Dating the Enemy

  I caught myself right as I was gearing up for an eye-roll. Conrad couldn’t have devised a more cliché date if he’d tried.

  Brooks cleared his throat after scanning the notecard, getting right after item number one. “Would you like to dance?”

  One of my eyebrows lifted at him. “Would I like to?”

  Dodging my loaded question, he stepped into my space, his arms carefully enveloping me in a way that suggested he was holding a bird with a broken wing. Sensation spilled down my spine, so I braced my hands on his chest, keeping him at a measured distance.

  Music played in the background. It wasn’t until I’d spun around that I realized the notes weren’t coming from a sound system but from an actual string orchestra tucked against the ledge of the roof.

  Brooks’s arms cinched around me right before he led me across the roof at a pace that suggested we were racing instead of dancing. It took Jimmy a moment to figure out what had happened. Not stopping when we came to the stairway door, Brooks threw it open before steering me inside.

  “What in the hell are you doing?” I shouted as he slammed the door behind us.

  When I moved to shove through the door, he blocked my path. His eyes locked with mine. “Attempting to save something we both know is pretty fucking rare.”

  A huff rolled from my mouth. “A guy pretending to love a woman for an ulterior motive? Not so rare at all.”

  “You’re really hung up on that aren’t you? The show? The promotion?” Brooks’s voice echoed down the stairwell, reverberating off the walls. “What if I march out there right now and tell the whole damn world that I love you?”

  The door started to pull open from outside, Jimmy getting the faintest glimpse of us before Brooks slammed the door shut and held it closed.

  “Brooks, please. Millions of viewers are on the other side of that camera lens, each one twitching to cast their votes for one of us.” My arms crossed as I backed away from the incarnate daydream in a good-fitting tux. “This has nothing to do with what you say tonight, but what I do. You can profess you love me until you’re blue in the face, but all viewers are going to be watching is my reaction.”

  Jimmy was now pounding on the door, but Brooks ignored him, all of his attention on me.

  “What difference does it make if you say you love me for all the world to know?”

  He shifted his weight. “Someone once told me it made all the difference.”

  My throat tightened, foiling my plan to stay as emotionally vacant as possible tonight. “If that’s true, that you really do love me, you won’t say it tonight. Or any other night. Just leave me alone after this nightmare is over.” I stormed toward the door, but his hand wound around my forearm as I was about to throw it open.

  “I found your number. Last night.” He reached into his jacket pocket to retrieve his phone, then scrolled through his contacts list before pausing on one. “Snowstorm in Chicago?” His throat moved as he read what I’d typed into his phone before the break of dawn one February morning.

  I stared at his hand molded to my arm. It looked right. It felt right. My heart told me one thing, while my head said another. A heart could be tricked, but a mind not so easily.

  “It seemed like a better idea than tucking a piece of paper with my number on it into your pocket.” I unwove my arm from his grip. “You were the one who made it a point not to use names, so I got creative.”

  He stared at the number for another moment before tucking his phone away. “I had a better shot at dialing random numbers in hopes of getting you than thinking you might have punched your number into my contact list under a pseudonym. And what number is this anyway? It’s not the same number I have for ‘Hannah Arden’ in my contacts.”

  I tried to back away from him, but I was frozen in place. “The number you have for me is my cell phone. Snowstorm in Chicago’s is my landline.”

  “Landline?” He blinked at me. “You’ve got to be the only person under seventy who still has a landline.”

  “I like having a back-up,” I said, motioning at him. “When I don’t want to give a guy I just met carte blanche to my cell phone.”

  His mouth twisted with a hint of amusement. “You gave me your landline number instead of your cell? After the night we spent together, all that earned me was some archaic means of communications?”

  My head shook as I finally succeeded at pulling away from him. “It doesn’t matter. My number, that night, our real dates, our fake ones—it just doesn’t matter anymore.”

  His head angled toward me. “It matters to me.”

