Chapter One

I’ve never been good at keeping secrets from Oliver Frost. It might be because I’m a terrible liar but, most likely, it’s because he’s known me all my life and can read my face like an open book. Every eyebrow twitch, every blink, every fake smile. And, right now, I feel like I’m strapped to a lie detector. At any second the needles might go haywire like they do in the movies when the devious main character is lying through her teeth.

Calm.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Cough.

I really don’t like the sound of that, Ollie says, sitting on the edge of my bed, shaking his head. Are you sure you don’t want me to go to the drugstore and get you some cough syrup or something? Or I could make you soup. Or tea with honey.

Under normal circumstances, I’d appreciate all this attention. But I’ve been trying to get Ollie out of the apartment for the last twenty minutes so the last thing I need is him hovering over me. Maybe relying on my lackluster acting skills wasn’t the best idea. Faking an illness was all I could come up with to convince Ollie that I need to stay home without making him suspicious. My original plan was to accidentally ‘twist’ my ankle while walking up the stairs but, in the end, I decided to keep it simple and go for the common cold. There’s less limping involved.

I don’t think Ollie has any idea that I’ve been planning a surprise farewell party for him—which is a miracle since I’ve been sneaking around every night this week and coming home from the grocery store with enough food to feed a small army. The party is tonight and I have a million things to do. And I can’t do them with him here.

I touch my supposedly feverish forehead and erupt into another coughing fit. You should go, I say in a raspy voice, grabbing a handful of tissues. I wouldn’t want you to catch my germs and get sick before leaving for London.

Right, Ollie says, turning away from me. I can’t believe I’m leaving tomorrow.

I can’t believe it either. I want to say something but I’m afraid we’ll start talking and get really sentimental and I can’t deal with that right now. I’ve been trying to keep myself busy so I don’t have to deal with it at all. But I know that sooner or later I’m going to have to face the fact that my best friend and roommate is flying halfway across the world to help supervise the construction of a new earth-friendly building in London. I choose later.

You should really go or you’ll be late. I’ll call you if there’s anything I need, okay?

He nods and plants a quick kiss on my forehead. I close my eyes and hope he can’t hear my heart beating out of my chest. I’m so close to pulling this off.

Promise me you’ll rest and take it easy today? Ollie says, picking up his messenger bag off the floor. And if Greta calls, please don’t answer. Better yet, hang up on her. He slings the bag over his shoulder and looks back at me. I wave and watch as he walks out of my room. A few seconds later I hear the front door close with a bang and start breathing again.

Time to get to work. I pull at the comforter and sit up, letting my legs dangle over the edge of the bed. As soon as my feet touch the floor, the day is officially going to begin and I’m not sure that’s what I want. Letting myself fall back into bed, I stare at the ceiling. If today were just any other ordinary day, Ollie would be screaming at me from the kitchen, telling me to get my butt out of bed. And by the time I stumbled to the coffeemaker in my bathrobe, he’d already be dressed and ready to go to work. It’s very hard to pretend like I’m not jealous of Ollie. He loves his job so much that he’s getting a fancy promotion. He’s living his dream. Ollie’s wanted to be an architect ever since he was a kid sneaking off to read Architectural Digest while the other boys were flipping through girlie magazines. When we were twelve years old, Ollie and I made a pact; he would become a famous architect and I would be a celebrity chef and open my own restaurant, which Ollie would have designed. Then I’d let him eat there for free, of course.

If Ollie is making his dream come true, I should be able to do the same, right? I stare at the bandage covering the throbbing paper cut on my right index finger. Who am I kidding? The only thing I’ve been opening lately is Greta’s mail. And I haven’t been doing a good job of it either. Mostly because I want to stab myself with the letter opener.

After a few more minutes of staring at the ceiling, I get up and make my way to the kitchen. As Ollie’s best friend, it’s my job to make this an evening he’ll never forget. I need to stop throwing a pity-party for myself and get going on decorating the apartment and preparing the food. Food. Maybe I’ll have a bit of breakfast first.

