“Hey.” I knock on the upstairs bathroom door. “Everything all right in there?”
“Yeah,” comes Kate’s muffled voice from the other side. “But I might be experiencing a hysterical pregnancy.”
“You want me to tell Josiane and the photographer to go home? They’ve taken enough pictures.”
“Yes, thank you, I’m not up to do more.”
“All right.”
I walk back down the stairs and inform everyone Kate is too tired to continue. Josiane is disappointed but tells her crew to start packing up. As they put away the various lighting equipment, I sidle over to her.
“Josiane,” I say. “Can I pick your brain about something?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“As you probably saw today, Kate isn’t comfortable in the spotlight, and, frankly, neither am I. Plus, you said it yourself: the first trimester can be difficult, and Kate could do without the additional stress. Would it make a big difference to hire actors for the rebranding campaign?”
“Actors?”
“Yeah, you know, models who would pose for the photo shoots in our place?”
“That’d be a disaster,” Josiane says without a moment’s hesitation. “The media is flooded with fakes, and consumers crave authenticity. The Bluewater Springs Chocolate Company is a family brand. You and Kate are the family.”
We are family, just not in the way everyone assumes. After growing up as close as Kate and I have, not even a breakup could dissolve that bond. But I can’t see how we can possibly sell our fake fairytale romance to the masses. Especially not when the lies just keep piling on.
“No, I know, but wouldn’t professionals do a better job?”
“Absolutely not.” Josiane grabs the photographer’s tablet and pulls up a few images from today’s shoot. “Look at these,” she insists. “You can’t fake love like this.”
I wish she knew how wrong she was.
I stare at the pictures and die a little inside. Because the photos could pass for real and are a slap in my face. A glimpse at how my life could’ve been today if I hadn’t messed up everything with Kate. If only I’d paid attention.
I drop the tablet and move away. “I’m not saying Kate and I featuring on the campaign isn’t the ideal situation. But I don’t want to pressure her. What if the morning sickness worsens? What I’m trying to say is, if push came to shove, could professionals substitute us and take over the campaign?”
“I wouldn’t recommend it, but, yes, it could be done.”
“And what would be the impact?”
Josiane places a hand under her chin, thinking. “I’d say a thirty to fifty percent drop in engagement. Little chance of going viral. Fewer likes, comments, and re-shares would lead to fewer eyeballs on your ads, which in turn would lead to even fewer likes, comments, and re-shares. It’s a vicious downward cycle. Organic reach would drop even further…”
So much for that. She’s basically saying the campaign would flop. No way I’m doing that to the family business, not after all the work I’ve put into it.
“Thank you, Josiane,” I say resignedly. “We’ll take into consideration everything you said.”
“Sure.”
“So, are you going home tonight, or…?”
“Oh, no. I’ll come back tomorrow morning to arrange the dining room. Your mom showed me some pictures of past Christmases, and Lillian truly did an excellent job with the setting up, but this year we want to raise the bar to make the seating look more professional. I want a picture of your family’s Christmas table to be re-pinned on every holiday décor board Pinterest has.”
So no telling our parents until at least after Christmas, then, not if Josiane is going to be hovering around all day. Plus Kate and I already sort of agreed to wait until the twenty-sixth to tell our parents our real relationship status. We don’t want to spoil Christmas for everybody. And, hopefully, nothing is on the schedule for the day after.
I ask Josiane to make sure.
“What about the twenty-sixth, anything planned for that day?”
“No, I’ll take a short break after tomorrow and be back in time for the wedding. And let me tell you, the ceremony will give us some real Pinterest magic. Brides go crazy on that platform.”
“I thought you were all about Instagram.”
“I’m a visual branding expert,” Josiane says. “And Pinterest is key to a long-term strategy. No matter how successful, an Instagram post has a short lifespan. Not to talk about stories, which are limited to twenty-four-hour periods. But pins live on and are researchable and re-pinnable forever.”
“Right,” I say. “Sorry, I’m not that keen on social media.”
She pats my shoulder. “That’s why your parents hired me, to take care of everything. Don’t worry, I’ll try to make it as easy as I can on you and Kate.”
“Thanks,” I say. “And, well, see you tomorrow. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, Chuck, and say goodbye to Kate for me.”
Once she’s gone, I sit at the island, alone for once. Since we needed Lillian’s kitchen for the photo shoot, she and my dad have been cooking at my parents’ house this afternoon. We’ll have Christmas Eve dinner over there tonight.
