Faking It
The opening riff of one of my favorite Falling in Reverse songs blasts from my iPhone, waking me from a dreamless slumber. I tap the snooze button on my alarm, and Ronnie Radke stops singing “Fashionably Late.” I chose that ringtone as my alarm because I thought hearing Ronnie’s voice first thing in the morning seemed like a fab way to start the day and because it’s the least offensive of the band’s lyrics. Once I caught Nathan standing at the bathroom mirror, shaving his face, and humming “Fashionably Late.” That’s kind of saying something because Nathan is über-prudish about nasty songs and hates metalcore.
I raise my hand and stare at my engagement ring sparkling in the early morning light. How could I love a man as uptight as Nathan Edwards and still have a raging crush on someone as wicked as Ronnie Radke? Maybe I am an undiagnosed schizophrenic. That’s what happened to Jamie Foxx’s character in The Soloist. One day, he’s a gifted musical student at Julliard, and the next day he’s toting his cello through the streets of Los Angeles, disoriented and muttering to himself.
“What are you thinking, Vivian?”
I drop my hand and look at my best friend. “Nothing.”
“Vivian?”
I grimace. “Do you think I have schizophrenia?”
Fanny tosses her pillow at me. “Shut up!”
“I’m serious.”
“Of course not,” she chuckles. “Why?”
“I don’t know. It’s just”—I hug the pillow to me and try to stop my voice from breaking—“my life seems riddled with contradictions. I wear conservative clothes but listen to raunchy metal music. I take Zumba classes until I drop and then eat a stuffed crust pizza. What’s wrong with me? Do you think I have a mental illness or some serious personality disorder?”
“You’re conflicted, mon amie, not afflicted.”
I roll to my side, prop myself up on one elbow, and stare at Fanny. “What do you mean?”
“You’re torn between being the woman you think you have to be and the one you really are.”
My wise best friend has echoed the very thoughts I entertained the previous evening, and yet I am angry she uttered them. “You think I am phony?”
“God, no!” Fanny sits up. “I do not think you are phony, Vivian. If I did, we wouldn’t be best friends. And I can spot a fake a mile away.”
It’s true. Fanny has an uncanny ability at spotting fakes, people and Louis Vuittons.
“You’re right, Fanny.”
“I am always right, ma chérie.”
We laugh.
My alarm rings again. I turn it off, put my iPhone back on the nightstand, and roll out of bed, wincing at the pain the slightest effort has caused in my calve muscles.
Fanny tosses back her covers and hops out of bed. “Do you mind if I use the bathroom first?”
“Be my guest. I took a shower last night.”
While Fanny is getting ready, I walk over to the balcony, open the French doors, and step outside.
“Shitballs!”
I hurry back inside, rubbing my arms.
“What’s wrong?” Fanny calls from the bathroom.
“It’s freaking cold outside!”
She walks out wearing one of the hotel’s monogrammed bathrobes, pinching my borrowed skort between two fingers.
“That sucks because you shrunk the skort…and it’s still wet.”
“Are you serious?”
She holds up the dripping skort.
If Mattel wanted to design Barbie-sized lingerie, they need look no further than the spandex thong pinched between Fanny’s fingers.
“Oh my God! What am I going to wear?”
“Wear your sweatpants.”
I am about to protest when I remember my new resolution to be authentic. “Yeah,” I say, smiling. “That’s a great idea!”
Fanny narrows her eyes. “It is?”
“Of course! I hate that hideous garment.” I point at the offensive skort. “It’s too short anyway. Every car that followed me yesterday got a generous view of the junk in my trunk. Besides, my sweatpants are super comfy.”
“That was too easy.”
“What do you mean?”
“Come on, Vivian. You don’t even check your mail in your sweatpants. You wear makeup to the gym.”
“Bah!” I wave my hand in the air, assuming a whatever attitude. “That was the old me. The new me is keeping it real. I really like wearing my sweats. So I am wearing them.”
“All right then.”
* * * *
We’ve joined the rest of the group in the hotel’s restaurant for a light breakfast. I am tanking up on enough croissants, eggs, and orange juice to fuel me for hours, when Jean-Luc strides in, muscles squeezed into black spandex cycling gear. His black hair is still tousled and damp, as if he just ran his fingers through it after stepping out of the shower. I wonder if his hair smells clean and soapy, or perfumed with some woodsy cologne.
