Zach dumped a pile of books on the café table. Imogene’s tea sloshed over the edge of a thin China rim. “What the—”
“Did you know that every two days, we create as much information as we did from the dawn of civilization up to 2003?” Zach pulled the earbuds from his ear. “We’ve never had so much bad information, and a serious threat to American democracy!”
“I did know that, actually.” It was a sunny Sunday afternoon in the West Village, and the siblings were meeting for tea to discuss Zach’s best man speech, i.e., ensure he didn’t just wing it. Zach’s sister sifted through his stack of books: Lit: Race Relations in America Today, Capitalism vs. Marxism: New Ideas on Old Systems, a collection of essays by Roxane Gay. “Oh, Mistakes Were Made: The Paradox of the Working-Class Revolution. I just read the review in the Times.”
“How was it?”
“Spicy.”
“Ha.” Zach shoved Charles’s book to the bottom of the pile. “Do you listen to political podcasts? They’re kind of amazing, I’m learning so much—” He broke off, noticing a woman with a stroller struggling to open the café door. He hurried to open it for her, then pushed two tables together so she’d have enough room.
Imogene watched her brother sit back down with amazement. “So, you listen to podcasts and you open doors for people now?”
“I’m part of the problem, Genie. I’m trying.”
Imogene folded her arms. “This is about Darlene.”
“How’d you know?”
“Because people only make radical life changes when they’re in love or dying, and you’re obviously healthy as a horse.”
Zach shifted in his chair, suddenly feeling very British. “Well, I think love might be jumping the gun, Genie—”
“Zachary!” Imogene shouted. “You’re in love!”
“Okay, yes, fine! I might be in love.” Zach pushed his hair out of his eyes. “I am in love.”
He had never spoken the words in any situation that wasn’t postcoital or influenced by a psychoactive drug. “I’m in love.” The realization filled him completely, like a soaring, shining aria reaching its fantastic peak. “I’m in love.” He laughed out loud. “I’m—”
“Becoming a tremendous bore and a disgusting navel-gazer, so yes, you are obviously in love.” His sister raised her teacup in salute. “Congratulations. Mum and Dad will be thrilled. I think daring Darlene’s made them both more woke.”
“Don’t say woke, Genie, you sound like a colonizer. And look, don’t go setting a registry up for us yet. It’s all a bit… complicated.”
“Meaning?”
After she swore an oath of secrecy, Zach told his older sister everything: the contract and $25,000. The fake relationship and the real feelings.
“I knew it.” Imogene sounded equally charmed and satisfied. “I tried to get her to shit talk you at that dinner where you won at canasta. Called you a train wreck.”
“I am a train wreck,” Zach moaned.
“She didn’t bite. She defended you. I knew there was something going on.”
“There is. I’m in love, as we’ve established.” Zach gazed mournfully at his sister. “What do I do?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
Zach popped a sugar cube in his tea. “Kill Charles in his sleep and wear his corpse as a cape?”
Imogene grabbed her little brother’s shoulders with both hands. “Tell her the truth, you prat. Tell her that you love her.”
“What… now?”
“No, wait until she’s back with Charles, or gotten famous and started sleeping with groupies.” She swatted his arm. “Yes, now.”
Zach pictured it: Darlene recoiling in horror. “What if she doesn’t feel the same way?”
“Then you see out the rest of your ridiculous contract, pocket the trust, and find a new singer to work with.”
It was Zach’s turn to recoil. “I don’t want to find a new singer to work with.”
“You should’ve thought of that before you stuck your tongue down her throat.” Imogene gestured about airily. “Love is a many-splendored thing, but it’s also a total bastard. It’ll chop your heart out and eat it for breakfast, and you do not want to feel that way every time you play a wedding with the woman you one day want to see walking down the aisle toward you. If it’s not going to happen, better to know now and maintain a shred of your ever-diminishing dignity.”
Christ on a cracker: Imogene was right. He needed to tell Darlene the truth about his feelings. And if she didn’t return them, he’d have to cut ties, losing his bandmate, his girlfriend (albeit fake), and his friend (maybe his best friend?). Why was she being so distant? She still wasn’t returning any of his texts. Maybe he’d embarrassed himself with Rachel Maddow. He did end up getting pretty drunk with her, but only because it was pissing Charles off so much.
Zach slumped in his seat, barely able to get the words out. “What if she thinks I’m not smart enough?”
“She’d be right.” Imogene realized he wasn’t joking. “Oh, Zook, don’t be silly. You’re incredibly bright.”
“Not as bright as Darlene.”
“I’m not as bright as Mina. And she still loves me. Difference can be a turn-on.” Imogene sipped her tea. “My future wife drinks coffee.” She lowered her voice. “And I’m kind of into it.”
Zach gazed out at the street, at all the people walking dogs and pushing strollers, leading normal, happy lives. He’d been one of them, not that long ago. Oblivious and carefree. But now everything felt complicated and high-stakes and horrendously adult. “I’ve never been on this side of it. Never had my heart broken.”
Imogene flicked his earlobe. “Character building. But here’s hoping she feels the same way.”
Zach gathered up his pile of books and got to his feet. “Only one way to find out—”
“Hang on.” Imogene grabbed his sleeve. “We’ve still got to workshop your best man speech.”
Love may have changed Zach’s heart, but it hadn’t changed his personality. He’d completely forgotten he was there to fulfill a responsibility.
“Right,” he said, sitting back down. “I’ve got loads of ideas for jokes, and they’re all absolutely filthy.”