I rummage through the fridge and take out some yogurt and berries before putting them back on the shelf. Today feels like a bacon and eggs kind of day. As I’m flipping over the eggs in the frying pan, I take a sip of coffee and wince. My throat is a bit raw from all the pretend coughing I had to do earlier. How does the old saying go again? Feed a fake fever, starve a fake cold. Or is it the other way around? Either way, I pile the food on my plate and head out to the living room.

The apartment is way too quiet when Ollie’s not here. The TV isn’t blaring, his cell phone isn’t ringing every two minutes and he isn’t scolding me from across the room for putting a soda can in the garbage instead of recycling it. There’s too much time to think and I don’t like it one bit. Ollie left the paper scattered all over the coffee table and I grab the Arts and Entertainment section while reaching out to turn the radio on—playing around with the dial until I find the Golden Oldies station. I am becoming more like my parents each and every day. The moment I start sipping coffee while scanning the obituaries for the pictures of people I know, the transformation will be complete.

Before I have time to take a bite of breakfast, the phone rings and I almost drop my plate. Scared that it might be Ollie checking up on me, I try to make my voice sound as stuffy as possible before answering.

Hello?

Roxy. Where are you? You’re late. You should have been here an hour ago.

Greta, my boss. Clearly, she’s forgetting something.

Hi, Greta. How are you? I’m not coming in today. You gave me the day off, remember?

Oh, right. Do you think you could swing by around two? I need you to prepare the papers for my presentation next week.

I take a quick bite of scrambled egg before answering her. They’re on your desk.

Right. I hear her rummage through papers. Where?

In the red folder with a Post-It that says Presentation Papers on it. It’s the only folder I left on her desk.

Right. I see it. So you’ll be in tomorrow?

I sigh. Here we go again. Tomorrow’s Saturday, Greta. I’ll be in on Monday.

Right.

Days off are never really off when you work for somebody like my boss. I know I shouldn’t be doing this but I can’t help it. Greta, don’t forget about tonight. Your niece has a ballet recital at seven. The tickets are in your wallet. I’ve arranged for flowers to be delivered at the office before you leave. The flowers are for your niece. Bring them to her.

Which niece is it again?

We’ve already been through this twice this week but I don’t miss a beat. Abigail. There’ll be a card with the flowers.

Okay. Thanks, Roxy. I don’t know what I’d do without you. You’re a lifesaver. When you come in tomorrow we’ll talk about a raise.

See you Monday, Greta, I say, putting the phone down. The promise of a raise has been dangled before me so many times that I feel like a cat swapping at a piece of yarn that’s always a bit out of reach. And now I’m fed up of swapping at dead air. As soon as Greta mentions a raise, I know she’s already forgotten about it.

When I’m at the office, I can organize and choreograph every minute of Greta’s day from her morning coffee to her late-afternoon cup of mint tea but now—when it’s my time I need to make good use of—I can’t get myself off the couch. There are so many things that need to get done for Ollie’s party and I know that, at some point, I made a list. But I can’t find it. Still, I’m sure that the list didn’t mention anything about taking a nap and sitting in front of the TV with a pint of mint-chocolate-chip ice cream. That’s the thing about being a working girl; you miss out on the wonderful world of daytime TV. And then when you get a rare day off, you get sucked in by Boot Camp for Out-of-Control Teens and Paternity Tests Revealed for an hour. Or two. Or more.

By the time four pm rolls around, I am in full panic mode. I still need to clean and decorate the apartment, get out of my ratty pajamas and arrange all the food on platters.

I jump up when the phone rings. I remember to use my stuffy voice again. This pretending-to-be-sick game is quite exhausting.

Hello? I croak.

Darling, you sound sick. Are you ill?

Ethan. My boyfriend. Fiancé, actually. I go back to my normal voice. I’m fine. It’s a long story. I had to pretend to be sick so Oll-

Anyway, he interrupts. I’m just calling to tell you that I’m headed to a meeting and I’ll be late for the party.

Oh, I say, trying not to sound too disappointed.

And, he continues, if the meeting ends late, I might just skip the party altogether.

