Chapter Seven

Seven

I never had tapas before, and I already love it. I make sure to say that out loud, following my resolve to appear as grateful, extroverted, and pleasant as possible in the first Group Lars event of the season. But as soon as I realize that I'm the odd one out in a group of Europeans who have eaten tapas several times in their lives, I get shy, overly aware of what I do and say.

Lars mentions his latest vacation in Spain, and everyone chats about how nice a country it is, as they have also been there. We are eight at the table, of which five are Danish. Chiara is Italian, but she has lived in Denmark for seven years, and George is English but has been here for three years.

I've never been anywhere on the continent but Denmark. All I know about other European countries comes from movies, books, and news articles, so I just listen when they talk about their favorite Spanish regions, beaches, and dishes.

When the conversation shifts to politics, I have nothing to say. When it's about children and parenthood, I have zero experience to share. When it's about soccer though—European football—I take my chances and participate with my controversial opinions on the latest sold players, especially the Brazilian ones, and why I believe Real Madrid will destroy its opponents in the next Champions League.

I get a few surprised stares. George laughs. "Blimey! You know more about football than me, Sol. Not that I care one bit about it."

"My dad is a big fan of European football," I tell them, trying not to sound too proud or apologetic. "It's a passion we've shared."

Simon, a fervent Real Madrid supporter, gives me a high-five, and Lars lifts his pint for a "Sk?l!"

"We also love Brazilian football," I say. "The best of all." I sip my beer. I need to loosen up more. I'm at my best socially when I'm not one hundred percent sober.

"Some of the best players, for sure," Lars agrees. I spend a few minutes discussing soccer with him, and I discover that he knows quite a lot about Palmeiras, the team I've supported since I was a child—again, thanks to my dad.

When we are all full of tapas and more than a bit tipsy, Ellen announces that she got married last week. A round of cheers shakes the table. We toast and congratulate her. George then says he will propose to his boyfriend soon and asks for our advice on how to do it in the most romantic way.

"George, Ellen, you need to introduce your partners to us," Lars says when the brainstorming for George's marriage proposal is getting private-jet extravagant.

Ellen has very fair skin, and her cheeks are red in the heat of the restaurant, matching her fiery curls. "I would love you all to meet Mads," she says.

"And how's your wife, Simon?" Lars asks. "Is she still working at that design bureau?"

"Yes, she's very happy there," Simon answers, a smile buried under his respectable mustache.

"What about you, Chiara?" Lars turns to her. "Any special one?"

"I have a girlfriend. We've been together for eight months."

"Wonderful. We look forward to meeting her!"

Soon it'll be my turn to be under the spotlight. I'm sitting between Lars and Astrid, who is sitting next to Martin. I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants.

"What about you, Martin? Tell us all about the current status of your heart!" George follows the trail led by Lars.

"I'm a happy single!" Martin lifts his glass.

"Cheers!" says Astrid. "Me too!"

This would be my cue to join them. But I'm stuck. I just look at Martin and Astrid's smiling faces as a hole grows in my stomach, sucking in all my air.

Why does being a "happy single" like Martin make me want to poke my eyes out? Why do I feel like I'm joining the loser line by being on equal terms with my rival when everyone else is happily in love? I can't even call myself a happy single. That's not a word you can use to describe someone who cries at the end of rom-coms out of pure jealousy.

The more I realize how much behind the others I am in every aspect, the more breathless I feel. The thought that I'm not at all like them makes me dizzy.

I drink a good mouthful of beer until I realize I've emptied my glass. My second glass. The dizziness intensifies.

"Sol, darling, I won't believe it if no one has snatched up your heart yet," George says.

I laugh, hoping the conversation will go in another direction before I can answer.

Lars looks at me expectantly. He was radiant to hear about Ellen, George, and Chiara.

I remember what Erik said, about Lars liking people who are in serious relationships. People who want children, who have stable lives and plan to grow old in Copenhagen.

I'm the one who has just arrived. The one with no ties to the country. The one most likely to leave on a whim...

"I have a Danish boyfriend," I hear myself say.

And then it's too late. I can't take it back. Oh gosh.

All the blood in my body rises to my face, burning my cheeks, and I feel like I'll throw up the two pints I've gulped down.

"Ooooh," they say, and I stop listening, panicking as I do whenever I tell a lie.

Odin's beard! Why did I do that?

Oh jeez. Ugh.

"Tell us more!"

"How long have you been together?"

"That's wonderful, Sol!"

The last comment is from Lars. I think. My head is spinning as I look from one face to another. I feel as overwhelmed as when the women at my mom's salon all started talking about Erik at the same time.

Oh my goodness —it hits me again. I didn't tell a random guy in a bar that I have a boyfriend so he can leave me alone. I lied to my boss . The person I want to trust me.

What have you done, Sol?

