Pretending to Be His Boyfriend: The Open House That Changed Everything

The night Leroy's partner left, it was raining. Not the dramatic kind of rain, just that steady drizzle that made the gutters drip all night. He stood in the driveway with one duffel bag and his coat over his arm, and he said, "I can't do this anymore, Lee. I'm sorry." Then he got in the car and backed out slow, like he was being careful, and that was somehow worse than if he'd peeled out.

I watched the taillights go all the way down to the corner. Then I sat on the front steps until my ass went numb. I'm 46 years old, I've poured wine for presidents of small companies and trust fund kids and one actual movie star, and I sat on my own steps crying into a dish towel because I couldn't find the box of tissues.

That was six months ago. Since then I've basically been living out of the guest room and the kitchen. I walk through the front door and go straight to the right, like the hallway to the master bedroom is a river with a bad current. I sleep in the guest room because our bed still has his side and my side and I can't figure out which side I'm supposed to be on now. The master bathroom has his razor still in the shower caddy. I can look at a 1947 Bordeaux list without flinching but I cannot look at that razor.

So when I say my life had gotten small, I mean it had gotten real small. Work, the guest room, frozen lasagna, repeat.

***

Zach showed up on a Saturday around noon with a bottle of wine under his arm and a look on his face like a kid who'd planned something. He'd moved into the cul-de-sac maybe six months back, bought the mid-century place two doors down that everybody said needed a new roof. He's 41, an architect, tall and kind of lanky, always in those canvas work jackets even when it's warm out. We'd talked over the fence a few times, mostly about his contractor and my opinions on his contractor.

"Okay, before you say anything," he said, holding up the bottle, "this is a peace offering and a bribe, and I need a favor that's going to sound insane."

"Those are usually my favorite kind," I said, and stepped back to let him in.

He set the bottle on the kitchen island and read the label like he actually cared, which I appreciated. "It's a Pinot, I don't know, the guy at the shop said it was good and I believed him because he had one of those aprons that makes you trust people."

"It's decent," I said, turning it over. "You did fine."

"Great. Okay. So here's the thing." He touched the back of his neck. "There's an open house this afternoon. The Henderson place, the one backing onto the creek. Raul's listing it, you know Raul, everybody knows Raul."

"The loud one with the boat shoes."

"That's the one. Anyway. That house is basically the twin of a project I'm bidding on. Same era, same layout, same crazy glass wall in the master. The client wants to know how a staged version of that floor plan actually lives, where the bottlenecks are, how the light moves. So I want to walk it. Slow. Sit in rooms. Open closets."

"That sounds fine, Zach. You don't need a boyfriend for that."

"Well." He grinned, and I knew I was in trouble. "Raul knows me. Knows I'm bidding that project. If I show up with a clipboard and a laser measure he's going to get weird about it, maybe call my client, maybe get chatty. But if I show up as a guy dragging his boyfriend through his dream house, I'm just another couple killing a Saturday. Nobody watches a couple. We're invisible."

"Then go find a date."

"On four hours' notice? And besides," and here he did the thing with the grin again, "half the neighborhood already thinks we're together anyway. Diane across the street asked me last week if you and I were 'an item.' Her word. I didn't confirm or deny, I just panicked and said we were close."

I laughed at that, a real one, the first in a while. "God. Diane!"

"So. Will you do it? Just be my boyfriend for two hours. Hold my hand, point at a bad kitchen island, tell me I have good taste. That's it. That's the whole job."

I should have said no. Every rational part of me knew this was a weird idea and the smart move was to hand him back his Pinot and close the door. But it had been six months of frozen lasagna and a hallway I couldn't walk down, and somebody was asking me to spend an afternoon being wanted, even if it was fake. Especially if it was fake.

"Fine," I said. "But I'm not going to be weird about the hand holding. I was married to a man for eleven years, Zach, I'm not going to giggle."

He put his hand over his heart. "I would never ask you to giggle."

After he left to get ready, I stood in front of my closet for what felt like a stupid amount of time. I have maybe forty shirts and I stood there like I was dressing for a tasting with a Michelin inspector. I told myself the whole time, this is neighborly, this is a favor, this is a guy helping a guy with a work thing. My hands were shaking a little anyway when I buttoned the gray one. I noticed that and decided not to think about it.

***

The Henderson place was staged with rented furniture, all beige and careful, and Raul had every lamp in the house turned on even though it was two in the afternoon. He was standing out front in his boat shoes greeting people.

"Zach! And you brought, hold on, you brought Leroy!" Raul beamed at us like we'd won something. "You two are together? Since when?"

"Six months this June," Zach said, without a flicker, and took my hand.

Six months. I felt that land somewhere under my ribs and I smiled like it was true. "He's lying, it'll be seven," I said. "He's bad with dates. All of them."

Raul laughed way too loud and waved us in.

And this is what nobody warns you about pretending. It's easy. Zach would stop in a room and I'd stand next to him and he'd squeeze my hand once when he wanted me to follow his eyeline, and within about ten minutes I knew his whole silent language. He'd murmur stuff under his breath, "See how they faked a bigger opening there, cheap," or "Client's going to want this wall skimmed, not textured," and I'd nod as if I understood architecture, which I do not.

We told the story of ourselves to people maybe six times. Zach does design, commercial mostly, I work for a small wine importer, which is technically true and therefore felt safe. A woman asked how we met and Zach said, "He corrected my wine order at a restaurant and I never recovered," and the woman melted, and I was standing there thinking, that's such a good lie, he tells lies like they're little gifts.

By the time we got upstairs I had stopped performing entirely, which I didn't notice until later. There was a couple in the guest room and Raul was downstairs doing his loud thing, so the master was empty except for us. Floor to ceiling windows looking straight into the creek trees, that green light coming through like the room was underwater.

"Okay, this is the money shot," Zach said. "This wall. My client would lose her mind."

I stepped up beside him and we looked out at the trees together. "You'd put the bed facing it."

"Obviously. You'd wake up to green every morning."

There was a beat where neither of us said anything. I could hear the creek, kind of, under the wind. Then Zach turned to me and said, "You're good at this, you know," quiet, like it wasn't for anyone else.

"Good at pretending to be your boyfriend?"

"Good at it. Comfortable. That's what I mean."

And I don't know which one of us moved first, honestly. I'd say him, he'd say me, we've argued about it since. But somebody leaned in and somebody met them halfway and we kissed, right there in the staged master bedroom with the rented beige furniture, his hand coming up to the side of my face, my hand doing something with his jacket that felt like it had been practiced.

It lasted maybe four seconds. Then we heard footsteps on the stairs and broke apart like we'd been caught shoplifting, and Raul's voice hit the doorway saying something about the wine cellar, and we turned around and smiled and nodded and followed him downstairs like two normal men on a Saturday.

But my mouth was buzzing the whole way down, and Zach kept hold of my hand, and neither of us said one word about it.

Raul herded us through the whole downstairs like sheep, and I mean that with affection. He had a whole rhythm to it. Kitchen, dining room, wine cellar, out to the patio, back around. He talked the entire time and I retained maybe a third of it.

"So the previous owners, they're downsizing, which is the story of this whole neighborhood honestly, everyone's downsizing except you two, you're upsizing your relationship, ha!" He pointed at our joined hands like it was evidence in a trial. Zach squeezed mine once, his little follow-me signal, and I squeezed back and thought, oh no, this is becoming automatic.

The tour ended on the back patio. Raul checked his watch, made a face, said he had another couple coming at four and did we mind entertaining ourselves for a bit in the backyard, the creek trail was lovely. We said sure. He shook Zach's hand, then