Jean-Luc smiles at me. My stomach flips and I look away.
I act cool, but watch him out of the corner of my eye as he walks to the buffet. One of the divorcees says something to him and he chuckles. I try to imagine what she could have said to make Jean-Luc’s eyes sparkle. Maybe she told him which of the Gilligan’s Island castaways she would “boink.”
Something’s making me irritable. I feel it coursing through my veins. I tell myself I am upset over my fruitless e-mail/text/Facebook/Twitter check, but deep down, I know that’s not the cause.
When the divorcee rests one of her manicured hands on Jean-Luc’s shoulder, I toss my napkin on my plate and stand. “I’m going to check my bike before the ride.”
Fanny narrows her eyes over the rim of her tiny espresso cup. Gabriel wipes his mouth with his hand and hops up to follow me.
“Yeah, me too.”
Mrs. Byron tells him to sit back down and finish his orange juice. His cheeks flush crimson. Poor kid. I wonder if his mother realizes she’s emasculating her little man.
I am ineffectually kicking the tires of my mobile torture device when Jean-Luc steps out of the hotel, slides his sunglasses onto his face, and stretches his arms over his head.
“You ready for the ride?”
I am the only other person in the courtyard, so he must be talking to me.
“Ready and ride should never be used in the same sentence.”
“What if I said, ‘I will never be ready to ride?’”
“Seriously? I might kiss you.”
Jean-Luc chuckles as he strolls over, slides his sunglasses back up on his head, and looks deep into my eyes. My heart flips again. If the heart flipping thing keeps up, I might need to get an EKG.
“Give up riding in exchange for a kiss from you? That seems like a simple decision.”
For once in my life, I want to respond with a witty flirtatious line like some classic Hollywood movie star, but this is not To Catch a Thief and I am no Grace Kelly. Instead, my cheeks heat. Some girls look beautiful when they blush, but not me. I am pale and freckled. When I blush, my skin turns as ruddy as an old alcoholic.
Gabriel bounds out of the hotel, saving me from complete humiliation.
Merci beaucoup, kid!
Jean-Luc’s gaze travels from my face to my sweatpants, and his smile slips a bit.
I look down at the worn baggy sweats with the faded crew emblem and my newfound bravado wavers. In the watery gray flannel light of a dreary morning, the sweats don’t look preppy-casual, they just look…sad. My commitment to be authentic is suddenly as shaky as a Vegas wedding.
“You’re not planning on wearing those, are you?”
My cheeks are burning as bright and hot as any Vegas marquee. “I washed the skort in the sink last night. It was still wet this morning…and it must have shrunk because it looks like a Barbie bikini. Not that I am fat or anything… It’s just the water was really hot…” Oh my God! I am a verbal train speeding out of control toward the edge of a cliff. Brakes, Vivia! Brakes! I try to imitate one of Grace Kelly’s cool smiles. “Anyway, these sweats are more comfortable.”
Jean-Luc is just staring at me with an inscrutable expression on his handsome face. He could be humored or perplexed or disgusted. I can’t tell.
“You’re gonna chafe,” Gabriel pipes in. “The fabric, it’s too loose.”
I look at the kid. I am physically present for the conversation, but mentally I am back at Jean-Luc’s comment about wanting to kiss me. At least, I think he said he wanted to kiss me. He said it would be an easy decision. Hold up. He loves cycling, so maybe he meant he would choose a ride over kissing me.
Gabriel waves his hands in front of my face and whistles. “Hello? Earth to Vivia? Are you there?”
“Sorry, I zoned.”
“If you wear those sweats, the excess fabric will rub against your”—he looks away—“skin. You’ll get wicked sores.”
Jean-Luc’s lips curve in a slight smile, and my pulse races.
“Yeah, you’ll get wicked sores on your…skin.”
I take several measured breaths to slow the erratic beat of my heart. “They’re fine.”
