My Fake Boyfriend

“Oh honey, I’m so happy for you,” I winced when I heard the sincerity in Grandma’s voice, “you know, your cousin Kim is probably never gonna get married if she doesn’t meet a man in college. You’re so blessed.”

“Thanks Gramma – I can’t wait for you guys to meet him. I’ll see you in a few days. We’ll be down early to help set up and start cooking.”

“Okay darlin’. You two fly safe. I love you.”

“Love you too, Gramma. Say hi to Grandpa.”

We said, “Buh-bye” at the same time and hung up our phones.

I could just imagine her right now turning to talk to Grandpa, “Oh Jay, aren’t you so happy? I told you she wasn’t a lesbian.”

I, on the other hand, turned to my roommates (who had heard the entire conversation) with a look of desperation. “Dude, did you just make up a boyfriend to your family?” Kate asked with a grin.

I threw my head down on the table into my folded arms and let out a muffled, “… a fake boyfriend who is coming home with me for Thanksgiving.”

Laughter erupted from all sides of our dining room table. Kate finally calmed down enough to get out, “Okay, what the hell? Start from the beginning.”

So reluctantly, I launched into the story about how I hadn’t dated seriously much (as they very well knew), and how that was just great with my family initially, but with my aging (an entire twenty-one years) I had been getting pressure to find someone. It was my family’s belief that there was no dating after college, or that the good ones would all be gone, or that if I didn’t pick a mate soon I would become… wait for it… a lesbian!

Honestly, things had been easier since I’d adopted had my fake boyfriend. My family seemed more pleasant on phone calls, everybody wanted to hear the stories I made up about him, and I was even happier living in these fantasies.

When I had finished telling Kate and Misha the elaborate story I had made up about a rugged, handsome young man from a middle class family with an unmatched work ethic, upstanding moral character, and an unfailing sense of humor, they looked from each other back to me. Misha admitted defeat instantly, “You’re screwed.”

I laughed, “Yeah thanks Mish – I’m well aware.”

“No,” she continued, “We can find you a guy to take home, the only problem is, you described one way too perfect. Couldn’t you make him a free-loader, or an atheist, or even just a Liberal for hell’s sake? Now that we could find.”

I didn’t even laugh, because I knew she was right. What had I gotten myself into?

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I went through the list of potential guys in my life, none of whom were worthy of the trip home. Tripp would have taken this as an invitation to ask me to marry him… again. Kyle would probably freak out and tell his entire group of friends that I was a clingy, desperate, creep. Spencer would probably be the best fit, but his family goes to Hawaii every Thanksgiving. Ugh. Going down the list of acquaintances, I realized basically everyone I knew was out – I couldn’t pay these guys to memorize the National Anthem, let alone a fictitious back-story about our meeting or their life that I had constructed. Back to the drawing board.

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I went to Church that Sunday with an ear closed to the readings, eyes open to every single man in the joint, and only one prayer – God, please make one of the men in these pews okay with the idea of flying to Nevada next week with a complete stranger and meeting her family under the pretense of their serious dating.

The guy sitting next to me wasn’t half-bad looking, maybe a bit older, but hey – I was in no position to get picky. When the Sign of Peace came around, we turned to shake hands and wish each other peace. He smiled a dopey grin, and ‘shook’ my hand with a dead fish of a ‘grip’. I nearly gagged. Dead fish guy is out.

When Communion came around I caught eyes with a nice looking guy with sandy hair (also a couple years older) on the other side of the Church. He smiled, I blushed. Oh, this was it. All during Mass he looked at me, and I just knew this was the one. When the service ended, I got up in the crowd to leave and walked toward where he was sitting. Our gazes met as we walked closer and closer together. Then out of nowhere a small boy jumped onto his leg yelling, “Dad, hold me. Mom’s holding Jenna – see!” He kept looking at me, as I walked right past his crew. His wife saw him too. What an ass.

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I pulled up to Smith’s and got out with my small list of items I needed from the grocery store. I know, right? Genius.

