Faking It (12 page)

“You know the song ‘Kickstart My Heart?’”

“By Mötley Crüe?”

“Did you know Nikki Sixx wrote ‘Kickstart My Heart’ about his 1987 drug overdose? Nikki Sixx overdosed while Mötley Crüe was on tour with Guns-n-Roses. He was with Slash—” I look over at Gabriel but he just stares at me blankly. “Slash. Crazy talented guitarist for Guns-n-Roses—”

“I know who Slash is, Vivia.”

“Just checking.” I don’t think the kid knew who Slash was, but I let it go. “Anyway, Nikki Sixx was partying with Slash in his hotel room. He overdosed and Slash’s girlfriend called the EMTs. Nikki was clinically dead by the time help finally arrived. The EMTs gave him cardiopulmonary resuscitation, his heart started back up, and he lived to write the Crüe’s Grammy Award-nominated song.”

Gabriel grins. “I see what you did there—linking Mötley Crüe to Guns-n-Roses.”

“That’s right.” I nod. “Six Degrees of Separation, the theory that every musician is six steps or fewer from away from Axl Rose, the self-declared center of the Rock Universe.”

“Can you connect Bret Michaels to Axl Rose?”

“Can I connect Bret Michaels to Axl Rose?” I snort. “Bret Michaels dated Pamela Anderson, who dated Slash, who dated Monique Lewis, who dated—”

“Axl Rose.”

“That’s right. Center of the Rock Universe, my friend.”

Gabriel shoots names at me—Beyonce, Bieber, Prince, P!nk, Bono—and I make the musical or romantic connections linking each of them back to Axl Rose. An old Citroën zooms by us, tooting its horn. The traffic increases as we approach a village. We ride in silence for half an hour, passing through a series of sleepy villages. Finally, we make a turn onto an undulating country road winding like a ribbon through ancient vineyards. A downy shroud of early morning fog hangs over the vines. The scene is so beautiful I almost forget we still have twenty miles left to ride. Almost.

“Could we go back to non-Rock trivia now?”

I laugh. “Sure. Whatcha got?"

“Did you know China produces more grapes than France?”

“That can’t be true.”

“It is.” Gabriel increases his speed as we begin to attack a series of small hills. “China produces more grapes, but France produces more wine.”

I adjust my gears and increase my speed to keep up with Gabriel. We take several hills before I hit the kid with a little trivia.

“Did you know Napa Valley has approximately four hundred wineries?”

“Huh. I didn’t know that,” Gabriel says. “You like wine?”

“It’s okay. My fiancé—” Pain shoots through my chest. I am not sure if it is from the ride or my sudden recollection of Nathan. “My ex-fiancé loves wine. His family owns a winery in Napa Valley.”

“Wow. That’s weird.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know.” Gabriel adjusts his gears so he can match my slower pace. “You just don’t seem like the winery-owning type, that’s all.”

“What does that mean?” I take my eyes off the road for a minute and look over at the kid.

He notices me staring and shrugs. “I don’t know. You just seem…cool. My parents make a lot of money and they’re uptight. They’re always pushing us to compete and worrying about appearances.”

“I worry about appearances.”

“Believe me, you’re not the same.”

We ride on in silence. Gabriel’s comment has uncorked my bottled up uncertainties.
Believe me, you’re not the same.
What made me ever think I was sophisticated enough for Nathan? How had I fooled myself into believing that middle-class Vivia Grant was smart enough for Nathan’s posh set? A teenager sized me up and found me wanting. No wonder Nathan dumped me.

I drop my gaze to my hands wrapped around the handlebars. My flawless engagement ring is winking in the watery light, taunting me in my imperfections. For the first time since Nathan slipped the sparkler on my finger, I want to take it off and forget it exists. I remember the photo Fanny took this morning of me reclining on the balcony, my hand pressed to my forehead in a dramatic lady-of-leisure pose. Ironic, really. I was wearing sweats and a tee. Not exactly lady-of-leisure attire.

A fat drop of rain plops on my cheek, sliding down my face like a tear.
Great. Rain, too? Come on!

I was stupid to think someone as important as Nathan would want to spend the rest of his life with me. Stupid to think I could build a career in Journalism. Stupid to think I could ride a bike from Provence to Tuscany.

Wait a minute. I
am
riding a bike from Provence to Tuscany. I am doing it. If I can finish this tour without quitting, doesn’t that prove I am good enough for Nathan? That’s it! I will finish this damned ride and every damned ride that follows. I have to.