“They’re not, Vivia,” Gabriel insists, oblivious to the electrical current of sexual tension crackling in the air between me and Jean-Luc. “Did you know inner thigh chafing is one of the top five cycling injuries? Bike shorts are designed to fit your body in the—”
“Gabriel,” Jean-Luc interrupts the kid’s trivia dump, “I think Vivia has made up her mind.”
The other riders have finished eating and are now assembled around us like a revolutionary mob at the scaffold, murmuring condemnation of my attire. Even sweet-natured Mrs. Rosenthal is clucking her tongue.
“They’re too long!” Gabriel is pointing at my sweatpants. “They might get caught up in the pedals.”
“Well, I don’t have anything else to wear.”
My cool mask melts. What would Grace Kelly do? She would probably wear the sweats with a dazzling diamond choker and finish the day’s ride by sipping a champagne cocktail in a swanky hotel bar.
I look at Fanny, silently pleading with my best friend to intervene, but before she can even open her mouth, Jean-Luc has climbed the steps of the scaffold and rescued me from the bloodthirsty mob.
He pulls a camping knife from the pouch fastened to his bike seat, flicks it open, and kneels before me, his strong hands moving confidently around my thighs. The blade slices through the cotton material transforming Nathan’s sweats into long shorts.
“Voila.”
He closes the knife, slips it back into the pouch, pulls out a laminated map, and addresses the group. For him, the matter has been settled. I, however, am churning in a whirlpool of conflicting emotions. I am furious with Jean-Luc for destroying my sweats, devastated that he severed one more link to Nathan, and…a little turned on at having had the chauvinistic Frenchman’s hands on my thighs.
A blast of cold, damp air blows over my exposed legs. Damn Jean-Luc and his presumptuous, arrogant—
Jean-Luc points at a bold, squiggly red line on the map, tapping it with his finger. Sensing danger, I pay attention.
“Please notice we cross the D2 about a kilometer into our ride. This is a congested thoroughfare. I realize most of you are experienced cyclists.”
Is it my imagination or is Jean-Luc avoiding eye contact?
“Those of you with less experience”—he looks at me—sweet!—“Please exercise extreme caution and consult your map frequently. This route has many turns and it is easy to become lost. If you have any concerns, I am happy to ride with you. Anyone?”
Jean-Luc’s gaze moves to each person, but lingers on me. He expects me to ask for help, but I’ll be damned if I show him anymore of my weaknesses.
“Bon!” He closes the map and slides it back into his pouch. “The first stop is Roussillon, a fortified city about seven kilometers from here. Today is market day. Please take time to appreciate the local products. The van will be parked in the lot behind the bank, should you need to deposit your purchases. Give it to the driver. Rendez-vous en Roussillon!”
As the others click in, I consult my map, following the long squiggly red line with my finger from Gordes to Manosque.
“Hold up! This can’t be right.”
Gabriel and Fanny are still standing beside me.
“What can’t be right?”
“It says we are riding forty-one miles today.”
They nod their heads like eager dashboard dogs. I want to yank their bobbling heads off. How can they both look so happy?
“Forty. One. Freaking. Miles.”
“Yes.” Gabriel smiles.
“With breaks,” Fanny interjects.
“Are you crazy? I barely made it fifteen miles. How am I going to ride forty-one miles?”
“You can do it, Vivian.”
I can’t breathe. Anxiety is squeezing the air from my lungs. I stick my finger in the neck of my tee, pulling on the fabric.
Gabriel’s parents call to him.
“I’ll see you, Vivia.” He slaps his helmet on his head. “Don’t worry, this is a social ride. You may fall behind, but you will never be dropped.”
“Dropped?” I have an image of the others grabbing my arms and legs and tossing me off the side of a cliff. “What does that mean?”
Gabriel only laughs as he hurries to join his family.
I turn to Fanny. “What does he mean ‘dropped?’”
“It’s just a road racing term.”
“But what does it mean?”
“It’s when a cyclist has fallen so far behind his group that he has no chance of catching up.”
“What happens then?”
Fanny shrugs her shoulders. “He is abandoned.”
“Abandoned? Whatthefuck?”
Great. We are only two days into this adventure, and already my companions want to abandon me. Then again, being lost in Provence is better than having your riding companions chuck you off the side of a cliff.