Love at First Like Read online

  A new customer bought a $10,000 diamond necklace. Engagement rings aside, it’s the most expensive piece we carry. And now, it’s sold.

  If it looks good for me to be engaged to a mystery man, and that translates directly into sales, then damn it, I’ll be engaged to a mystery man. What’s the harm? I call my sister back.

  “You saw the sale?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I did.” She sounds awestruck.

  “That photo is working to our advantage,” I say, summoning my firmest voice. “I’m not taking it down.”

  • Chapter 2 •

  I shower. I put on an underwire bra and pants with a real waistband. I make myself look like I have my shit together, which for me, means piling on jewelry like armor: my signature stack of thin silver Brooklyn Jewels bangles, each embedded with a different family member’s birthstone; the chunky amethyst pendant Helen gave me as a bat mitzvah gift that ignited a lifelong love affair with jewelry; the round-cut diamond studs Sophie made for me to honor the shop’s launch, topped by a delicate pair of mismatched studs in my second holes—a star and a crescent moon—from an indie designer whose work I admire. Some people think jewelry is an overpriced fashion statement, but it’s so much more than that. When chosen with care, each piece tells a story of who you are and what matters to you. I don’t feel like myself without all of this.

  I pick up a large coffee from the café next door and make it to Brooklyn Jewels by 8:30 a.m. I always like to get here early. Jess will be in by 9, and Sophie typically makes it in twenty minutes later. That’s half because she’s a slowpoke in the mornings and half because she’s coming from Park Slope, the neighborhood she and Liv moved to in anticipation of the babies that are taking longer to come than either of them expected. I don’t think it’s healthy for her to be in Brooklyn’s greatest per capita concentration of strollers after two rounds of IVF. I keep telling her to move to Williamsburg, or at least closer to the shop, but she claims that living within ten blocks of the bar Union Pool again would give her hives. As a person who’s had more than her fair share of hookups in the Union Pool bathroom, her point resonates on a cellular level.

  Everything looks different in the daylight, and the shop is no exception. I flick on the lights, flip the white-lacquered sign in the window to OPEN, and unlock the safe so I can set out jewels in the window boxes and the glass display case. The routine calms me, and I take extra care with it today, adjusting the placement of each piece until it’s flawless.

  I should set what is now, I guess, “my” ring into the case, too. We keep engagement rings and bridal jewelry on one side of the store and other fine jewelry pieces on the other. There’s a spot just waiting for it. But instead, I slide it onto my finger and flex my hand under its weight. Sunlight streams through the shop’s window and hits the bulky center stone at a fiery angle, radiating sharp bursts of light from my hand. The bauble is monstrous. I always pictured myself with a pair of our vintage-inspired ballerina bands stacked around a classic solitaire, or maybe a pear-shaped diamond for a more modern look. (It’s impossible to choose just one dream ring when you sell them for a living.)

  I’m Windexing the glass counters when Sophie pushes through the door. It’s 8:58 a.m. She’s early and her eyes are wild. She wears a tomato red caftan that makes her copper red bun look even brighter, and her oldest clogs. Sophie always looks more polished than this; it’s like my news has sapped the energy she’d need to iron a silk Everlane button-down or to swipe on some mascara.

  “I can’t believe you’re actually doing this,” she says in lieu of a greeting.

  “You saw that ten-thousand-dollar sale,” I point out. “You can’t think that’s a coincidence.”

  “It’s clearly not, but also, you must be deranged if you think you can pull this off.” She crosses her arms over her chest and leans a hip against the counter. Sophie’s always been more tightly wound and risk-averse than I am. Design is her release; she relaxes when she sketches out a new piece. I can see her gearing up to slip into big sister mode. “Have you called Mom and Dad? Have you thought ahead to what’s going to happen when you don’t actually wind up getting married to anyone? Are you just going to string people along forever? And how, exactly, are you planning to take that ring from the shop without paying for it? Because if you borrow it indefinitely, we’re losing out on money there.”