I am shifting gears when a cable snaps. The severed cable flies up, hitting my helmet with a frightening thwack. Gabriel looks over, eyes wide.

“Holy shit! You just broke your gear cable.”

I stop pedaling, slowing my bike to a stop. Gabriel stops too.

“What do I do?”

“Can you change a gear cable?”

“No. Can you?”

Gabriel shakes his head. I reach forward, grab the dangling cable, and hold it up. What in the hell am I going to do now?

“I’ll ride ahead and let Jean-Luc know what happened.”

“You will?”

“Yeah, if you don’t mind staying here by yourself.”

“No problem.”

Gabriel rides off. His silhouette disappears over one hill and then reappears atop another. When he disappears behind a second hill, I prop my bike against a wooden pole supporting vines laden with fat purplish grapes. I pop a squat on the hard-packed dirt and inhale the vineyard’s ancient, earthy scent.

I am listening to Mötley Crüe wail out “Same Old Situation
”
and popping juicy grapes into my mouth when Jean-Luc rides up.

He gets off his bike, removes his helmet and sunglasses, and walks over to my bike. Lifting the frayed cable, he says, “There are easier ways to get out of the ride.”

I am about to sputter a protest when he looks over his shoulder and winks, a sexy little wink that literally takes my breath away. It sounds totally cliché, but the breath really left my body in a quick rush.

He takes my bike apart with the speed and efficiency of a NASCAR pit crew. I only have time to pilfer a few more grapes before he’s replaced the broken cable. He props my bike up against the pole again and then holds his hand out to me.

“Ready to ride, or would you prefer to wait for the van?”

I hop up.

“What? No way. I am riding.”

“
On se bouge
.” He smiles and gestures for me to get on my bike. “Let’s go.”

We are several minutes into riding when I steal a peek at Jean-Luc. His profile is stunning. The beginning of a scruffy beard shadows his chiseled jaw. His long eyelashes cast arcing shadows on his cheeks. He shifts gears and slows his pace.

“You can go on ahead. I don’t mind riding alone.”

He looks at me. “I won’t leave you.”

He’s promising to remain by my side for the ride, not for eternity, but my heart still does one of those queer flips.

“
Merci beaucoup
, Jean-Luc.”

“Luc.”

“What?”

“My friends call me Luc.”

“Are we friends?”

He dips his chin and looks at me over the top of his sunglasses for several seconds before smiling.

“I think we will be.”

Self-Stimulation

“What’s up with you and Jean-Luc?”

“What do you mean?” My feigned innocence sounds false, even to me.

“Come on, he rode with you all day.”

Fanny and I are naked, face down on side-by-side massage beds at the spa at Couvent des Minimes, a posh five-star hotel outside Manosque. We’re getting sixty minutes of oily deep tissue work courtesy of the management.
Une petite
thank you for booking the Honeymoon Suite.

“He only rode with me because my cable gear broke and he had to fix it.”

Fanny mumbles something in French eliciting a soft giggle from her masseuse.

“Whatever. Have you looked at him, Fanny?”

“Oh, I’ve looked at him. Every woman in a fifty mile radius has looked at him.”

“There you go. You see? He’s gorgeous and fit. I’m hardly his type.”

“Whatever.”

“Besides, I’m in love with Nathan.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.” The masseuse presses her hand between my shoulder blades as I struggle to sit up. “I love Nathan.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Stop that.”

“What?”

“Stop saying I’m not in love with Nathan.”

“Okay, but you’re not.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I’ve seen the way you look at Jean-Luc. You never looked at Nathan like that. Ever.”

The masseuse digs her thumb into a tender spot between my shoulder blade and spine, eliciting a primal moan. The pleasure-pain is so great I can’t speak. I close my eyes and wonder about Fanny’s last statement. How am I looking at Jean-Luc?

With desire.

The traitorous words pop into my brain from nowhere. With desire? What in the hell? I hardly know Jean-Luc. Luc. I doubt I am looking at him with desire.

Besides, I have looked at Nathan with desire. At least, I think I have. My thoughts pinged about like a pinball, moving rapidly from memory to memory. I remember loving Nathan and feeling content with him, but I am having a difficult time recalling passionate times.

We were passionate. We were.

Weren’t we?

