Three months later

Jane’s article in Dazzle comes out today. Her email said that it would be posted online as well, but I want to see a physical copy with my very own eyes. I wake up, throw on clothes, and go down to the bodega and pluck a copy off the stand. The headline, “Faux Bachelorette Exposé” written in a bold, hot pink font, jumps out at me. Seeing that makes it so much more real. Amy Schumer is on the cover. I feel like she’s smirking right at me.

It’s finally a true spring day, so I get a coffee and sit on a bench in this secret church garden by my apartment. Three months have passed since that fateful night. Three months without talking to Elsa May. In best friend years, that’s the equivalent of a century. I flip to the story. Accompanying it is a great photo of Jane next to the pink Hummer. She’s wearing our bachelorette crown. I hesitate before beginning to read. It’s all here in black and white. I take a deep yoga breath and dive in.

The (Faux) Bachelorette

by Jane Whitman

Across the pond, they are called hens nights. In South Africa, kitchen teas. Here in the U.S., we call them bachelorette parties, an all-girls’ night out to celebrate a bride-to-be before she gets hitched. In mass media, the idea of a bachelorette party conjures up limos, penis straws, and poor life decisions. In gender studies, my own personal field of expertise, bachelorette parties are often regarded as a practice adopted from male patriarchy. At their best, they are an opportunity to bond with other females. At their worst, they’re seen as a woman’s last night of freedom before being shackled to her husband—an ending instead of a beginning.

While bachelor parties have been a “thing” since way back in Sparta during the fifth century, bachelorette parties only became a common practice in the late 1980s. Yet in the last thirty years, they have become a rite of passage for females. Having a bachelorette party is now considered a milestone in the same regard as experiencing menses for the first time or getting a driver’s license.

Until recently, I was a bachelorette party virgin. Let’s be honest: when you are entrenched in feminist studies and are by nature an introvert, you observe most parties from the outside and are rarely invited to attend any of these parties. Yet in the last month, I’ve attended three bachelorette parties, including my own. But I’m not engaged. You see, these three parties were all carefully concocted ruses. Now, why would intelligent, attractive women do something so seemingly childish—or, even worse, pathetic? It began as a sincere attempt to spice up life. The question was simple: Do bachelorettes really have more fun? The answer, however, turned out to be much more complicated.

In Manhattan, at my age, the singletons rule. It’s an urban Neverland, run by gangs of Peter Pans, Tinkerbelles and, of course, a few Lost Boys. A married person under thirty—or even an engaged person—is a unicorn. A rare breed. They are regarded as the “other,” deemed both mysterious as well as dangerous. They represent what many of us want to have in life—a solid future with a partner—but they also represent what many of us fear. While many move to New York to find love, many here still also shun and run from commitment and marriage. A bachelorette party is a symbol that celebrates this “other,” a woman no longer available.

To answer the first question, yes, bachelorettes do have more fun. But it’s not for the reasons I initially thought. At first, I assumed a bachelorette party was a silly way for a woman to be the center of attention and to get free drinks. And this does happen. Over the course of the three bachelorette parties, we probably drank a thousand dollars’ worth of (overpriced) cocktails and shots, gifted to us by men and even a few women. And whoever “played” bachelorette did get a lot of attention. She glowed in dark rooms and had a gravitational force that pulled men to her. This was not because the men were trying to sleep with the bachelorette . . . although they probably would have if she had asked. But it was more than that—men actually talked to the faux bachelorette. They opened up to these women whom they believed were both committed and ready to take the big leap. They talked about their dreams, their past mistakes, and even their biggest fears. They asked questions about the bachelorette and her friends. They listened. They did everything we singletons could hope for from potential mates, but it seemed that the only reason they did it was because the bachelorette was “off the table.” There was no fear of being rejected. There was no worry of “tomorrow.” There were no promises made, kept—or broken. Although moments of emotional intimacy between men and the faux bachelorettes occurred every time we set out, they were left there that night.