  I put up my hands in defense. “I’ll figure it out. I’ll call Mom and Dad back. It’ll work out somehow.”

  She slumps over the counter, rubbing a hand over her face. Her own (real) engagement ring, an Art Deco, emerald-and-diamond piece she sourced at an estate sale, glints back at me. She and Liv got married three years ago on the coast of Maine.

  “I’m worried this could backfire on us,” she says. “You know, hurt the business.”

  That’s a more legitimate concern. But there are certain entrepreneurs—Whitney Wolfe Herd of Bumble, Emily Weiss of Into the Gloss and Glossier, and Leandra Medine Cohen of Man Repeller—whose businesses are bolstered because the founders have enviable lives. Maybe I can be one of those. Maybe that’s the reason today is already one of the most successful days in our company’s short history.

  “I’m going to make this work,” I say. “I promise.”

  Sure enough, it’s a shockingly good day at the shop. Three more online orders roll in; though none are as big as the first, combined, they pay a month’s worth of rent for my apartment. Sophie busies herself by packaging them up and shipping them out. Two more blogs pick up my “news” and write fawning stories about me and the company. The @brooklynjewels account blows up with new followers. The energy in the shop is frantic but hopeful.

  At noon, a girl about my age wanders in. Jess is supposed to take the lead with customers, but Sophie and I are equipped to handle sales in a pinch. That’s the reality of running a small business like this one—everyone has to wear a million hats. Jess greets the customer first, but the customer gives me a shy look and approaches my side of the counter.

  “I’m on my lunch break, and I just wanted to pop in and check out your pieces,” the customer says. “You came up on my Instagram Explore page and I just love your work.”

  “Well, thank you!” I say. She peers into the cases, and I use that opportunity to throw a pointed smile Sophie’s way as if to say, “See?”

  “My boyfriend and I are just starting to talk about getting engaged, and while nothing is definite yet . . .” The customer trails off, kneeling down to examine a round-cut diamond with side stones, the smaller (and more affordable) version of the piece I’m wearing. She smiles and straightens up. “I’d just love to try that one on. You know, get a sense of what I like before I start dropping hints to him.”

  I unlock the case and remove the ring for her to try. She squeals a little when she slides it on. Her eyes dart from her hand to mine.

  “I saw yours this morning and was totally obsessed,” she explains.

  She tries on two more pieces but keeps coming back to that first ring. She tries it on once more and looks at it longingly before twisting it off her finger.

  “I’ll be back—next time, with my boyfriend,” she promises.

  After years of watching Helen work with customers, and more than a year of handling customers here, I can spot when a potential buyer bullshits me. She isn’t. I know she’ll be back.

  When I walk to the nearby vegan restaurant, By Chloe, to pick up my favorite avocado pesto pasta on my lunch break, I call Mom and Dad.

  Mom picks up. “So are you going to tell us what’s going on?” she demands.

  “So what happened is—” I start.

  She cuts me off, calling for my dad. “Paul? Paul! Come here. She finally called us back.” Then to me, “Honey, I’m putting you on speakerphone. You have a lot of explaining to do.”

  That would be fair for any parent to say under the circumstances, but she has even more of a right to be clued in. When Sophie and I first told our parents about our idea for Brooklyn Jewels,
they helped us out and invested; they have a 10 percent stake. Any decision I make with the business doesn’t just affect me—it affects them, too. And since another boating shop opened up a few blocks from theirs last year, they’re worried that their own business might suffer. I spent the morning thinking about how to explain the photo to them, and I think I’ve got it. When Dad says “hi,” I take a deep breath.

  “It’s a marketing stunt,” I say, as if it’s the most obvious explanation in the world. “It drums up interest in the business. If I’m the face of the company, then it’s good for people to be intrigued by my life. Basically, all our Instagram followers are single girls who are dying to get engaged—so this panders to them. It’s aspirational content.”

