Page 52 of The Fake Out

The quiet had given me time to get used to my surroundings. New-ish truck, fancy satellite radio, a chain with a cross hanging from the rearview mirror. Otherwise, it was spotless. I guessed he had people who took care of that for him.

“I just do.”

Chris glanced my way. “You know, if we’re doing this, we mind as well have fun and get to know each other.”

I crossed my arms. “I don’t like lying to my mom.”

“Don’t think of it as lying. We are going on a date. There will be an engagement ring on your finger.”

“But none of that is real.”

He reached across and wrapped his fingers around on my leg. “I know. It’s a lot.” With a gentle squeeze, he took his hand back and put it on the steering wheel. “But if we’re doing it, we should get to know each other, smile, laugh, enjoy each other’s company.”

“Smile, laugh.” Apparently, I was a parrot now.

I turned to look at him. He had on a red polo shirt, the slim fit kind that curved over his relevant body parts nicely, and a pair of tastefully distressed jeans. So, in other words, he looked awesome without even trying. He could probably wear a onesie and a bonnet and still manage to look awesome though.

He flashed me a smile. “Exactly.”

I knew the stakes were high for him. Otherwise, why would he go through all this? But he seemed so laid-back about it. Maybe he was a good actor, better than I gave him credit for.

“Let’s start with dinner, okay?” I said.

The Taco Truck was aptly named because it was, well, a taco truck. It was a quiet night, being a Monday, and only a couple other tables were filled. But if our goal was to be seen, I’d make sure we were seen. We ordered and I made sure to introduce Chris to Ana Casarez, one half of the couple who owned the Taco Truck. Ana was known for two things: her taco plate and her quiet but thorough dissemination of information (AKA gossip). I didn’t miss the way she discreetly snapped a photo of us with her phone.

We found a seat at one of the picnic tables dotting the patch of dirt in front of the truck. Although it was early April, the air was heavy with humidity and the promise of summer heat. An umbrella protected us from the direct rays of the setting sun. String lights had been draped throughout the area, but it wasn’t yet quite dark enough to see them.

I stopped Chris the second before he was about to dig into his taco plate.

“You can’t come to the Taco Truck without trying the hot sauce. If you’re man enough to handle it.”

Chris set his taco down. “Excuse me? Did you just call me a wimp?”

“I think I implied you were a wimp.” I pulled the condiment basket on the table toward me. It contained three plastic bottles. “You have three choices.”

“Why don’t these have labels on them?” he asked, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“Because they’re homemade. For example, this green one is just regular old hot sauce.” I tapped the yellow bottle. “This one is the medium sauce, what we call ‘Not Your Mama’s’ sauce. And lastly, the red bottle is lovingly called the ‘Wish You Were Dead’ sauce.”

He leaned back and rubbed his bottom lip with his thumb. I caught myself following its path and jerked my eyes away. “This feels like a test.”

“Just having a little fun.”

“Alright.” He nodded slowly, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “How about this? Each of us tries them. For every sauce we taste, we get to ask the other person a question.”

I paused, considering the ramifications of this. “Any question?”

“Everything is fair game. In the spirit of getting to know one another, of course.”

“I’m assuming we have to answer honestly?”

He raised an eyebrow. “That was implied.”

“Just making sure.” The rational part of me pointed out that this was probably a bad idea. The other part of me, the curious part, had questions. “Fine. Let’s do this.”

We each grabbed a chip from the basket we were sharing and started with the green bottle, dripping out a few drops on our respective chip. With a count of three, we downed them at the same time. This sauce wasn’t much more than a typical, run-of-the-mill hot sauce. Sure, it had a bit of a kick, but it went down well enough.

“Pretty good,” Chris said. “Ladies first.”