To my relief, the waiter chooses this moment to ask if we need anything else. Some people order more beer and tapas, and I seize the opportunity to breathe and clear my thoughts.

Nothing will come of it. I can sustain the lie for a while. No one will know. And then at some point, we break up. No worries.

"I have an idea!" Lars's booming voice drags all attention his way. "I would love to meet your partners, and I think they deserve to join us in our future events. What if we invite them to take part in our little tournament, and each of the couples can be a team? Astrid and Martin can then join forces."

No, no, NO. My stomach spins, and this time I'm sure all the beer and Spanish food won't stay in my system.

"Brilliant idea, Lars." Astrid approves.

Martin gives her a high-five and says, "We'll team up."

"Alex would LOVE it!" George celebrates. "We'll be Team Georgelex! I'm so in!"

"I'm sure Mads will be up for it. I'll ask him." Ellen smiles.

"I'll ask Anika too," Chiara says, looking excited.

"Lia will join us whenever we can get a babysitter," Simon tells us.

"Lotte will come if there are drinks. Margaritas, especially." Lars laughs.

"Then let's make sure we'll have plenty!" Astrid says.

I hear all this without moving a muscle, completely shocked. I can't believe my ears. I want to vanish from the face of the Earth and never be found.

"Our next event is a trivia contest in my house," Lars announces. He then looks at me and puts a hand on my shoulder. I shrink in my seat, just the ghost of me left on the chair. "I look forward to meeting your boyfriend, Sol!"

I want to scream, slap myself, hide under the table, and never let myself drink a single ounce of alcohol again. Leaving Denmark on the next available flight is also an appealing option. I'm frozen in this restaurant chair, however. Stuck to my lie like chewed gum on the sole of a shoe.

So I do the only thing I can do. I give him a half smile and reply, "Me too."

With the grin of a sober-enough person who won't forget any of this in the morning, Lars turns to talk to the others without realizing the ambiguity in my answer.

I've been checking Cinder every five minutes since I had tapas with my coworkers. In my desperation, I even give likes to guys I would normally not be interested in.

Truth be told, I must have given glass slippers to half the single male population in Copenhagen in the past ten days. I'm like Prince Charming, but my Cinderella seems to be nowhere in this city.

Most of them I discarded in our text conversations. I went out with one last Friday, one on Tuesday, and one yesterday. They were all either weird or impolite, or we had so little in common I would lose that promotion the moment I showed up with them in front of Lars and he noticed we couldn't possibly be a couple.

Today is Saturday, my last chance, because tomorrow is the second event for my group in the Fun Season, and I'm supposed to bring my Danish boyfriend.

I'm sitting at the dining table, desolate, eating a bowl of ice cream while scrolling Cinder, when Erik comes in from the gym. I glance up at him, and he ignores me, as usual.

I watch from the corner of my eye as he enters the bathroom and locks the door. I've been trying to ignore Erik all these days, convinced that I could solve my situation without help. But it's unrealistic now. I mean, it has been from the start—who gets a boyfriend in a few days?

Now I either find someone who will pretend to be my boyfriend, or I might as well give up on this promotion. The humiliation of coming up with an excuse for my boyfriend not attending, and all the questions about who he is...

No, I won't do that. At least not without one last attempt.

Erik starts the shower, and the soothing sound of water falling cradles my brain, lulling my thoughts into a decision.

He unlocks the door and heads toward his cave, but my "Hey, Erik" freezes him midway across the dining room, two steps away from my chair.

Wearing only a towel.

I look down, blushing, but my eyes rise back to his chest, pulled by the magnetic view of his well-defined muscles. Jesus.

That's a surprisingly accurate description, in fact. With his full beard and long wet hair falling over his shoulders, Erik looks like Jesus. On steroids.

Not that I think he uses steroids. His body looks naturally worked out.

Wonderfully worked out...

"Yes?" He waits for me to say whatever I need.

"Oh." I blink, embarrassed, and fix my posture. "Sorry, I just wanted to..." God forgive me.

I lose my thread, my heart hammering against my chest. How does one ask a guy to pretend to be their boyfriend? A guy who is wearing only a towel, with drops of water beading his chest and dripping from his perfect hair—

I clear my throat, feeling my mouth go as dry as the Sahara. It's such a bad idea... But I won't beg for a favor this time. I will negotiate .

"I have a work proposition for you."

He squints at me, suspicious. I swallow my nervousness and stand my ground.

"A work proposition?" he repeats slowly, one eyebrow angling.

"Yes. A deal. If you are up for it."

Oh, gods, his smell is fantastic. Fresh citrusy manly cologne spreads through the room, and I take a discreet deep breath to inhale the glorious scent.

"Hmm," he says, and I enjoy the guttural sound a bit too much. "Make some coffee then, and I'll get dressed."

"No," I say, and Erik's eyebrows climb his forehead in disbelief. "No coffee," I continue. "We're getting a beer."