  “I don’t know about that, honey,” Mom says, sounding concerned.

  “It seems a little far-fetched,” Dad adds.

  “It’s going to be fine,” I recite for what feels like the millionth time today. “You don’t grow unless you take risks! You taught me that.”

  “Right, but this seems . . .” Dad struggles to find the right word.

  “Creative!” I shout.

  “Ill-advised.” He settles on a word of his own at the exact same time.

  There’s a long moment of silence. “Please trust me on this one,” I say.

  I can hear him sigh. Mom speaks first. “We want to,” she says.

  “Wow, look at that, already at my lunch place. Gotta go,” I say. I hang up before they can protest.

  By Chloe is a hotbed of the kinds of customers who go for our pieces: well-off, well-versed in indie brands they learned about on Refinery29, and artsy (or they want their Instagram followers to think they are). I recognize pretty much all of the employees, since I eat here at least twice a week. I order my regular dish, and when I hand over my credit card to the cashier, her gaze follows my ring. She looks up at me appreciatively.

  “That’s pretty,” she says, nodding at my hand.

  It’s the first time we’ve ever had a personal conversation. “Thank you,” I say.

  If I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it for real. I linger by the napkin dispenser as I wait for my pasta to be ready and pull out my phone. I upload the ring photo from last night to both Facebook and Twitter. I refresh each platform once, and watch dozens of likes and comments spill in. People are so quick to be happy for me. It stings a little bit. Not even my post announcing the launch of our shop got so much positive feedback in such little time. An engagement marks a new phase in your life, sure, but it’s not an achievement.

  Next, I open Gmail. I do some work as our company’s de facto publicist, and so I already have the email addresses for various editors at jewelry blogs, wedding sites, and women’s magazines saved in my contacts. I draft an email to all of them pitching a big story with the announcement that I’m engaged. I ask if they’d like to cover it.

  It’s a risk, for sure. But so is doing nothing. Nobody’s exposed me as a fraud just yet, and our company’s bank account is flush. I call that a small victory. And today, that’s all I need.

  • Chapter 3 •

  Carmen and I have had a standing happy hour date every Thursday since we got fake IDs our freshman year at NYU nearly a decade ago. At first, we went to Sigma Burger Pie, the frat-themed dive bar behind the library that miraculously let you pay for PBRs using Campus Cash. When the police shut it down after less than a semester, we migrated to Crocodile Lounge, where beers cost $4 and every round got you a free personal-sized pizza. After graduation, we traded up; these days, we mostly hang out at wine bars and don’t flinch at the cost of the cheese plates. So it doesn’t matter that today has been a beast of a day—today is Thursday. It’s time for happy hour. It’s tradition.

  It’s her turn to choose the spot, so I trek up to the Upper East Side to meet her at AOC East, the French wine bar. We’ve never been here before, but that’s typical. Carmen doesn’t have regular spots; she gets bored too quickly. It’s out of the way for both of us, but she swears the wine list is worth it.

  When I arrive at AOC East, I feel transported to Paris. The walls are musty brick and cranberry paint, stacked with bookshelves filled with classic editions and landscape paintings in gilded frames. A French flag hangs proudly on one wall and the ceilings drip with dainty string lights. The low chatter from other tables is all in French. It’s not hard to spot Carmen at a table by the window. She’s resplendent in a pink jumpsuit, white sneakers, and gold hoop earrings. Last year, she made the switch from doing marketing at old-school giant L’Oréal to the relatively newer Tinder, and she’s been reveling in the lax dress code ever since. She wears magenta lipstick and sips a glass of what must be French rosé (the only kind she has determined worthy of drinking) carefully. Her eyebrows shoot up when she sees me.

  “Hi! Okay, gimme all the deets,” she commands.

