“Would you kick his ass first?”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Not yet,” Mom says, and I’m obedient enough to listen. “I’m glad you’re seeing someone again. I hope it works out for you, yes? But at your age, sometimes women get desperate. Don’t stay with him if he treats you poorly, just because you’re getting old.”
“Mom—”
“I know lots of people with nice sons. I can set you up. Though some people think, what do you call it? That the sun shines out of their sons’ asses, and they cannot see the truth.”
A picture appears in my mind: a cartoon young man with his pants down, rays of sun literally coming out of his ass. I let out a snort/laugh.
“Ah, what’s so funny, Helen? This is a saying, isn’t it?”
“Yes, yes it is.”
“I just want to assure you,” Mom says, “that I will do proper screening of men before I set you up with them.”
“Look, everything’s going well with Taylor, so could you maybe not talk about that?”
“I understand. We can meet him soon?”
“Not too soon,” I say. We’re only going to be fake dating for two months or less, and it’s perfectly reasonable for a short-term boyfriend not to meet your parents. I can hold her off. I think.
“Alright, I’ll ask you again next week.”
Before I can protest, my mother hangs up.
I feel the beginnings of a headache and massage my temples. I hope this fake relationship goes according to plan, but I have the uncomfortable feeling that it’s already veering slightly off-course.
Chapter 6
“Helen, you’re being ridiculous,” I mutter to myself as I look at the clothes strewn all over my bed.
I’ve tried on six outfits but haven’t been happy with any of them, and I’m running out of time. If I want to get to the restaurant early, I have to leave in the next ten minutes. Otherwise, I won’t have any time cushion which will mean, of course, that another raccoon will get on the subway tracks and I’ll be late. Again.
And I don’t want to be late for my first date with Taylor, even if it’s not a real date.
The problem is that there’s a lack of guidance on the internet for how to dress when you’re going on a fake date. I can’t follow normal first date outfit advice because it’s not like I actually want to impress Taylor, but I don’t want to look like I just threw on the first thing I saw in my closet and dashed out the door.
I go to the kitchen to get a drink of water.
“Why am I overthinking this?” I ask Lucifer, who ignores me and hides behind the pirate ship in his tank.
Annoyed with myself, I pull on leggings and a chunky sweater, leaving the discarded clothes on my bed. We won’t be coming back to my place; I can put them away later. Then I make sure I have everything important in my purse, throw on my jacket and boots, and head out the door.
Since I manage—barely—to leave at a good time, the bus arrives within a couple of minutes, and I’m just stepping onto the subway platform when the train arrives. There are no delays along the way, so I arrive at the Persian restaurant fifteen minutes early. The waitress shows me to our table. It’s by the door, which is rather unfortunate because every time someone enters, we’ll get a cold blast of air.
Yeah, it’s winter, and I spend most of the season being cold and thinking about how to avoid the cold. My mother tells me that since I was born in this country—unlike her—I should be used to it because it’s all I’ve ever known, but I’m still not great with it.
I’m also unsettled by the idea of going on my first “date” in almost a year, even if it’s pretend. It’s like my body can’t forget what happened on my last date at a restaurant, and my stomach feels slightly queasy.
I’m studying the appetizer section of the menu when a gust of cold air signals that someone has entered. I shiver as I look up, telling myself not to glare, and find my lips curving upward instead.
Taylor exchanges a few words with the hostess before sitting down across from me.
“Hey,” he says. “You look nice.”
I’m caught off guard. Taylor never says stuff like that to me.