I loitered down the alcohol aisle, but only a bunch of “bro’s” stampeded by, far more concerned with the dollar-off pricing on natty light. As I made my way to the bread aisle, I saw a prospect. He looked well dressed from behind – what a nice change from frat-land Tennessee. I pulled my cart up next to his and reached for the top shelf stumbling on my tippie toes waiting for him to offer to help. When he didn’t, I tapped him gently on the shoulder, “Hey, I’m so sorry, but would you mind grabbing that loaf up there for me?”

He turned and sized me up instantly in his Dolce and Gabanna eyeglasses, “Oh sure hun, no prob. By the way… LOVE what you’ve done with the hair scarf, SO Paris Hilton, but like a classy Paris Hilton. Rawr. ” He winked at me.

I left the food in my basket and ran to the car.

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After hours of deliberation, we had dressed me in Kate’s off-the-shoulder black top and a pair of killer red heels. We had a couple of drinks at the house and decided which bars were going to be our best options. Wildhorse Saloon, Broadway, 3rd & Lindsley, and were our first victims.

Wildhorse saloon was great … If I was looking for someone my Dad’s age who wanted to tell me Vietnam stories all night. Hey, come to think of it, maybe the family would like that. Wow, I was getting desperate.

We moved to Broadway. A guy in a button-down came up to us almost instantly; he was funny and seemed to be able to hold a conversation pretty well. It wasn’t until he rolled up his sleeves to “show us his tattoo” and explain his workout regimen that I saw what was going on. Apparently, he’s a Muscle Milk representative. It’s a huge deal… pun intended.

When another man suddenly showed up at my side, and asked me to dance, and I happily agreed. It wasn’t until we were somewhere between a half-step and a jitterbug that I realized this guy was piss-drunk. Awesome. When the song ended, and the entire place was applauding that we were still on our feet, I thanked him saying, “That was some dance. I appreciate it, but my friends want to get going - so we’re outta here. Nice meeting you!” He tried to kiss me. Really? I dodged below his arm and swung around heading briskly for our table.

“Come back sweetie!” he exclaimed swaying from side to side.

I grabbed the girls and didn’t turn back when I heard the thud of him crashing to the dance floor.

By the time we got to 3rd and Lindsley, I needed a stiff drink. I didn’t even look around as I bellied up to the bar and ordered myself a double. “Rough day?” came a voice from behind me.

“Rough week” I held my glass in the air and toasted to him. I turned back to face the bar, examining my remaining options: staging a break-up, paying Kate’s brother, or a life-threatening disease.

“It couldn’t be that bad,” the stranger continued, “A guy today at work had his pants pulled off in front of the entire company during his presentation.”

I finally turned around and remarked sarcastically, “And would you care to explain to me how something like that happens?”

“Tigers.” He smiled.

I cocked my head to the side with narrowed eyebrows, and turned back around. Dang, this guy was cute. He was probably married, or gay, or a complete slut, or… I don’t know… really dumb or something.

“Can I sit with you?” He continued. I didn’t answer and he sat down next to me. “Alright, hit me – what’s so terrible?”

I looked at him, so angry that I almost hated him just for being there.

And I let it all out – every last detail – down to how much I respect Grandma and the last time I got a kiss. When I stopped to breathe, he was still smiling.

“You’re kinda cute, you know that? Can I take you out for dinner tomorrow? Since you’re, how did you put it, “perpetually single?” he laughed.

I looked at him with hard eyes, trying to get a read on him. What was going on? Did he not hear a damn word I just told him?

“You sit there and process, and I’m going to get your number and address from one of your friends over there. I’ll pick you up at 7 tomorrow. My name is Adam, and I have the feeling we have a lot more to discuss before we head to Nevada… like that scar on your hand, the tiger-pants guy, and a better ‘how we met’ story. You fuming at a bar and drinking doubles in search of the perfect man to take home after knowing him for a week doesn’t really seem like you. Deal?”

I just stared at him, like an idiot.

One week later I boarded that plane to Nevada… and Adam boarded with me.

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One year later I entered a chapel to get married… and Adam was there waiting.