But I’m making bacon-wrapped scallops. You love my bacon-wrapped scallops, I whine, as if anyone would ever rearrange their schedule for bacon-wrapped scallops. Well, I would—but that’s just the foodie in me. My friend Adam says I only live and breathe for my next meal. That might be a slight exaggeration but I do love to cook and, of course, eat. In fact, I’m hungry right now. What was that recipe I saw someone make on TV this morning? Ravioli with prosciutto and a tomato-basil purée. It looked delicious. I wonder if I should make that for dinner tomorrow. I could serve it with French baguette garlic bread and baby mixed greens with a balsamic dressing and... Wait. I won’t have anybody to serve it to tomorrow. I’ll be alone.

Roxy. Roxy? Are you there?

Sorry, I say, shaking my head. Please try to make it, okay? It would mean a lot to me.

I’ll do my best, he sighs. Roxy?

Yes.

I was planning on telling you later. But I really think you’ll be happy about this and I can’t wait.

There’s a hint of mischief in his voice. What is Ethan up to? We’ve been having discussions about our wedding lately and the only thing we’ve agreed on is to stop talking about the wedding because we can’t agree on anything—the time, the place, or the guests. Our latest Discussion-That-Turned-Into-An-Argument revolved around napkins clashing with the tablecloths. When I suggested we hire a wedding planner, he’d dismissed the idea right away saying it would be too expensive.

Go on, I urge, relieved that we might finally be getting somewhere with the wedding plans.

I just booked us two open tickets to St. Thomas. Private resort. Villa overlooking the water. We can go swimming with the dolphins and take scuba-diving lessons and spend all day on the beach. I’ve got great brochures to show you.

So I guess we’re way beyond discussing the wedding planner now. Ethan knows I’ve been dreaming of going to Paris since I was a kid. We haven’t discussed—or argued—about it yet, but I always assumed Paris would be an option for our honeymoon.

Sweetie. I was hoping we could discuss the honeymoon. You know I’ve always wanted to...

"Actually, I was thinking we could have the whole thing there. The wedding and the honeymoon."

What about my mom? I stammer. My mom hates to fly. She won’t even get on a plane to visit Steffi in San Francisco. And we’ll never be able to get the entire Covington clan to St. Thomas. Don’t you have something like fifty cousins?

How about we do it just you and me? On the beach. Alone.

Oh. My head spins and I sit down on a kitchen chair. I have no idea what to say. A part of me thinks that Ethan’s plan sounds romantic, while the other part wants to scream and throw something.

I have to go, darling, Ethan says before I have a chance to say anything. We’ll talk about it later. We still have time to figure out the details. Love you.

Me too, I finally say to the dial tone.

The important thing is that we get married—everything else is just details, right? I’m not like my friend Emma who’s been planning her wedding day since she was five years old and who constantly flips through huge stacks of dog-eared bridal magazines with notes in the margins.

No, when I was seven and told my mom that Barbie and Ken were thinking of getting married, it caused quite the commotion in our house. Mom walked around the living room asking me if Ken was really committed to Barbie and would Barbie be able to stand on her own two feet if Ken left her. She thought they should wait until they were both mature enough to understand the emotional and financial impact of their decision before they got married. And then Dad started arguing about how you can’t interrupt the course of true love and declared that those two crazy kids should throw caution to the wind and get married if their love was pure and true. I guess that’s what you get when your mother is a feminist social worker and your father is a professor of Victorian literature. I’m sure that, twenty years later, I still couldn’t get them to agree on what I should do.

Should I consider Ethan’s proposal of a destination wedding? It might be romantic. Just the two of us with our feet in the sand while we sip a margarita and watch the sunset. But how am I going to break the news to my mother? How is she going to react when I tell her that she won’t be at my wedding, but Pablo the Cabana Boy will?

And why is Ethan bringing this up? He knows that Ollie’s party is the most important thing for me right now. The wedding can wait; we have plenty of time to discuss it. Tonight needs to be perfect.

When Emma finally stumbles into the kitchen—arms loaded with two huge paper bags—I’m placing the mini-quiches on a wire rack to cool and trying to apply a final coat of mascara while looking at myself in the toaster.

Where’s Dean? I ask, taking one of the bags and kissing her on the cheek. Dean is Emma’s boyfriend. Ever since he lost his job a few months back he’s been living on Emma’s couch and only getting up to go to the bathroom and to raid the fridge. She’d been so happy when he agreed to come to Ollie’s party.

