me, Luke says, “Nope. We haven’t.”

  “Well, he’s great,” says Lucinda. “You’ll love him.”

  In lane eight, we’re greeted by Paige’s toothy smile. She’s doing warm-up stretches, bending one arm over her head at a time.

  “There you are! Did you get lost?” says Paige as she rolls her head from shoulder to shoulder.

  An obscenely muscular guy hunched over the lane’s touchscreen turns his whole body in the seat and says, “You must be Emmaline and Luke. Hi. I’m Martin.”

  “It’s just Emma,” I say, extending a hand. His meaty paw envelops mine.

  “And this is Beau,” says Lucinda. I turn and shake her husband’s hand. Beau is pretty much exactly what I expect. Picture as regular of a guy in his mid-thirties as you can imagine, and that’s Beau.

  “It’s nice to meet you two,” says Beau. “Lucinda said you all work together, right?”

  I nod at Beau. I want to be friendly, I want to say something more, but I don’t really know what to add. I can’t exactly say, Yeah, I don’t want to be here right now, Luke and I aren’t even actually together, now can I?

  “You really should do some stretches, Emma,” says Paige. “Here. Come join me.”

  “Um, that’s okay,” I say, and look over at Luke with help me eyes.

  “You know what,” says Luke, snapping his fingers, “I’m going to grab us shoes.”

  “I’ll go with you,” I say quickly.

  “No need,” says Luke. “Just tell me what size you wear.”