When It's Real. Erin Watt

screen door slams shut behind us. I take another sip of my rapidly cooling drink as I watch Paisley search for words, which is worrisome because Paisley is never at a loss for words.

      “Okay, so I want you to hear me out. Don’t say anything until the very end.”

      “Did you drink one too many Red Bulls this morning?” I ask. We both know Paisley kind of has a caffeine addiction.

      “Vaughn!”

      “Okay. Okay.” I zip my lips shut. “Not another word.”

      She rolls her eyes. “You do the lip-zipping after the last word, not before.”

      “Details, shmetails. Now talk. I promise not to interrupt.”

      She takes a deep breath. “Okay, so you know how they finally gave me my own cubicle, so I don’t have to share with that other assistant anymore?”

      I nod. “They” are her bosses at Diamond Talent Management. Paisley’s official job title is Brand Coverage Assistant, but technically she’s a glorified gofer—she goes on coffee runs, makes a zillion photocopies and spends an insane amount of time scheduling meetings. I swear, the people she works for hold more meetings than the UN.

      “Well, my cube has this little bulletin board on the wall. I’m allowed to put up pictures, so yesterday I brought in a few photos. You know, like the one of Mom and Dad that we love, where they’re kissing on the boardwalk? And one of the twins at baseball camp. And then I put up the one I took of you at the beach bonfire we had for your birthday last month.”

      I have to fight the urge not to make a waving motion with my hand to tell her to speed up. Paisley takes forever to get to the point.

      “Anyway, so get this! Jim Tolson is walking by my cube—”

      “Who’s Jim Tolson?” I ask, breaking my vow of silence.

      “He’s my boss’s brother. He manages some of the biggest musicians in the world.” Paisley is so excited her cheeks are flushed. “So he’s walking by, and he sees the picture of you on my bulletin board and asks if he could borrow it for a minute—”

      “Ew! I do not like where this story is going.”

      She shoots me a dirty look. “I’m not done. You promised to be quiet until I was done.”

      I swallow a sigh. “Sorry.”

      “So I’m, like, sure, go ahead, but just make sure to bring it back because that’s my favorite picture of my little sister. So he takes the photo and disappears into his brother’s office for a while. He’s got all these assistants in there and they’re all talking about your picture—”

      Okay, now I really don’t like where this is heading.

      “Something major is going down at the agency,” Paisley adds. “I have no idea what, because I’m a lowly assistant, but Mr. Tolson has been in and out, arguing with his brother all week, and they keep having these secret meetings in the conference room.”

      I swear, if she doesn’t get to the point soon, I’m going to lose my mind.

      “So at the end of the day, my boss—Leo—calls me into Jim’s office and they start asking me all these questions about you.” She must see my worried look, because she’s quick to reassure me. “Nothing too personal. Jim wanted to know how old you are, what your interests are, if you’ve ever been in trouble with the law—”

      “Um, what?”

      Paisley huffs in annoyance. “He just wants to make sure you’re not a criminal.”

      Forget this vow of silence. I’m too confused to stick to it. “Why does this agent—”

      “Manager,” she corrects.

      “Manager...” I roll my eyes. “Why does this manager care so much about me? And you said he manages musicians—is he trying to sign me as a client or something? You told him I can’t carry a tune, right?”

      “Oh, totally. That was one of his questions, if you had any ‘musical aspirations.’” She air-quotes that. “He was pretty happy when I told him you’re (a) not musical and (b) interested in becoming a teacher.”

      “Is it a matchmaking thing then? Because, gross. How old is this dude?” I ask skeptically.

      She waves a hand. “In his thirties, I think. And that’s not it.”

      “Is there an it? Because I’m beginning to wonder.”

      Paisley pauses for a beat. Then she blurts out her next words in one breath. “They want you to pretend to be Oakley Ford’s girlfriend this year.”

      I spray the concrete steps with lukewarm coffee mixed with spit. “What?”

      “I promise you it isn’t as bad as it sounds.”

      She runs a hand through her ordinarily perfectly styled black bob, and I notice for the first time that her hair is sticking up on the sides. Paisley’s usually so polished, from the top of her shiny head to the tips of the flats that she buffs every night.

      “Mr. Tolson thinks you’re perfect for the job,” she tells me. “He said you’re pretty but not in an over-the-top way. More like a natural, girl-next-door type. I described you as down-to-earth, and he thinks that will complement Oakley, because Oakley can be really intense sometimes—”

      “Okay, let’s back up,” I cut in. “Are you talking about Oakley Ford, pop icon? Oakley Ford, the guy with so many girls’ names tattooed on his body he’s like a phone directory of former Victoria’s Secret models? Oakley Ford, who tried to depants a monk in Angkor Wat and nearly caused an international incident? That Oakley Ford?”

      “Yeah, him.” She scrunches up her nose. “And he’s only got one tattoo of a woman’s name and it’s his mom’s.”

      I raise an eyebrow. “Did he tell you that or did you make a personal inspection?”

      Oakley’s nineteen and Paisley’s twenty-three, so I guess it could happen, but that’s kinda disgusting. Not because he’s younger, but because Paisley’s too awesome to be some celebrejerk’s castoff.

      “Ew, Vaughn.”

      “Look, if you’re serious, the answer is still no. In fact, there are so many reasons for me to say no that I don’t know if we have time for me to list them all. But here’s one—I don’t even like Oakley Ford.”

      “You played his album on repeat for, like, three months.”

      “When I was fifteen!” Oakley Ford was a phase. Like BFF necklaces and Hannah Montana. Plus, his antics got really unappealing. After the tenth or so picture of him making out with some random girl at a club, he got kind of slimy in my eyes.

      Paisley runs her hand through her hair again. “I know this is your year off. And I want you to have that, I swear. But this thing isn’t going to take up very much of your time. An hour or two maybe every other day. A couple nights. A couple weekends. It’s the same as if you were waiting tables at Sharkey’s.”

      “Um, aren’t you forgetting something?”

      She blinks. “What?”

      “I have a boyfriend!”

      “W?”

      “Yes, W.” For some reason, Paisley hates W. She says his name is stupid and that he’s stupid, but I love him anyway. William Wilkerson isn’t the greatest name to be saddled with, but that’s not his fault. It’s also why we call him W. “There have to be dozens of girls who want to pretend-date Oakley Ford. And why does he need a fake girlfriend anyway? He could probably walk down to the Four Seasons on Wilshire, point to the first girl that drove by and have her in a hotel room in five seconds flat.”

      “That’s the whole problem.” She throws up her arms. “They tried the