I try to reflect on everything that Josiane told me. Are Kate and I being selfish for wanting to derail this campaign? Will the company really be hurt, or would it be just a minor setback? Maybe we could reach a middle ground. Tell our parents about the breakup, but still agree to pose as brand ambassadors. If today’s pictures were good enough, I don’t see what difference it would make to keep going… other than that we’d be selling a lie…
Well, you know what they say. Fake it until you make it.
***
On Christmas Day, Kate’s phone starts vibrating on the bedside table way too early. She rustles under the covers and must grab it, because the dreadful noise of plastic bumping against hardwood stops.
I keep to my side of the bed, turned away from her, and pretend I’m asleep. A bit of a habit lately.
“Hello,” she says in a low voice, groggy with sleep, shifting position on the mattress. I can’t be sure, but if I had to guess, I’d say she’s pulled herself up, half-sitting. “Oh, hi. Merry Christmas.”
I can’t hear Marco’s voice on the other end, but I’m sure it’s him.
“Yes, I was sleeping,” she says, and then, as if she needed to justify herself, she adds, “It’s Christmas, Marco… No, it isn’t an excuse. Listen, I stayed up late last night, I told you it’s a tradition that we serve hot chocolate to the entire congregation after midnight mass on Christmas Eve. I didn’t go to bed until three in the morning.”
Careful not to give the appearance of moving, I slide my left arm closer to my face to read the time on my watch. Given the ungodly hour, light is still scarce, and the glow-in-the-dark numbers have almost entirely faded, but the clock hands seem to split the quadrant evenly in half, meaning it must be six o’clock. Is he seriously calling her at six a.m. on Christmas morning to bitch about her still being asleep?
“Yesterday was snowing,” Kate snaps, a little irritated. “No, these aren’t excuses… Well, then I’ll only enroll in the 10k, I’m fine with that, I don’t need to shoot for a half-marathon.”
Oh, so Mr. Sweaty Posts has probably been up since four-thirty, has already run twenty miles, and bench-pressed his way to Olympia. I roll my closed eyes. What a moron. I mean, fine, if that’s what makes you happy then go for it, dude, but don’t harass your girlfriend about not being as exercise-crazed as you are. Especially not on Christmas!
“I’m whispering because everyone else in the house is still asleep,” Kate says. Another pause. “Yeah, okay, I’ll call you later.”
She drops the phone back on the nightstand with a loud thud, and then the mattress shifts as she presumably sags back on it.
I could pretend I’m still sleeping, but I can’t help throwing a little dig in there. Flipping over, I rest my head on my elbow and say, “Ah, the joys of dating a morning person.”
“Shut up, Chuck.” She throws a pillow at my face.
I grab the pillow and stash it under my arm. “You’re training for a half-marathon?”
“No,” she says, with a bit too much emphasis. “I wish Marco would understand it’s perfectly reasonable to pick up running without needing to run a marathon or compete in any race. Sometimes I just want to enjoy a simple jog with no pressure—the competition takes all the fun out of it. Also, it’s normal to skip a day of training when it’s snowing, or when I’m too tired from the night before!”
A smirk curls my lips as she finishes her rant. “No, I get it. I totally agree,” I say. “Like how it’s perfectly reasonable to visit a city without having to check all the boxes on the tourist guide and, you know, see the sights at a leisurely pace, no stress. No need to get up at the crack of dawn. And if it’s pouring buckets outside, why not enjoy a cool beer and a burger in a cozy pub while listening to superb jazz music?”
I’m referring to the last trip Kate and I took together, to New Orleans. We argued endlessly about me being “too lazy” for not wanting to trudge around the city under the gushing rain, and for not appreciating being drawn into a streetcar ride made of soggy architecture, trees, and traffic that soaked up two hours of my life I’ll never get back.
Mouth gaping, Kate glares at me and throws another pillow—her last.
I grab it and add it to my mound.
“I was never that pushy,” she says.
“Really?” I raise an eyebrow. “Then I must’ve been dating a different Kate—Chuck-we-must-see-this-and-this-and-that—Warren for the past ten years.”
She rolls her eyes. “Can I have my pillows back?”
“Sure,” I say, and playfully bash her with one, which prompts a straight-out pillow fight.
The match ends with Kate and I breathing hard, eyes locked. Before she can remind me again she has a boyfriend, I say, “Merry Christmas, Kate,” and whack her one more time. Then I run out of the room, yelling, “Last to sit at the kitchen table is a loser!”