  We’d been texting about everything that happened since this morning, but it’s different in person. Here, she can fake gagging noises when I tell her about Holden commenting on my Instagram, and she can slip the ring off my finger to try it on herself. The waiter comes by to drop off a glass of French rosé that matches hers; it’s part of our tradition to order for each other if we’re running late so we never miss the happy hour special.

  “So, if you’re faking an engagement, don’t you need . . . a fiancé?” she asks.

  “I have a plan!” I explain. “What if I pretend that I’m madly in love but he has a super-private job and can’t appear on any social media?”

  “Like that consultant you dated once,” she recalls.

  “I think that was a line he gave girls so he never had to be Instagram-official with any of them, but yes,” I say. “Like he works for a really private hedge fund, or the FBI, or he’s a billionaire who thinks he’s above it all.”

  “Right, because there are so many of those floating around,” she says, deadpan.

  “What if he was a victim of a house fire and is recovering from debilitating injuries and isn’t ready to show his face yet?” I ask. “Or maybe that’s a little dark. What if he’s one of those off-the-grid types?”

  Carmen rolls her eyes.

  “Okay, okay, but seriously, what if I just find some aspiring actor to pose as my fake fiancé?” I ask. “I can throw a stick on Broadway and hit a dozen potential candidates.”

  “Eh,” Carmen says, squinting. “Actors are flaky. And besides, do you really want to pay some rando off the street?”

  I shrug. “Do you have a better plan?” I ask.

  “I do,” she says. Her eyes sparkle dangerously. “I thought of it at work today, inspired by The Bachelorette.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “We get a dozen, two dozen, whatever, eligible dudes in one place, and you get to choose from all of them.”

  “That sounds unreal. How are you expecting to pull that off?”

  She grins. “It’s more real than paying someone off.”

  The plan, I gather, goes like this: Carmen grabs my phone, pulls up Tinder, and tweaks my profile so I look like bait for future Stepford husbands, catnip to guys whose grandparents’ names adorn hospitals and who refer to the Hamptons vaguely as “out east.” I’m glad she explains this as she goes, or else I would’ve been offended when she deletes nearly every single photo from my existing profile. When she swipes, she’s like a NASCAR driver—making life-changing decisions at lightning speed as she careens around bachelors. She’s judicious, not generous. I trust she knows what she’s doing. She must know tricks I don’t, because by the time we order and finish a cheese plate, she’s amassed a pool of suitors who I’m sure consider themselves worthy of making the Forbes 30 Under 30 and Town & Country’s Top 50 Bachelors lists. I’m not so convinced. She launches into high flirt. She hides the phone from me, but I can see her type fiendishly fast, then press the phone to her chest to throw back her head and cackle. She signals for the check.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “Dorrian’s. Two block
s from here.”

  I can’t help but make a face.

  “That’s why I didn’t tell you!” she says. She’s already fishing twenties out of her purse and gathering up her things. “We have two guys confirmed already to meet us there, and if they suck, I bet we can snag a bunch more once we’re on their home turf.”

  “And they’re . . . hot? Eligible? Gullible?” I ask.

  She makes a face. “Well, we’ll see. ‘Hot’ can be a flexible term.”

  I take off my engagement ring and tuck it into the zippered compartment of my wallet.

  I have to hand it to Carmen, Dorrian’s is a smart choice, albeit not one I would’ve ever made myself. The bar is an old Upper East Side watering hole that briefly shot to national fame in 1986 when it was splashed across tabloids in conjunction with the “Preppy Killer”—a prep school kid got drinks with his date here, then dragged her into Central Park to rape and murder her. While the bar is stuck in the past, there’s nothing openly morbid about it today: tables are topped with cheery red-and-white gingham cloth, framed black-and-white photos depict Kennedy lookalikes sailing or playing polo, and felt Ivy League pennants hang from the walls. It’s essentially the townie bar for people who grew up in this money-soaked neighborhood and never left.

  My first instinct is to sidle up to the bar for a drink, but Carmen stops me.

  “Someone will buy you one,” she says confidently.