So yes, bachelorettes—even the faux variety—do have way more fun. But a big reason why is that men, when faced with someone on the verge of marriage, finally open up. They expose themselves rather than wear tightly sealed armor. And maybe the fake bachelorette, without the worry or fear of rejection, also reveals her true self. While I’m a cynic by nature and skeptical of everything gendered, in the end, I’m grateful for these bachelorette parties. They seemed in some ways to invert stereotypical gender roles. In this setting, men were willing to be welcoming and vulnerable. It reminded me that men want what women want . . . even if it takes a bachelorette party to show that to them—and us.

To recap, what I learned from playing a (fake) bachelorette is that men aren’t that different from women. And sometimes you have to pretend to be something you are not in order to open up and allow people to see who you really are. Confident. Beautiful. Desirable. Sometimes you realize that you like your pretend self better than you like your real self. So shake things up. I dare you. Be a (fake) bachelorette for a night. I promise you’ll be forever changed. I was.

* * *

I exhale. There’s no mention of Elsa May and the big fight we had. Even better, there’s no mention or even allusion to me at all. Instead of being an exposé as advertised, it’s a thoughtful piece on bachelorettes and gender. If anything, it’s a little bit stiff. Overall, it’s very Jane.

I pick up my phone and type out a text to her.

“Congrats on the article. I really enjoyed reading it.”

Immediately, my phone pings back.

“Thanks. I had mixed feelings about writing it after how the chips fell. We should catch up sometime.”

I know it wasn’t Jane’s article that caused what happened between Elsa May and me.

“That whole thing was probably a long time coming. Hope you’re doing well, Jane. Hope Mia’s good too.”

When everything fell apart, I lost Mia along with Elsa May. And Jane too. I didn’t call them, and they didn’t call me. I thought maybe the whole thing would last a week and blow over, but it’s been three months now. I never apologized and neither did Elsa May. I wonder if my words echo in her head, like hers do in mine. I wonder if she wants to take back everything she said about how I was wrong about everything and needed to change.

This has all just sat there in my brain, being analyzed day after day, until I got the email from Jane about her article. I’ve lived in panic since then. The editor promised anonymity and all that, but you never know.

My phone rings. “Harry,” it reads in big block letters. Yes, that’s dream Harry.

I bumped into him about two and half months ago at Angelique’s, a coffee shop on Bleecker Street. I was hard-selling the neighborhood to another client since it seems all I do now is work—even more than before. But less because I love it and more because it was all I have.

At least I am back on track.

Harry spotted me first as I was standing in front of a case of pastries. “Lottie,” he said in that most charming accent. “I love my apartment. I’ve been meaning to email you to say thank you.”

I nodded and motioned to my client. “See, a walking, breathing billboard. And I’m not even paying him.” He laughed, and I felt a rush of energy, even though I hadn’t sipped my cappuccino yet. While my client ordered, I whispered to Harry that I wasn’t engaged anymore, and that it was a long story. I told him I was up for that date if he hadn’t been swept off his feet by some American broad. He said yes. I’m still not sure what got into me. If it was loneliness or if I actually absorbed some of what Elsa May had said. She was off on a lot, but maybe she was still right about telling the truth.

I almost speed-dialed her after I saw Harry to tell her everything, but then I remembered. I’m finding out that losing your best friend is a lot like a death. Sometimes you almost forget for a second that it happened, but then your heart reminds your head. There is no more painful feeling.

Two weeks after the coffee shop run-in, Harry and I had our first date at the restaurant Sant Ambroeus. That was two months ago. He works all the time, but so do I. Just like I thought, we’re a perfect match. Two straight-edge workaholics. Maybe there are no fireworks when we kiss or long passionate debates that go on until sunrise, but it’s comfortable and that’s what I’ve been looking for. Something that fits.

He’s like Rock, but better.