  My feet faltered from hearing the rawness in his voice, from seeing it in his eyes. He was a skilled actor, a seasoned manipulator. “You don’t show your love to someone when they’re walking away. You prove it before they even think about leaving.”

  His posture wilted at my words, finally letting go of the handle when I shoved the door open, letting me go. Jimmy fell back a few steps, the look on his face leaving no question as to how he felt about Brooks’s latest camera-evading stunt.

  “I’ve had enough dancing for one night,” I said as I whisked past Jimmy. Behind me, Brooks’s steady footsteps echoed. “What’s next on the schedule?”

  Jimmy gave a silent sigh as he retrieved the agenda from his pocket.

  Dinner.

  Fabulous. That would go quickly as well, since I had zero appetite.

  As I approached the table, Brooks swept in front of me to pull out a chair. When he motioned at me to take a seat, I skirted around the table to take the other chair. He didn’t say anything, instead settling into the chair he’d pulled out once I was seated. Rolling his neck a few times, he pulled at his collar as he reached for the glass of water in front of him.

  To distract myself, I inspected the table. Short bunches of white flowers were staggered in the center, pale gold linens and china complementing the setting. Truly, the whole sight was breathtaking, and in another context, I would have been wide-eyed and twirling through the enchanted scene. But this was all a Trojan Horse, and I would not open myself up to its sabotage.

  “Can you believe this is it?” Brooks asked after acknowledging Jimmy circling his finger in desperation. Finale or not, we were going to bore viewers to death if we didn’t open our mouths eventually. “It seems like three months flew by.”

  “I wouldn’t say it flew by,” I said, letting my eyes be drawn to the candlelight. “But at least it’s almost over.”

  His tongue worked into his cheek before he reached for his glass of white wine. Lifting it toward me, he said, “To almost having me out of your life, once and for all.”

  Raising my glass, I clinked it against his, then set it down without taking a drink.

  “What’s your plan for after all this is over?” Brooks followed his question with another drink of wine, shifting in his seat.

  “That depends how this all finishes,” I answered, diverting my attention toward the server carrying a couple of appetizer plates.

  “How do you hope it will finish?” When the server set our plates in front of us, Brooks leaned aside, keeping me in his view.

  “I’m assuming that’s a rhetorical question.”

  “It’s not.”

  “Well, I’m going to pretend it is and leave it at that.” Glancing at what was on the plate in front of me, my appetite dipped below zero. It looked like nuclear-green baby food in a fancy bowl.

  Brooks appeared as impressed with the puce sludge as I did. He slid it aside, resting his arms on the table. “What do you want, Hannah?”

  His question threw me. What do I want? That could have meant a thousand things. But I guessed it all led to one—what did I want from him?

  “I don’t know, Brooks. What do you want?” My eyes met his while my stomach twisted into an infinite knot.

  “I know exactly what I want.” His stormy eyes flashed. “Exactly who I want.”

  My back stiffened as I pointed at Jimmy. “Of course you do. The camera’s rolling.?
??

  His throat moved as Jimmy moved in closer, panning between Brooks’ and my faces. No doubt selling the drama for every last nickel it was going for.

  Refusing to keep the conversation rolling for the show’s sake, I pretended to be interested in the view. Not that a person needed to pretend very hard. Millions of lights twinkled against a canvas of black, the din of the city creating a unique melody.

  A few minutes went by, Jimmy imploring us with pleading eyes to give him something more than obstinate silence. I didn’t budge. I was done being a puppet and having my strings yanked.

  Jimmy’s phone buzzed in his pocket. When he pulled it out to read the text, he rolled his eyes, before slowly mouthing, “Talk to each other” at us.

  Brooks glanced in my direction before rising from his chair. “I hear they’ve put together something for us to watch.” Brooks glanced in Jimmy’s direction, as though looking for confirmation, before his attention floated back to me. “If you’re in a hurry for things to be over.”

  “I’m in a hurry,” I said, rising as the server returned with what looked to be an ornamental beet salad.