Emma sighs. We sort of had a fight. He decided to stay home.

What did you fight about?

I refused to let him out of the house wearing sweat pants. That’s all he wears these days. Sweat pants and a Mets T-shirt. I’m sick of it. I had to do something.

What did you do? I smile at her. Emma’s the sweetest person in the world but I’ve witnessed some pretty awesome tantrums when she’s mad.

I took all of his old sweat pants and T-shirts, stuffed them in a bag and threw them down the garbage chute. Can you believe he actually got up and sifted through the whole building’s garbage and found the bag? He was mad as hell but at least he got up.

I can’t help but laugh at the thought of Dean up to his elbows in trash. Looks like I’m not the only one with boy trouble.

When I tell Emma about Ethan’s elopement plans, her face drops and she starts shaking her head. No way. You know I’m living vicariously through you, right? Dean and I have been together for ten years and, at this point, I’m probably going to have to wait another ten years for him to propose. Unless he finds an engagement ring in the trash or something. You can’t elope. You just can’t. We’ve been best friends since college and I know you have two sisters but I have hope that I’m still in the running to be your maid of honor. So, no. No elopement.

Before I can reassure Emma that I still haven’t picked my maid of honor, the apartment buzzer goes off.

Hello? I say into the intercom.

It’s us. Let us up. It’s Adam and Tali, my two other close friends. I put them in charge of getting the environmentally friendly recyclable paper products for the party. Ollie would shed a tear for the planet if I used the regular ones.

Did you get the paper cups and plates I wanted? I ask.

Silence.

Yeah, we bought some. From the 99 Cents Store, Adam says.

I roll my eyes. Guys! I asked you to buy from that earth-friendly place. You know how Ollie feels about non-recyclable things. We’ll never hear the end of it.

Emma mumbles in agreement behind me. She’s had the recycling lecture before.

It’s Tali’s fault. I wanted to go but she’s wearing the most hideous heels and her feet hurt and she said Ollie would never know the difference. Owww.

I hear a muffled sound which can’t be anything but Tali hitting Adam for calling her shoes hideous or blaming her for their failure to buy the right cups. Probably both.

Aw, Rox, it’s starting to rain now. Can’t we just use regular dishes? I’m betting that’s even better for the environment.

Sure, that’s a great idea. So I’m guessing you’ll wash and Tali will dry?

Good one, Rox, I hear Tali say. Her voice is loud and scratchy, but that’s only because her face is always two inches from the speaker whenever she talks into the intercom.

Adam’s sigh reeks of defeat. We’ll be back.

By the time Adam and Tali come back—after buying every single paper cup the earth-friendly store had in stock just to be on the safe side and make sure they wouldn’t have to go back later—the whole apartment looks ready for a party.

You look gorgeous, Adam says, kissing me on both cheeks.

After dumping the PJs, I’d squeezed myself into a new black skirt, a purple blouse and heels so high I’m risking a sprained ankle with every step.

It’s all going to waste, I say. Ethan might not make it tonight.

Still arguing over the whole wedding planner thing? Adam asks, sipping his glass of wine.

I shake my head and fill Adam and Tali in on the new developments that make me wish Ethan and I were still arguing about the wedding planner. I don’t understand why he wants to get married on the beach. Two minutes in the sun and the man is as red as a lobster.

Reminds me of my ex-boyfriend, Adam sighs.

Which one? I ask, rolling my eyes. The one who cheated on you or the one who stole your credit cards?

No, no, Tali says. It’s the one who had the freaky allergies, right? He used to break out in hives every time his skin touched air. Or is it the one who broke your nose? There were so many it’s hard to keep track.

Adam gives us a dirty look but it’s all part of our favorite game: listing all of Adam’s ex-boyfriends. Most times we can’t even remember their names so they become The One Who... Sadly for Adam, he still hasn’t met The One Who Sticks Around for More Than a Few Weeks. He manages the Quid Pub—which has practically become my second home—and the fact that he sometimes lets me eat there for free might be one of the reasons business isn’t going so well.