I pick up the phone. “Morning,” he says. Seriously, we need our government to mandate that we all pick up British accents. They are so pleasant, even at nine in the morning. I think it would go a long way to uniting our country.

“I read the article, darling,” he says. “I don’t know why you were fretting so much. It wasn’t even about you, Pumpkin.”

“I overreacted,” I admit. When I told Harry the whole story about the faux bachelorette thing, he laughed for a full two minutes and then didn’t say anything. Finally, he said, “American women are nearly as crazy as I thought.” Elsa May was right. He didn’t care. And just like with Tyler, the truth set me free and let me get back on course.

“The whole article was a bit stiff if anything,” he says. “I wanted to hear more about the penis straws. Maybe I should have a faux bachelor party. That would be a hoot. I could have some of my friends come over from London. Hopefully, it’d go better than that movie The Hangover.”

“Don’t you dare,” I say. “Believe me, like I told you, there was a lot more to that story than was fit for print.”

I throw the magazine in a trashcan. I don’t need it sitting around my apartment like an unwanted party favor from one of my worst nights ever.

“Why don’t you call Elsa May already?” he asks, as if one phone call could magically solve this whole thing.

I shake my head even though he can’t see me. “Let’s stay in tonight,” I say, changing the subject. “I have six appointments in the next three days.”

“That’s another thing I like about you,” Harry replies into the receiver. “You work as hard as I do.”

“Thanks, honey. I have to run. Another client.”

“Bye, Lottie.”

I hang up and ignore the nagging feeling that even though everything between us matches so perfectly, it still feels like there’s something missing.

It’s probably because of Elsa May, I think. This whole thing has thrown everything off-kilter. I always thought it was my rules that kept my universe on its axis, but sometimes, I think it was actually Elsa May. Not that I’d tell her that.

* * *

Between appointments, I check my email at a Starbucks while sipping from a coffee. I can tell the barista used Splenda and not Stevia, and it’s driving me crazy.

The name “Tyler King” glares back at me from my inbox. I blink twice.

It’s not a name that I ever thought I would see again, especially not after the whole confession-coffee day.

I push away the look of hurt on his face after I told him it was strictly business.

I hesitate, but then I open the email. It’s a Paperless Post—the fancy version of Evite. I click on the envelope. It opens a virtual invitation. Adorned with a cute black and white sketch of a townhome, it reads: “Please come to my Housewarming. Saturday, February 10th. Tyler’s growing up and he wants to show off his place. Come and have a few.”

I feel my lips curving into a smile. I totally pegged him right. He did want to find a home to grow into. Of course, I’m not going to attend, but it’s nice to see he’s happy there—and that I was right about it being the place for him.

I check the box that says “I will NOT attend” and leave a short message. “Thanks for the invite. So glad it worked out. Have a fun party.”

Almost immediately, my email pings again. “Hi, Lottie. I’m disappointed. I know things got a bit awkward last time, but that’s all water under the Brooklyn Bridge. I want you to be the guest of honor for making this whole thing happen . . . Plus, I can introduce you to more potential clients. It’s the least I could do for you after you found me such a clutch place. And like you said, Brooklyn is the new Manhattan.”

Tyler knows my soft spot. I reply, “Okay—you had me at ‘clients.’ Can I bring a guest—my boyfriend? A real one this time.”

I add the last part for good measure. This is a professional meeting, and I should make that clear.

Ping. “The more, the merrier,” he replies says with a winking emoji. (Did I mention I hate emoji? Think about how much time is wasted over trying to discern what someone meant by an emoji. Like, what does that wink mean? Is it a wink to my having a boyfriend? Or is it a wink to the fact I had a fake fiancé? Or does it mean something different altogether?

Or is it fate that’s winking at me and making me wonder what would have happened if I had just been honest? Not just with Tyler, but also with myself.

I push that thought away. C’mon, Lottie. It was a lonely time. You were confused. You never would have wanted to be with Tyler.

Right?