  My heels made a snapping sound as I followed Brooks to where yet another extravagant scene had been staged. A large movie screen rested in front of an eggplant-colored vintage-style sofa, a mass of hurricane glass containers holding candles of varying sizes. It was gorgeous. It was garish. I wasn’t sure which it was more of, or if it my mood was creating my experience of it all.

  “What is this?” I asked, my words as hesitant as my steps, eyeing the screen where the bold Romance Versus Reality logo was displayed.

  “No idea,” Brooks replied as he took the glasses of champagne from a different server. He waited for me to take a seat on the sofa first, holding the glass of champagne I guessed by now he knew I wouldn’t drink. He set both glasses down at his feet when he sat beside me, his distance not going unnoticed. He was giving me space.

  “How bad is this going to be?” I mumbled to him as Jimmy worked to secure the right vantage to film us.

  “My guess is it will fall somewhere between appalling and truly heinous.” Brooks glanced at me from the side of his eyes, his throat moving as he did.

  From a couple of large speakers, a voice narrated as the screen played a familiar scene. “Three months. Two people. One winner. Who will come out on top, proving their case to millions of viewers? We’ll find out tonight on the finale, but first, let’s take a quick stroll down memory lane.”

  Brooks and I gave small groans. With as much money as this show was making the paper, you would have thought they could have afforded to hire a decent writer.

  From there, clips of Brooks’ and my dates played. Sweet mother of mercy. You know how a person hated the sound of their voice being played back to them? Magnify that by about a hundred and that was what it was like watching oneself on a giant screen. Even though the date clips were available to watch online whenever a person wanted, I hadn’t viewed a single one. Save for the few frozen stills on that morning show with that witch doctor, I’d refused to watch any footage from the dates.

  The first clip had been taken from date one, skipping from one moment to the next, playing back dialogue in such a way as to give a different impression of what had really been intended. From there, a few clips of our second and third dates, skimming through days in seconds. A close-up of Brooks’s face. One of mine. A shared laugh. A lingering look.

  God damn. It was the Cliff’s Notes to a romance novel in five minutes of airtime.

  My head fogged as I watched the young woman on the screen in front of me. Was it as obvious to everyone else as it was to me? Was it easy enough to detect in her eyes or her smile or her posture? To Ms. Romance, it was blinding. That young woman was not just participating in a social experiment, nor was she merely putting up with the man opposite her.

  All of the clips. The questions. The woman on the other side of that screen was obvious.

  She was in love.

  I’d missed it. The romance expert couldn’t recognize when she herself had fallen in love. I’d accepted that I’d fallen for him, but I’d been blind to what had come after.

  Love.

  The first man I’d loved was the last one I should have.

  The picture became blurry as it came to an end, though it took me a moment to realize it wasn’t the picture but my vision that was cloudy.

  “What’s the matter?”

  I looked away when Brooks asked his question, not sure how long he’d been watching me.

  “Nothing,” I whispered, blinking in an attempt to clear my eyes before Jimmy noticed and zoomed in.

  Brooks scooted closer, his forehead drawn with concern.

  “Don’t,” I warned.

  “Hannah . . .”

  The way he said my name had my lungs straining. It might have been an act for him, but it wasn’t for me. It hadn’t been for a while now.

  I was in love with him.

  In love with a man who was betting on me falling in love with him. The irony was cruel. But the reality was worse.

  “In a minute, we’re going to open up the voting lines to viewers, after one last question posed to you both.” Jimmy kneeled in front of us, clearing his throat dramatically. “What is the final thing you’d like to say to one another on live television? Your last words, so to speak.”

  The sentiment didn’t register at first. I wasn’t sure what he meant. Our last words to one another? What else did one say besides goodbye? There was nothing left to say, given the situation.

  Brooks was the first to move, angling his body toward mine. The corners of his eyes were creased as he stared at the floor, concentrating. I had no idea what he would say—anything from goodbye to divulging that we’d slept together before all of this.