Tali works at Kilborn with me. She has the distinction of being the rudest receptionist we’ve ever had. Still, Greta won’t fire her because all of our male clients drool over her when they come to the office and it’s good for the company. She intimidated me when she first started—especially when I was trapped in the break room with her and she spent fifteen minutes yelling into her cell phone in Russian. After she hung up, she marched up to me and said, My name is Natalia Federova but my friends call me Tali. I was born in the Soviet Union but my parents and I moved here when I was eight. I already know I hate this job and most of the people who work here. But you look like someone who knows things. Tell me everything. A bit shaken by her direct tone and the fact that she towered over me in six-inch heels, I proceeded to reveal the Kilborn family’s dirty little secrets: where the good office supplies are stocked, who makes out with who in which broom closet and who faxed a photocopy of their butt to a particularly nasty client at last year’s holiday party. I eventually introduced Tali to Emma and Ollie and she introduced me to her friend Adam.

Oh my God, these are delicious, Adam says, taking another bite of his mini quiche. Tell me, when are you going to stop being Greta Kilborn’s babysitter and become a proper chef? I’d let you work for me if I could pay you. Have you ever considered an exciting career as a volunteer chef?

Unfortunately, my landlord likes his rent in cash. Not in edible goods, I say, stealing a quiche off his recyclable paper plate. I’ve stopped counting how many of these I’ve wolfed down in the last hour. My skirt feels as though it might be lacerating my liver at the very moment, considering I had to lie on the bed and suck in my stomach to get the zipper up in the first place. Anyway, I continue. I couldn’t afford to quit before so I sure as hell can’t quit now that Ollie’s leaving. I guess I’m destined to be Greta’s slave forever.

I pop a handful of peanut M&Ms in my mouth. One by one, slowly savoring every crunchy calorie. Tonight, I’m giving myself permission to pig out, to get drunk off starchy carbs and candy and pastries. Here’s to you Ollie Frost: I’m gaining five pounds in your honor. I’m risking not fitting into my wedding dress for you. And—if Ethan has his way—my wedding dress might actually be a wedding bikini. As if I would ever be seen in public in a bikini. Ethan of all people should know this. One more reason why his sudden change of heart makes no sense at all.

About half an hour later, the first two guests arrive. It’s Pete and Patricia, who work with Ollie at Brent & Associates. They report that, as they were leaving the office, Mr. Brent dumped a pile of paperwork on Ollie’s desk. Pete does a perfect impression of their boss’ deep, throaty growl. Don’t think that just because you’re leaving tomorrow means you can slack off, Frost.

I laugh. As soon as I’d mentioned the party to Mr. Brent, he agreed to play along and make sure that Ollie didn’t leave the office early.

By seven o’clock, the apartment is so crowded that you can’t turn around without elbowing someone in the stomach. I’m not surprised that so many people showed up for Ollie since he keeps in touch with almost everyone he’s ever met. Just the other day I caught him writing an email to Jeff Foster, an old chemistry lab partner from high school. And there’s Jeff now, standing next to the living room couch chatting with Tali, probably trying to get her number.

I look at my watch and feel a few butterflies. Or it might be heartburn. I have got to stay away from the buffet table. Ollie should be here any second, I announce.

What about the banner, Roxy? Emma asks, looking around the living room.

Crap. I’ve totally forgotten about the banner. Emma drew this gorgeous banner that reads: ‘Congratulations Ollie! Good Luck in London!’ And I forgot to put it up.

He’s here! Adam screams. I’d asked him to be on the lookout for Ollie coming down the street. He’s just turned the corner.

Why is it that subway trains never break down and buses are always on time in situations like these?

Quick, Emma. Go downstairs and stall him.

Emma’s eyes are as wide as saucers. What do I say?

I don’t know. You’ll think of something. I push her out into the hallway and close the door before she can say anything else.

I stare at the window and hold my breath as Adam gives me the play-by-play. He’s coming down the street. He’s right across from the building. He’s looking both ways before he crosses the street. He’s jaywalking. God, he looks amazing in that sweater. Has he been working out?

A few of Ollie’s co-workers climb up on chairs and finish stretching the banner across the living room just a few seconds before we hear Ollie’s footsteps coming down the hall. They stop in front of the door and everyone looks around for a place to hide even though