Alternate Reality
Warnings: this fic contains catfishing and second hand embarrassment. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
18+ only, explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
You voted, I wrote it. This is the next June fic! (It’s late. Sorry)
Jonathan Pine + “What have you been telling them?”
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“Ugh, sorry I’m late,” you clamour across the cafe, your bag hitting a table as you pass. You turn to apologise to the middle-aged woman scowling as she steadies her cup. “Oops, I’m sorry, I–”
You swallow the rest of your excuse as she rolls her eyes. Jeez. It was an accident.
You turn your attention back to your destination. You wave to the table by the window as Shanna hides her laughter behind her hand. Audrey shakes her head and pretends not to notice, and Camille is blissfully unaware as she bites her acrylic and preens over the screen of her phone.
“Sorry again,” you huff and drop into the empty seat. “My bus got caught at Huron, then I missed my transfer.”
“Hmph, Noah dropped us off. He was in the area,” Audrey boasts.
“In the area?”
“Yeah, well, Shanna stopped by so we were already hanging and Camille doesn’t live that far…”
You hide your disappointment. You don’t live that far from Camille; if they could go ten minutes out of the way to get her, you could’ve at least met them at her place. You shrug it off and untangle the strap of your purse from around your neck.
“What did you guys get? Anything good?”
“Mmm, I’m hooked on these protein coffees since Brody got me on them.” Camille says. “I can skip breakfast and lunch.”
You try to betray your concern. That manufactured protein isn’t much of a substitute for two meals. She’s never been one to listen, and since she got with Brody, well, she’s not hearing any sense. Something about men makes girls dumb. Yourself, not excluded, though you’ve never really gotten that deep in… Not really.
“Keon’s coming back tonight,” Shanna says dreamily. “Him and his brothers went down south and he had no signal for a whole day. It was awful.”
You peer over at the menu as you try to make up your mind, the girls offering few suggestions as they fawn over their precious boyfriends. You might be just as stupid if someone was into you. Hell, you’ve already done enough dumb things to make up for that.
A flush of heat runs up the back of your neck. You should’ve deleted the thing before anyone saw. You should never have posted it. But Camille and her chronically online self caught you before your conscience could.
“I’m going to grab a latte.” You say as you stand. The girls barely notice your declaration.
You join the short line and wait your turn. You order the oatmeal cookie latte, intrigued by the flavour despite the higher dose of sugar. You get your drink and return to the table.
The perfectly swirled whip and cinnamon dusting makes your mouth water. As you sip, a blot of cream sticking to your nose, Camille sits up and smirks at you.
“Sooooo….” she begins. “Who’s this hottie I saw on your insta?”
You blanch. You knew it would come up. How could it not? She’d been texting her and you’d been pushing it off as a ‘long story’. Now, you have no excuse.
“Yeah, he’s… kinda cute. Kinda old though.” Shanna giggles.
You frown. You didn’t think he looked that old. At least, you thought he was good-looking enough not to think about it. You roll your foot and wipe your nose with your sleeve.
“It’s just a… distance thing, you know? We met at the gallery. He was there for a show. From out of town.” You piece together the story, hoping it didn’t sound as ridiculous as it did in your head. “I dunno, he gave me his number so…”
“That explains the suit.” Audrey laughs.
“Suit?”
“That’s how you can tell he’s old.” Shanna adds.
You pout.
“Nothing wrong with an old guy. Especially one in suits like that.” Camille grins. “It means he’s rich.”
“Oh, uh, I didn’t think of it.”
“Well, I bet women his own age are too stiff.” Camille adds. “What age are we supposed to dry up, anyway?”
You cringe. You hate when she says things like that. It’s demeaning.
“So… what was his name again. It sounded old too.” Shanna snipes.
You sigh and take another sip of sugary milk and espresso.
“Thomas. But… I call him Tom,” you lie. “He’s nice. He likes art too so…”
“He’s lame like you. Finally found someone at your level,” Shanna snarks.
“Don’t be rude,” Audrey jabs her. “Jeez, Shanna. Tell Keon to take the stick out of your ass when he gets back.”
“I don’t do that.” She sneers. “Whore.”
You sink down, glad for the distraction, but horrified by the conversation.
“Really, that’s not what I heard,” Audrey says.
“Mrs. Sloppy Seconds would know all about me.”