* * *

I send Harry a calendar note for the party that reads: “Networking Event for Lottie in Brooklyn.” Within a few minutes, he’s accepted it, and it has popped up on our shared Google calendar.

Did I mention we’re perfect for each other?

* * *

Five days later, on the Saturday of Tyler’s open house, Harry shows up at my apartment at 9 a.m. sharp, just like he said he would. He checks off punctual on my list in a big, on-time way.

“I brought you breakfast,” he says, holding up a white paper bag. “The best scone I’ve found in Manhattan, although still a little too flaky.” He holds up a paper cup. “And a tea. You Americans drink entirely too much coffee.”

I set the cup and bag on the counter and kiss him on his lips. A man who brought me breakfast was never on my list, but it should have been. And he eats scones. Most American men his age still live on Eggos and Hot Pockets. One exception to that rule flashes in my mind, but I shove away the image of Tyler cooking in his kitchen—the one I found for him, and the one I’m going to see again in a few hours.

Harry and I sit down at my round coffee table. He opens the London Times, and I brief through the New York Times Real Estate section. While I’m scanning the highlights, I feel him watching me. I look up.

“What?” I ask shyly, brushing a hair from my face.

“It’s this,” he says. “I like this. It feels right, Lottie. I’ll admit that I never thought I’d fall in love with an American, but I think that’s exactly what is happening here.”

I awkwardly fumble to turn the next page. Did Harry say that he was in love with me? From the day I met him at the Archive Building, that has been my dream. But here, faced with that reality, I’m not so sure.

But I don’t want him to know that. At least not yet. Rule Number Sixteen: Never say “I love you” to someone first and don’t respond right away if he says those three little words. Even if you are certain. Even if you’re head over heels.

“You’re in love with me?” I ask, still looking down at a photo of affordable housing that will be bulldozed for a luxury high-rise.

Harry gently takes my chin in his hand and pulls my head up. “I’m starting to be,” he says. His phone rings and he looks down at the screen. “Rats. I have to answer this. It’s the big boss.”

I nod understandingly. “Of course,” I say, happy to have an out from the conversation.

Harry walks over to the kitchen. I hear him say, “Yes. Yes. You’re right. Okay. I’ll be there.”

I try not to exhale too loudly. Harry returns to the table and puts his hand on mine. “Lottie Lou, I know that you’re going to think that I’m a real dog, and I don’t blame you, but I have to go into work. My boss thinks we can close this deal today. I know we have that networking event in Brooklyn, but you can do that in your sleep, right, lovely? We’ll meet up back in the Village for our dinner reservation.”

I stick my lip out, but it feels like I’m playing a character who would do that. Honestly, I’m relieved. This way I won’t have to do the awkward introductions between Tyler and Harry.

And I’m also happy that Harry has to leave before we go back to that “I love you” business.

We kiss goodbye—a little tongue but no passion. When I shut the door, I slump against it. Again, I have the overwhelming urge to call Elsa May. She would know what to do. But I can’t now. It’s been too long.

I head for the shower. I’m going to Brooklyn.

* * *

I fiddle with my purse on the subway ride over. Tucked inside are thirty business cards. I put in extras before heading out the door. I am bringing them in an attempt to convince myself that I’m going to Tyler’s housewarming only for business, but I know in my heart that’s not completely true.

Twenty short minutes after leaving my house, I’m standing in front of the brownstone. I follow a couple—two bearded guys in flannels and boots—to the front door. One of them presses the buzzer.

“Are you here for the open house too?” the taller one asks.

“Tyler’s?” I ask. They nod in unison. “Yes.”

“I didn’t think he knew any girls,” the other one jokes.

I laugh along, even though I hate being called a girl since I’m nearly thirty and financially independent. And how come a guy like Tyler wouldn’t know women? I would’ve guessed he has a waitlist of women—and girls—wanting to go out with him.

Someone buzzes us in, and I follow the guys up the two flights of stairs.

