The apartment smells like dinosaur chicken nuggets and contentment. Milo is tucked into bed, probably dreaming about T-Rexes and whatever chaos five-year-olds conjure in their sleep.
I'm curled on my couch in sweatpants that have seen better decades, still glowing from this afternoon's unexpected pie date like some kind of pastry-fueled fairy tale.
Leo asked to see me again. Leo, with his paper flowers and origami cats and eyes that crinkle when he smiles. Someone actually wants to spend time with Rory Kane—the cardigan-wearing, spreadsheet-loving, invisible office mouse version of me.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table, shattering my warm bubble of contentment.
I reach for it lazily, expecting a text from Lena or maybe a notification about a cat video algorithm that's finally figured out my preferences.
Instead, the screen displays an email notification that makes my stomach plummet through the floor and suddenly my sweatpants feel like a costume from a life that doesn't belong to me anymore:
Dear Viola,
This is a friendly reminder that your charity dinner date is scheduled for tomorrow evening at 7:00 PM. Please arrive at La Maison Dorée at 6:45 PM for greeting and seating. Your generous benefactor is very much looking forward to meeting you. Formal attire requested.
La Maison Dorée. I've walked past that restaurant exactly twice in my life—once on accident, once because I wanted to torture myself by reading a menu I couldn't afford.
The kind of place where a glass of water probably costs more than my monthly utilities.
Tomorrow. The dinner is tomorrow.
My Leo-induced haze evaporates faster than cheap perfume in a sauna. I read the email three more times, hoping the words will rearrange themselves into something less terrifying.
Maybe "tomorrow" actually means "next century" in event coordinator speak.
Maybe "benefactor" is code for "this was all a clerical error, please disregard."
The words remain stubbornly unchanged.
No name attached to the winning bidder. Just "generous benefactor," which could mean literally anyone.
Nathan with his hungry eyes and wandering hands. Grayson Smith with his silver-fox predator energy. Julian with his dismissive nods and confusing moments of kindness.
Or some complete stranger I've never met, someone who saw Viola at that event and decided she was worth bidding money on.
Tomorrow, I have to be Viola.
Sitting across from some mystery man at a restaurant that probably requires reservations made in utero. Making conversation, maintaining the illusion, pretending I belong in a world of champagne flutes and cloth napkins.
The thought is equal parts terrifying and thrilling. My heart can't decide whether to race with excitement or dread, so it settles for a chaotic combination of both.
I do what any reasonable adult woman would do in this situation: I call Lena in a complete panic.
She picks up on the third ring. "This better be good. I'm three episodes into a murder documentary and the hot detective just took off his jacket."
"I need help," I whisper frantically, pacing the small strip of carpet between my couch and kitchen. "Like, crisis-level help. Code red. May involve actual murder by the time I'm done."
The TV sounds mute on her end. "Talk to me. What happened? Is Milo okay?"
"Milo's fine. This is about—" I glance toward his closed bedroom door, lowering my voice even further. "This is about the other thing. The Viola thing."
"Ooh." I can practically hear her settling in. "Spill. Every detail."
The words tumble out in frantic whispers—the charity auction, the dinner date, the email that just detonated my peaceful evening like a glitter bomb of anxiety.
I explain how I have no idea who bid on me, what they expect, whether they'll see through my costume the moment I sit down.
"And it's tomorrow, Lena. Tomorrow. I have less than twenty-four hours to prepare for a dinner date with a complete stranger who thinks I'm some kind of glamorous social media goddess."
"Okay, breathe." Lena's voice shifts into her calm-down-the-crazy-person tone. "First of all, you've been playing Viola for months. You've done photoshoots, events, that whole LuxeGlow thing. You can handle one dinner."
"A photoshoot is different! I pose, they take pictures, I leave. This is—" I gesture wildly at nothing. "This is a conversation. Sustained eye contact. Questions about my life that I'll have to answer without accidentally mentioning my son or my cubicle or my concerning collection of cat calendars."
"Then we strategize."
I hear the familiar sound of Lena moving around her apartment, probably grabbing a notebook because she approaches crisis management like a military operation.
"Rule one: deflect personal questions. Turn everything back on him. Men love talking about themselves—give him an opening and he'll fill the whole dinner with his own autobiography."
"What if he asks where I work? What should I do?"
"Viola is a model and influencer. You're between projects. Very mysterious, very busy, can't discuss the details due to NDAs. Throw in some vague references to brand partnerships and watch his eyes glaze over."
I stop pacing, considering this. "That could work."
"Rule two: keep the mystery alive. The whole appeal of Viola is that she's untouchable, unattainable. Don't give him anything real to hold onto. Smile, flirt, be charming, but stay surface-level. One dinner. Two hours max. You can be anyone for two hours."
"What if I slip up? What if I say something that gives me away?"
"Then you redirect. Change the subject. Excuse yourself to the bathroom if you need a minute. The wig and contacts do most of the heavy lifting—nobody expects mousy office Rory to transform into platinum goddess Viola. They won't be looking for the connection."
My breathing slows marginally. Lena's confidence is infectious, even through the phone. "You really think I can pull this off?"
"Babe, I know you can. I've seen your Viola photos—you become a completely different person. Own it. Channel that energy tomorrow night and this mystery bidder won't know what hit him."
We spend another twenty minutes refining the plan. She coaches me on conversation topics to avoid, escape phrases to memorize, and the importance of strategic bathroom breaks when things get overwhelming.
By the time we hang up, I feel marginally less like I'm about to vomit from anxiety.
Marginally.
After all, we’ve been friends for about two years, after a completely accidental meeting. And through all this time, she’s been the closest person to me. Besides Milo.
But Milo doesn’t know what Mommy does behind closed doors, so…
I check on Milo one more time—still sleeping, still precious, still blissfully unaware that his mother leads a double life like some kind of suburban superhero without the cool powers. Then I climb into bed and stare at the ceiling.
Tomorrow, Viola has a date with a stranger.
One man. One dinner. Two hours of pretending to be someone I'm not. I've done harder things. I survived Nathan walking out. I survived single motherhood. I survived Greg Mathews and his quarterly revisions and his public humiliation.
How bad could one dinner possibly be?