“Colin never even wanted you. He was just trying to get to me.”
“Girls, please. You’re both sluts.” Camille snickers.
You blow out through your lips and tap your fingers on your cup. They have so much going on, you just hope they forget this dumb fairy tale you cooked up. You certainly hope you can.
📱
It’s a mistake. It’s all been one big mistake. More of a series of mistakes.
The first picture turned into another. Then several. Then a whole string of imagined dates, bolstered by the magic of AI. It’s dangerous. Not to mention disingenuous, if not damaging. The dangers of technology are all too real but do little to deter your spiral.
It’s like an addict. You hit a low and just want a little lift, so you do the thing, get that spike in dopamine, then slowly sink back to reality and what you’ve just done. The problem is, you’ve been living in anything but reality.
It started with Camille and Shanna posting about a beach day with their guys. Then Audrey sharing all the gifts Noah got her for her birthday. Then they asked you to come out to the club with all of them and you were left in the corner as they grinded up on each other. The seventh wheel. The loser.
So you lied. They don’t ask questions so it’s easy. Your mom wanted you to visit and you needed the breathing room. But that’s not what you told your friends.
“Thomas wants to meet up again. He travels a lot. You know, he’s a personal buyer for some very wealthy clients.” You read about that in a thriller novel you got from the library. It sounded like a dream job. And totally fake. They didn’t think twice.
Maybe they just don’t care that much, or maybe they don’t think you’re smart enough to lie like that. It would be easy enough to reverse search any of the photos and get the ‘similar images’ that lead right back to the site you found the source from.
You at least chose something abstract. A hotel manager in Egypt; not glorious enough to attract suspicion. His photo on the business page was buried deep behind the front page of the extravagant resort he worked at.
You take the AI image and put it into the editing app. There’s a few things you need to fix to hide the machine’s errors. It’s not a perfect technology. Not yet. And you’re too uptight to cross your fingers that no one notices.
You upload the image onto your Insta. Did the AI try to make you prettier? You put a description on it; ‘Enjoying the sun’. You look out at the summer rain as your mom rambles on about her garden and the squirrels.
You put your phone down and nod along with her gripes. You’re at least happy she hasn’t asked about any ‘boys’, or not yet. Even if she does, you won’t make the same mistake twice. Will you?
Your phone vibrates. Shanna hearted the picture. And Audrey. And someone else. You tap the notification to read the next name. Shit, shit, shit. It can’t be.
You scramble to click through to the Hotel’s Instagram. You’re shaking. It can’t be. It’s a trick. You bet one of them figured it out and created a fake page. They’re messing with you.
You scroll through. No, these posts go back and back and back. They show all the amenities of the hotel, different promotions, suite descriptions. Oh god.
You block the page and back out of the app. You once more drop your phone and grip your head. Your mother doesn’t notice as she rambles at the window.
“It’ll be good for the tomatoes…” She nods at the dreary sky. “Keep the dang squirrels out.”
📱
You quickly hide your phone as you hear the back room door. You sniff and lift your head. You grab the feather duster and pretend to be diligently clearing away the nonexistent debris from the frames. The gallery is empty this time of day but you’ll take an easy day for the pay.
Magnolia sweeps out in her triangular glasses and droopy hair bow. Her spiralled hair is varying shades of blonde, ginger, and red. Her white shirt is unbuttoned and belted over a dress made from patchwork of paisley, polka dots, and houndstooth. She clomps through on thick square toed heels.
“I’ve a meeting with the council. We’ve no shows for the night but no harm in staying open for curious couples coming from across the street.” She says. “You must make some tags for the auction tomorrow.”
“Yes, Magnolia,” you say. The tags are done already. “Have a good night.”
“With council? Doubt it. They only want to cut funding.” She tuts and swings open the door. “One day I might cut them.”
She strolls off, going one way only to double back as she realises her mistake. She is both fearsome and a bit oblivious to the world around her. You admire her boldness, bordering on bravery if she had any ounce of self-awareness.
You put down the duster and go back to pacing. You look down at your phone and grow bored of merging different items to meet impossible orders. These games are just a ploy to make you watch ads for scams.
You wade through the drone of the plucky music, set no higher than the lowest setting. It’s hardly better than silence. The sky tints outside and you notice the couples filing into the restaurant across the street and the larger groups of women and men head further down the strip.
