Faking It with the Frenemy

“So is a bacon cheeseburger with fries.” Probably better for you, too. At least you don’t have to guess what you’re eating, unlike this otoro thing. What’s wrong with just saying “tuna,” anyway?

“My wife likes it,” Dane says, like that explains everything.

I’m happy he found a woman to be with, but there’s a small part of me that feels slightly bad for my own situation. I thought marrying Geneva was the right thing to do, even though a nano-sized doubt was wriggling like a worm in my chest, as if my heart were an apple it was trying to eat its way out of.

That worm turned out be right. Marrying her was the biggest mistake of my life.

“Don’t you think this place is too fancy for a meeting?” I say, looking at my chilled wine. Maybe they have Budweiser here.

“She’s Salazar’s assistant.”

“So?”

“That means she’s pretty enough to not embarrass you, smart enough to take directions and discerning enough to know when you go cheap on her.”

Sounds like the ultimate in high maintenance. And I’m done with high maintenance. Been there and done that with Geneva, and look what I got—over a decade in a shitty marriage, and now a divorce.

What I need is a woman who doesn’t mind bacon cheeseburgers and fries with extra ketchup and an ice-cold beer or two.

“It doesn’t matter what she thinks,” I say with a shrug. “David told me he’s going to set me up with a date this week, depending on how our schedules line up. Someone named Bethany. She’s apparently super smart. Speaks six languages.”

Dane cocks an eyebrow. “Really?”

“French, German, Russian, Spanish and Italian.” Or at least, that’s what I remember from the text. “And English, I guess.”

“French, Spanish and Italian are virtually the same language.”

I’d bet a thousand bucks that Frenchmen, Spaniards and Italians would have something to say about that. Not that I’ll interrupt Dane when he’s riding the Sarcasm Express.

“And David’s taste in women is deplorable,” Dane states firmly. “He disagrees with that assessment, of course, but that’s because he has more money than sense.”

Despite Dane’s less-than-charitable view, he’s speaking without sneering. That means he likes David.

But of course Dane Pryce, David Darling and I are friends. We connected at a tech convention because Dane is in venture capital and David is with Sweet Darlings, which is a popular photo-storing and -sharing app. I happen to love tinkering with programming and own patents to a few security protocols that intrigued and eventually impressed both of them. That’s how Sweet Darlings Inc. ended up paying me a billion and change.

“She’s probably hot enough. David likes them hot.” I don’t even sound convincing to myself. Maybe I’m turning into a cynic like Dane, now that I’m divorced and all. He’s always acerbic, and marriage hasn’t made a bit of difference to him as far as I can tell.

“I thought the goal was to make your ex-wife eat her heart out,” Dane says.

Ha. Never happen, because Geneva doesn’t have a heart. “Something like that,” I say, not willing to go into the whole situation with our daughter, Vi, again. Besides, I already have a course of action. I don’t need to rehash it.

“Then hot isn’t enough.” Dane’s tone is decisive and cool, his gaze calculating. Like a general planning a take-no-prisoners ambush. “You need to look happy. And show up with somebody who can pull that off.”

Not quite believing what I’m hearing, I finish my wine and ask for a beer. It’s that kind of day.

Our server manages a bland smile, but Dane wrinkles his nose. “Beer? Really? With Japanese-French fusion?”

“It’s on the menu, isn’t it? Or are you saying I should’ve ordered sake?”

His expression says I’m beyond help. “You need to spend some time with my brother Mark. He’ll…educate you on this particular subject.”

“I’m already educated. I’m divorced.” Besides, I’m not spending my precious tim

e with Dane’s brother who, according to rumor, can name any wine’s vintage after just a sip. I steer our conversation back to the more important point. “Anyway, you think your dad’s assistant can make me happy? You know, for the wedding?”

He looks at me like I was dropped on my head early in life. “No. But she’s good enough to fake it.” He scrutinizes me over the rim of his wine glass. “Maybe you should take an acting class.”

There must be something in the L.A. air that makes everyone want to take up acting or recommend it to others. “No time. I’m too busy at work, plus trying to move and help Vi settle in at her new school.”