The front door of the apartment has been propped open with a book, so we let ourselves in. In the entryway sits what looks like an antique table. Framed above it is a black-and-white photograph of a man and woman on their wedding day. I stand there puzzled at both how classy Tyler’s taste is and how beautiful the photo is.

Maybe in my attempt to put people in boxes for my job, I end up oversimplifying them. I think I’m guilty of initially doing that with Tyler.

“Boo!” someone whispers in my ear. I jump nearly ten feet.

“Tyler,” I say, turning and hitting him on the arm.

“Welcome, Apartment Fairy Godmother. Those are my grandparents, by the way. 1955.”

“Gorgeous couple,” I say.

He nods. “My grandma,” he says, pointing. “She’s my muse. And I love this picture. They look so young and reckless. Like they’re jumping off a real cliff, not just a metaphorical one.”

He looks behind me and out into the hallway. “Where’s the plus-one?” he asks. He wags his finger then says, “You didn’t invent him too, now did you? Is this like some sort of new disorder?”

I laugh. “He’s not Pinocchio. He’s a real boy. Or man, rather. But he got called into work.”

Tyler’s lips form a thin line. “Sounds like you are perfect for each other.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I say.

“Take it however you want,” Tyler says with a wink. Damn him and his winks.

I look down the hall to a packed living room. “You have a very crowded open house. I know now that you’re a popular man, so it’s a good thing your real estate agent found you such a spacious place.”

“Oh, those people,” he says. “I see them all the time. Tell me what’s new with you.”

I shake my head. “You don’t want to hear your real estate broker go on and on about her personal life at your party, do you?”

Tyler gestures around the room. “Lottie,” he says in a whisper. “No offense. I have my dream place now, so I’m not really in need of your services as a real estate agent anymore.”

He pauses, the color draining from his face. “I mean . . . I invited you here as a friend,” he says emphatically, as if I might misinterpret his intentions. As if maybe everything isn’t water under the bridge like he said in his email.

But I swallow and nod. Friends aren’t something I have in droves these days. If he can be this good-natured after I turned him down, I can move past it too.

“Thanks, friend,” I say, although the word is awkward coming off my lips.

I place my hand on the entry table to try to stop the dizzy feeling. It doesn’t help. I feel the same way I did after going on the teacup ride as a kid at Disney World. I no longer know which way is up and which way is down.

Tyler points to the living room of people. “C’mon,” he says, “I’ll introduce you to some people. Everyone’s wondering about this mystery lady who finds brownstones with Viking ranges.” He smiles at me. “You’ve become a bit of an urban legend among my people.”

I laugh. “That’s definitely a first. I’m not really legend-inspiring.”

He wags his finger. “Don’t be so sure,” he says. “JR,” he calls out into the crowd. “You have the honor of escorting Lottie, our esteemed real estate agent, around the party. She doesn’t know anyone here.” He whispers, “Remember, she’s a Manhattan girl. These are foreign waters.”

JR takes my hand. “With pleasure. By the way, Lottie, me and the lady friends are loving my pad. Thanks.”

He leans in. “And the closet rocks.”

JR is excellent at introducing me to everyone. I can see why he would be good on Wall Street. He passes out more of my business cards than I do. The whole time, I’m working on autopilot. I’m going through the motions. I feel like I’ve fallen back into the rabbit’s hole that I worked so hard to climb out of . . . I try not to, but I find myself craning my neck the whole party to note Tyler’s whereabouts.

I want to talk to him again, but what would I say?

I should be passing out my cards and networking the room, but I can’t stop wondering why I don’t feel half as much about Harry as I do about Tyler.

“Earth to Lottie,” JR says, handing me a spinach canapé.

“Sorry,” I say, taking a bite. “Did Tyler really make this?” I ask JR. “It tastes absurdly good.”

JR laughs. “Believe me, it’s not easy having him as a big brother. He’s a lot to live up to.”