You stop at the rear wall and stare at the cluster of geometric shapes called ‘Mother Mary’. It’s an acquired taste. Cliche. You’ve seen several pieces like it claiming religious epiphany in randomly placed items. You love art but sometimes you don’t get it.
The door opens and closes. At first, you want to think you imagined it. You’re so close to the end. You just want to go home and get off your feet.
You turn to face the very real visitor. You nearly exclaim at your recognition. It’s the man. The man whose identity you’ve stolen. No, you only borrowed it. And you changed his name. He’s Jonathan not Thomas.
Be cool. It might not even be him. It might be your guilt clouding your vision. You could have fallen asleep on your feet even. Maybe it’s a tedium-fueled hallucination.
“Uh, hello, sir. How are you tonight?” You ask, hiding your hands behind your back, clutching tight.
“Very well, and you?” He asks, his voice dulcet but firm.
“Fine, fine. Um. Are you looking to browse or buy?” You prompt.
“Perhaps a bit of both.” He answers as his lips curve slightly.
“Oh, of course. I can walk you around or you’re free to look on your own.” You say.
“I think I’ll take the latter. I’ve a particular thing in mind but I can’t quite put it to words as yet.” He says, his accent lilting soothingly.
“Alright, I’ll be here if you need anything.” You assure him.
You go behind the tall counter at the corner of the show room. You distract yourself with the hand-written notations on last week’s sales. There’s nothing to do with it but you would rather pretend than face reality. Apparently, that’s just who you are.
Besides, it’s not him. Is it? How could he be here? He lives in Egypt.
You close your eyes as you focus on keeping yourself from shaking. You feel a panic attack brewing. It’s not real, it’s not real. Just stop. Do your exercises. Name a fruit for each letter of the alphabet; Apricot, Banana, Clementine…
“Pardon,” the man’s tone breaks your trance and you look up at him, wide-eyed.
“Yes, sir, sorry. I was… adding something up in my head.” You lie, voice wobbling. “Is there something you need?”
“Well, I know galleries tend to have back stock. Perhaps some pieces on hold until next season.” He begins. “I was hoping for something… I’ll show you.”
He reaches to the front pocket of his jacket. He wears a fine dark blue suit. The same type as that picture. No, stop. Anyone can wear a suit.
“Perhaps you have something which would give a similar… emotion.” He turns his phone to you.
You cough and drop your shoulders. It’s over. It’s him. He’s figured you out but how? You chose someone all the way across the world!
“I…” you utter then snap your mouth shut and shrug. You search for words. “I’m… sorry.”
“What have you been telling them? Hm? All these people in the comments? ‘So cute’. ‘You look adorable’. Ahem, as they say, ‘you go, girl.’”
He puts the phone down and sets his hands next to it. He stares at the doctored image of the both of you. You cringe and cover your face. You heave. “I’m so sorry. I’m… I’m embarrassed. I shouldn’t have—”
“Embarrassed?” He echoes. “To be seen with me?”
You look up, hands caged over the bottom half of your face. You shake your head. “N-no, of course not. I l-l-lied. I made it all up and I… I used you.” You babble. “I was only trying– I was stupid.”
He hums and flicks his finger over his phone. Another of your pictures. You groan.
“Well, I can’t say I’m very upset, darling. Curious, more.” He drawls. “You see, the only affront I feel is that you hadn’t the grace to introduce yourself.”
You stare at him. “What?”
“Well, surely, despite the alias you gave me, you know my name.”
You nod.
“And I know yours now.” He intones. “Though I’d have preferred to have it from your own lips.”
“I… I…” You lower your hands, clasping them over your chest. “I was trying to impress my friends, that’s all it was and…”
“And… so… you would never… consider me?” He wonders.
“What?”
He looks down and traces his finger around the phone before he presses against the screen and slowly drags the image to a new one. This one isn’t yours. You’ve never seen it before. It’s you. You’re in lingerie with a sultry look on your face, in one of the beds you saw on the hotel’s Insta page.
“You… you did that?” You gasp.
“I do think the real thing would put that false dream to shame,” he purrs as he looks up at you. “And I think you might like Egypt.”
“You… I… you don’t even know me.” You bluster.
“Nor you I. But…” He leans in and winks. “We can change that, can’t we, darling?”