* * * *

The next morning, I am looking cool-ish in my pink and black cycling gear. Thanks to Chantal’s determined efforts, my luggage was waiting for me when we checked into the resort. I secure the Velcro straps of my cycling shoes, feeling more confident than I’ve felt since arriving in France. While Fanny finishes showering, I turn on my iPhone.

Before performing my e-mail/text/Facebook/Twitter check, I open my camera roll and scroll through my photographs from the last two years.
Selfie. Food Porn. Purse I Covet. Selfie with Fanny. Food Porn of Mr. Foo’s Pork Dumplings. Creepy Pig Cookie Jar Inexplicably Found Sitting on a Counter in a Hotel Bathroom.

Finally, I find what I am looking for: a selfie with Nathan. We are lying on the beach at Half Moon Bay. The camera is above us and our heads are together. Although I have looked at this snapshot a thousand times, it seems foreign now. I hardly recognize myself—a preppy cashmere sweater knotted around my neck, diamond solitaires twinkling on my earlobes. Worse, I barely recognize the man I thought I would marry. He’s staring into the camera, but his eyes lack warmth. His smile is slight, wooden.

Passionless.

Desperate now, I scroll through the rest of my photos, looking for a single snapshot that captured the romance, the
passion
that must have existed between Nathan and me. When I fail to find it, I click out of my camera roll and sit, staring at my head-to-toe pink reflection in the mirror. Nathan lusted after me, didn’t he? We were passionate…sometimes…occasionally. I think.

Stop it! Stop doubting your love for Nathan. And stop doubting his love for you. He loves you. He does. And he will forgive you. He will.

I open my e-mail box. Nothing from Nathan. The two dozen texts aren’t from him, either. The Texan, Travis “Big Balls” Trunnell, sent one though.

Text from 210-522-2121:

It’s Travis. Ur Mom gave me ur # (luv her, btw). I’m not sorry we ran into each other again, Vivia, but I am sorry ur hurting. IMS. I nvr wnt to hurt u. Cld we go to dinner when u get back, pls? CM.

The Texan’s text is followed by one from my Mum.

Text from Camilla Grant:

Vivia, it’s your mum. Travis-something-or-other rang me up. We had a lovely chat. He said he went to college with you and asked for your number. I gave it to him. I think it was okay. At least, he didn’t sound like a serial killer. He was very polite. I like him.

“Vivian! What are you doing?”

“Shitake!” My iPhone falls onto the plush carpet with a muted thunk. “What the hell, Fanny? You’re going to give me a heart attack. A little warning,
s’il vous plaît
.”

“You’re
so
busted.” Fanny picks up my iPhone and hands it back to me with a frown. “Did you hear from him?”

I shake my head. I hear the lyrics from Buckcherry’s “Sorry”
in my head and tears cloud my eyes.

Fanny gives me a quick hug.

“Not even a text?”

“Nada.” I swipe the tears from my cheeks and try to paste on an ironically bright smile. “But I did get a text from Travis Trunnell.”

“Seriously?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“What did he say?”

I hand Fanny my iPhone.

Her eyes move back and forth as she reads the text. “He sounds sexy,” she says, beaming.

“What? How did you get that from a text?”

Fanny shrugs.

“I just did.”

I shove my slaughtered sweats into my suitcase and zip it shut. Fanny’s right, and it pisses me off. Travis is really sexy. He’s also the reason I am on a honeymoon without a husband.

“What’s your deal, Vivian?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…your sexy nights with Travis Trunnell have been the watermark for all of your sexual encounters.”

“Night.”

“What?”

“Sexy night. Singular.”

“You’re not helping your case. You’ve described your night with Travis as the best sex of your life.”

“Whatever.”

“No. Not whatever. You have. So why are you afraid to give him a chance?”

“I am not looking for a booty call, Fanny.”

“Who said it has to be a booty call?”

I chuckle ruefully. “You don’t know Travis. He’s a dog in heat looking for his next bone.”

“I don’t know…he doesn’t sound like a dog in his text. He’s apologetic, concerned about your feelings, and man enough to admit he cares about you. No games or macho bullshit.” Fanny walks over to me and puts her hands on my shoulders, forcing me to look at her. “I love you, Vivia, but you have a tendency to judge by appearance. You did it with Nathan, and now you’re doing it with Travis and Jean-Luc. Take off the rose-colored glasses,
ma chérie
, and look at the world as it is, not how you imagine it to be. You might actually be surprised.”