I watch Tyler float from group to group, and I nod in agreement.

I do a quick phone check and also note the time. It’s 4 p.m. I have to get back to Manhattan. Harry promised me a perfect night out after bailing on our morning plans.

“I have to go,” I say to JR. “I have something in a little bit.”

He nods. “Don’t be a stranger, Lottie.” I look over to where Tyler is deep in conversation with a raven-haired girl in a canary-yellow beanie.

They look perfect for each other. Maybe they’re dating? I didn’t even bother to ask him about his life.

“I don’t want to interrupt,” I say, gesturing toward Tyler and the girl. “Will you tell your brother thank you for me? The place looks even better on him than I hoped it would.”

JR shrugs. “I think he would want to say goodbye to you himself.” JR pauses. “I could tell he was disappointed when you initially said you couldn’t come.”

I get that feeling you get when someone is holding something back. Is it possible that Tyler mentioned something about me to JR?

“Look around,” I say, motioning to the increasingly crowded apartment. “Tyler’s busy with his many fans. Please thank him for me.”

“That’s an old friend from school,” JR says, subtly pointing to the woman. “Just in case you were wondering. She dates his college roommate.”

“Oh, that’s not it,” I say, trying not to sigh with relief. I look at my watch and then to the door. “It was really nice to get out—and do some networking,” I add at the last minute. “Thanks for saying goodbye for me.”

JR gives me a side hug. “Tyler’s right. You are a mysterious one,” he says.

“Me, mysterious?” I laugh, but my insides twist.

I slip out the door, making sure Tyler doesn’t see my escape. When I came to the party I had a question, and now I’m leaving with the answer.

* * *

My phone chimes as I exit the subway on my way home from Tyler’s new place.

I don’t get many texts these days. My parents don’t text, even after several tutorials, and Harry thinks it’s provincial. And I’ve lost my two best friends, the only two people who used to text me just to text me.

My phone chimes again, so I reach for it.

Mia: “Look at Tylerking.com”

That’s it. That’s all the message says. Not “Hi from the dead” or “Remember me?”

I reply with an equally curt “OK.”

Is it weird that a text from an old friend could give me goosebumps? I type the URL into my phone. Tyler’s website—which admittedly I’ve visited before—pops up. I don’t see anything strange.

I text Mia again. “Don’t see anything.”

“Check the new rings section.”

I pull down the tab. Right there, in front of me, is a ring with the label “The Lottie.” It’s two pavé bands attached with a princess-cut diamond, a diamond very similar in cut and size to the one from my faux engagement ring. But the rings are nothing alike. This one is unique. Inspired. It’s the type of ring Tyler described the first night we met. One that isn’t all about the size of the diamond but rather one that’s about how the setting fits the ring. How they complement each other. Wow. I can finally see what Tyler has been saying. The diamond is only a part of the puzzle. It needs to find the right home.

“OMG,” I text back. A tidal wave of feelings hits me, so fast I can’t process everything.

“We have the real thing here at Trinity,” Mia texts. “Stop by sometime and see it in person. It’s stunning. I told you he had a crush. Hope you’re doing well.”

Maybe my friends were right all along. Maybe it wasn’t only about apartments. Maybe there always was something real there with Tyler, more than just a silly crush on a guy who was different from every guy I’ve ever dated. But I’ve been scared to admit it out loud. Because that admission would mean that my life might veer from my carefully plotted course into territory I never dreamed of sailing.

Then I type it. What I actually feel. Not what Lottie who plays by rules would say. “I miss you.”

Mia responds, “Me too.” After reading it, I feel like a little bit of my heart is put back together.

I look at my watch and realize I’m running five minutes behind. I’m never late—yes, as a rule. You don’t miss anything when you show up early, but you always do when you’re late. I hurry to finish blow-drying my hair and rush out the door to meet Harry for dinner.

I know I’m not going to be there on time, but hopefully it won’t be too late.