Page 24 of Dating Mr. Right A Collection
That’s what doesn’t add up.
It’s illogical. It’s irrational. It’s ridiculous.
But it’s also why my heart weighs heavy.
Grams stares at me, studying my hands. “Where’s your ring?”
I walk inside, drop my bag on the couch, set my phone on the table, and turn around. I don’t have the energy to keep up the prank anymore. I’ve pulled her leg and gotten her goat. It was a blast, and yet, I’m sadder than I want to be.
I shrug. “It was a joke. We didn’t go to Vegas to get married. We spent the evening running around Miami, taking pictures under palm trees and then photoshopping them to look like the Vegas sign, an airplane, and so on.”
Her eyes bulge. “What? How?”
“We bought champagne and glasses, went to the monorail, parked ourselves in the seats, and toasted on it.” I don’t add that we kissed on the monorail and that it was some kind of magic that didn’t need an ounce of retouching in a photo. “Then Cameron photoshopped it to look like we were on an airplane.”
Her jaw clangs to the floor, cash register–style. “You didn’t.” Her tone says she can’t believe she’s been had, yet she’s also wildly impressed.
“We did. Then we snagged the Elvis impersonator on the beach and went to a chapel here on South Beach, and we pretended to get married.”
“Why did you do all that?”
I park my hands on my hips. “Why did you catfish me?”
She tuts. “I would hardly call it catfishing.”
“I would precisely call it catfishing.”
She squares her shoulders. “I knew he was right for you.”
“He’s great,” I say, unable to mask the affection I feel for him. “But I want to make my own choices. You had me going. You made me feel . . . a little foolish.”
Her expression falters, and she frowns. “But you liked him.”
“Yeah, I did. And I do. But I also felt kind of stupid when I learned it had all been a ruse.”
“It wasn’t all a ruse. You loved chatting with him during poker, didn’t you?”
I squeeze her arm. “I did, but don’t you see? I want to make my own choices, and I want you to respect them.”
She exhales, nods, and licks her lips. “I’m sorry if I overstepped. I just thought he was a good man for you, and it was the only way I could get you to meet him. Plus, I didn’t make anything up—everything I told you was from conversations I’d had with the real Cameron over poker. So technically, you were talking to him—just through me.”
“Like you’re a medium now?”
She snaps her fingers and grins. “Exactly. I was channeling him.”
“You made it sound so real,” I say, a little sad. “I wished it’d been him. And I wish you’d just asked me to go on a blind date.”
“After the pickle embalmer and the cheesy cheesemaker, you’d have said no.”
“True,” I admit.
“Aren’t you glad you said yes?”
I scoff. “I didn’t say yes!”
“You can’t think of ThinkingMan as me. He was Cameron. It was all him.”
I shoot her a skeptical look. “It was actually all you.”
“Technically, but the profile was based on him, and when I knew the two of you actually liked each other after your poker chat, I figured it was fine to set you up on a date.”
“What if I hadn’t liked him playing poker?”
“But I knew you would.”
“What if I hadn’t?” I press.
“Well . . . I don’t know,” she admits. Then she reaches out, wraps her arms around me. “I’m sorry if I was out of line. I want you to be happy and to find the right person. I thought you’d like him.”
I rest my cheek against her shoulder, catching a glimpse of the rose in the vase, fading after only one night, as roses do. “I did like him, and you were right. But here’s the trouble.” I separate and meet her eyes. “He’s gone. He doesn’t live here.”
She waves a hand dismissively. “What’s distance when love’s involved?”
“One, we’re not involved. Two, it’s a big thing. Three—”
“Just get on a plane and see him.”
I raise a finger. “Do not secretly book me on a flight. Or him. Do you understand?”
She laughs and raises her right hand. “I promise.”
Then she mutters, “For now.”
* * *
Later that night, I open my tablet, and I’m tempted to check out the online dating site. But the guy I want to talk to isn’t there.
The next morning I find a text on my phone.
It’s not from ThinkingMan.
It’s not from LuckySuit.
It’s from Cameron.
17
Cameron
I’m not over it.
Not over her.
Not interested in getting over the best date of my life.
I have no agenda, no notion of what’s next. But as I walk down Sixth Avenue, the warm summer breeze wrapping around me, I picture the montage of moments I want right now.
And all the shots are of Kristen.