  My lungs squeezed when he opened his mouth.

  “I’m sorry for what I said. What I did.” His eyes held mine for a moment, allowing a silent exchange to pass. He wanted me to know exactly what he was talking about.

  The confession. The proclamation. It really had been an act, the clincher in his playbook. It had been as real as the smile frozen to my face all night.

  The creases on his forehead carved deeper. “I’m sorry for everything. You deserve more . . . more than I have given, more than I ever could give you.”

  I didn’t feel the tears forming. But I didn’t miss them when they wound down my cheeks.

  When Brooks noticed them, he reached for me, his body moving as if it was an instinct. The moment his hands touched me, I jolted out of my seat, backing away from him. My vision tunneled in, focused on nothing but Brooks watching me with a look I didn’t have a translation for. It was pinched like regret, but his eyes didn’t match. Something else was reflecting in them.

  I didn’t stop to decipher it. I couldn’t. This whole experience had begun as a joke and was ending as a tragedy. I’d sacrificed my beliefs, my career, my standards for this. And I was leaving with all of that destroyed.

  “Hannah, wait.” Brooks rose from the sofa as though he was going to follow.

  “Stop.” My voice quivered as I shook my head. He stayed where he was. “Just . . . stop. It’s over.”

  With nothing left to give, I ran toward the stairway, my heels flying off as I went. I didn’t stop to collect them. I couldn’t afford to pause or turn back now. The only option was forward. It was my one hope for rebuilding the wreck this experience had left me with.

  Love. It was responsible for all of this.

  Maybe it was easier to believe how he did.

  Maybe he was right.

  Maybe I’d been wrong about everything all along.

  The aftermath from playing a lead role in the social experiment of our generation had yet to set in. Maybe because I took a sick day Monday and kept my phone, tablet, and laptop powered off.

  Rolling out of bed Tuesday morning, I knew better than to think I could get away with faking another sick day. Knowing Conrad, he’d probably sho
w up at my front door with a full camera crew in some ploy to document an “After the Final Date,” or some crap like that.

  I knew better than to hope if I just hid beneath my comforter for a few weeks, this would all blow over. So I got up before my alarm, took extra time to do my hair and make-up, and slipped into my favorite pink skirt suit. Ms. Romance might be going down today, but she’d be making that descent in her signature color, head high. My grandma’s pearl necklace finished the ensemble.

  Dean was outside my door, not saying anything as he fell in behind me, as though he hadn’t been exposed to copious amounts of Death Cab for Cutie and Chinese Delivery the past forty-eight hours.

  Before heading onto the sidewalk, I shoved a big pair of sunglasses on my face, hoping they’d conceal my identity just long enough to dodge into a cab and sprint into the World Times building.

  Dean hailed a cab, swinging open the door for me when it screeched to a stop. Once we were inside, he gave the driver the address and I attempted to relax for the fifteen-minute drive to work. It might be the last chance I’d get for the rest of the day.

  The voting polls had officially closed last night at midnight, so I knew the results would be in. I couldn’t bring myself to check the live updates or open the news to find out who voters had deemed the winner.

  I already knew.

  My actions that last date had sealed my fate. I couldn’t have been any less removed, or acted less distant. In the end, Brooks didn’t need me to say the words out loud—the unspoken ones carried more weight.

  When the cab rolled to a stop, I took a deep breath and prepared myself for everything that was waiting for me on the fortieth floor. Seeming to sense my unease, Dean nudged me. “At least it’s over.”

  I shared a smile with him, thankful for the kind words, despite knowing that, for me, it wasn’t over. The show, yes, had filmed its last segment, but the aftermath would stay with me for a while.

  The being recognized on the sidewalks, hiding behind sunglasses and floppy hats. The co-workers constant reminders in the coffee room, the slant of the comments that would accompany my articles. It would be a long time before this was over for me, but perhaps what would last the longest was what cut the deepest.