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“He’s gone,” she says as she reaches me, stopping when we’re toe to toe. “I decided to skip out on our date when he informed me we’d be hitting up the taco truck for his ‘docu.’ He tried to get me to sign a waiver. He was going to film our date. And he didn’t go so far as to ask to see a stool sample after, but believe me, the writing was on the wall.”
Chelsea and I both shudder at the same time. Our eyes lock, and after about three seconds, we both begin to laugh. Our laughter—and a few of her snorts—echo off the concrete walls and floor of the parking garage, drowned out a moment later when a very loud car starts up on another level.
“I think you dodged a bullet with that one,” I say when my laughter finally subsides.
“I didn’t even tell you about his mode of transportation. He had one of those tiny scooters that I think was really meant for one person. As much as I didn’t want to share my intestines with the world, I also didn’t want to ride with my body touching all that … crochet.”
I definitely don’t like the idea of Chelsea pressed up against some other guy. Even an idiot like Damon, the non-vampire macramé wonder.
She crosses her arms. “What I’m really confused about is John’s judgment. He supposedly vetted these guys. How?! How could he see any of their profiles and think they’d be a good fit for me?”
“I don’t know.” But I’d really like to know. Because Chelsea is right—John is oh-for-three.
“Maybe their profiles hid all their … unique qualities,” she says.
“You’re being too kind. Remember last night’s date knocked you into a fountain.”
Chelsea shakes her head. “True. I don’t know what John was up to, but it’s definitely something fishy. No koi puns intended. It’s like he purposely chose the worst possible guys. Why would he do this?”
I think back to my conversation with John, where he insisted he wanted the right guy for Chelsea and this being a means to an end. He did seem like he was up to something, like there was some bigger picture he could see but didn’t bother explaining to Chelsea or me.
“With John? Who knows.”
Chelsea’s smiling, but then her expression shifts and her eyes become assessing. “At least Damon was the last one. I’ve fulfilled my duty to John. And now … I’m free.”
Her words hang in the air between us. She’s free from her promise to John. Free from dating other guys.
Free to … date me?
With terrible timing, my phone starts buzzing in my pocket, and it’s only then I remember why I’m in the parking garage in the first place.
My fingers twitch, but I don’t answer it.
Chelsea pauses as my phone buzzes again. “Do you need to get that?”
“It’s just my mom.”
“How’s she doing?”
I can hear the curiosity in her voice. Despite me being a fixture in their family, Chelsea and John know the bare minimum about my home life. They’re aware my mom raised me alone and that we have a rocky relationship. I haven’t told either of them about Mom’s issues with alcohol or the string of deadbeat boyfriends. Definitely not how I spent my childhood feeling like the parent.
I’m not sure what makes me answer Chelsea tonight. Maybe talking about this is another step toward speaking up, to being honest in all the areas of my life.
I shake my head. “She isn’t doing well, but it’s kind of a long story. I was supposed to go do something for her but …”
I hesitate, shifting my weight from heel to toe, heel to toe. Picking up things for my mom—none of which are essential, especially the wine she asked for—suddenly doesn’t seem like a top priority. Or even a good idea.
“I could go with you,” Chelsea suggests. “I’m happy to help.”
The very last thing I want is for Chelsea to meet my mom under these circumstances.
I make a quick decision that feels very right. “You know what? Let me text her that something came up.”
“Are you sure? I really don’t mind,” Chelsea says. “I’d like to meet her.”
“No. It’s not a great idea—not tonight, anyway.” An idea comes to me, one I like a lot more than being Mom’s errand boy for her next drink. “How about I explain why over crêpes since you didn’t get dinner?”
There’s a food trailer park just a few blocks away, and I happen to know Chelsea practically lives at the crêpe truck. The idea of coming clean about Mom makes me start to sweat, but not because I think Chelsea will judge. I’m just so used to existing as a party of one, keeping this part of my life from everyone, even including John and Chelsea. Opening up about my home life is totally new—and terrifying—territory.
