Good at Being Alive(9)
“You’re far more photogenic than the nitwits at Baby Makes Three. That part is an easy sell. But the two of you on your own gives me nothing to work with. So instead, the story is this.” He spreads his arms wide as if revealing words on a marquee. “Brought together by tragedy. United by devastating circumstances, the most unlikely pairing turns into true—”
“No,” Theo and I say simultaneously.
“Love,” Lars continues. “And now you’re…engaged?” He looks at Emil and then Paula, rather than us, the people upon whom he’d inflict this terrible fate.
“Married,” Emil says. “That raises the stakes.”
“I love those optics,” says the little shit from NYU. I’m not sure how it’s possible to hate someone as much as I’ve grown to hate him in such a short period of time.
“And this trip…it’s your honeymoon,” Emil continues, getting more excited with each word he utters. “A whirlwind romance you kept out of the press—a rushed marriage. Will it work or will it go down in flames? Wait…you’re saving the company, and each other. I like that. Katrina—write that down. ‘They’re saving the company. And each other.’?”
Theo and I exchange a horrified glance. A, because that is such a cringey tagline. B, because this whole idea absolutely sucks for both of us.
“I’m not telling the world I’m married to her,” Theo growls.
Asshole. I’ll ignore how offensive I find his distaste since the sentiment is shared. “No reasonable person would think I’d marry him. We have nothing in common—the lie would be obvious.”
“Except it wouldn’t be,” Lars says, leaning forward, pushing his blond-gray hair off his forehead. “If you actually marry Theo, it will simply be the sort of deliciously incongruous pairing that makes for great television…and would absolutely destroy Baby Makes Three.”
I love hearing the words “destroy Baby Makes Three,” but not when accompanied by the words “actually marry Theo.”
“And everyone will believe it,” Emil says. “The two of you have chemistry.”
“They bring a very Sam-and-Diane energy,” says Paula, nodding. I have no idea what that means, but I assume Sam and Diane were a married couple who eventually died in a murder-suicide, and I still don’t see why we can’t do this my way. Why we can’t bicker on camera while traveling—I’m sure that would come easily—and they could even edit it so we appear to be attracted to each other. Will they or won’t they has carried loads of shows through multiple seasons. There’s no reason ours has to kick off with they will and, in fact, they already did.
Emil rises. “I know I’ve dropped a lot on you here, but I’ve got another meeting so I’ll leave you in Lars’s and Paula’s capable hands. Take a few minutes to discuss and then they’ll proceed from there. Assuming you’re on board, I’ll see you both next spring at the show’s premiere.”
We are not on board, which I guess means I’ll never see Emil Harris again.
Emil leaves and Lars and Paula rise. “Take five minutes,” Lars says, as if he’s being generous. “We’ll be back.” He and his crew walk out together, leaving Theo and me behind like middle school students at their first dance—hardly able to make eye contact.
“This is insane,” he says.
The thick carpet sways under my dragging foot. I’d thought I was willing to do almost anything, but this is too wrong, even for me. “I agree, obviously. Let’s just tell him we talked and decided against it.”
He glances up as if he’s just realized I’m even in the room. “Insane,” he repeats.
“Right.” I rise from my seat. “I’m slow, but I got that part on my own. Let’s—”
“It’s insane, but…”
The first hint of terror sparks to life in my stomach.
I cannot marry the man Bronwyn chose for herself, even if it’s fake. I can’t.
“There’s no but,” I reply, returning to my seat.
He swallows. “I don’t want to fake-marry you any more than you want to fake-marry me, but it could work. If you were capable of feigning normalcy for an entire season—I do realize what a stretch that is—the public would eat it up. Everyone would keep their jobs and we could sell the company for a fortune when we’re done.”
I slap a hand to my face. “Are you crazy? We can’t even sit in the same room for five minutes without fighting. I’m not spending a year married to you.”
“You wouldn’t be. We film this rubbish and go our separate ways afterward. I don’t even live on the same continent as you. We’re talking a few weeks together at most to save everyone’s jobs and make a whole lot of money.”
I hate how completely rational this argument is. I also hate that I care just enough about my dad’s employees to be considering it. Linda doesn’t have enough saved for retirement because her worthless son is always hitting her up for money, and our communications director is a single dad with a very sick daughter. If only I’d tuned those details out when my dad would discuss them over dinner.
“Don’t you have, like, a girlfriend?” I ask. “The woman you were meeting last winter?”