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I am. But I don’tlookokay now that I’ve got hot cocoa dripping down my chin.
When I finally can breathe again and have wiped my face, I say, “Do not come on my date or anywhere near my date with your taser. I’ll be fine. I’m meeting him there, and I have no doubts about my safety. He comes highly recommended.”
I willnottell her that he comes highly recommended from Dr. Love, who is neither a doctor nor a person I’ve met in real life. I have this sneaking suspicion this information wouldn’t make my mom feel safer, even if now I know Dr. Love’s real name: Sam.
We’re basically online besties now.
A while back, I wrote an email to Dr. Love, Austin’s own version of Dear Abby. She doles out love advice with whip-smart responses and snarky hilarity.
It was a desperate night—one in which I ate way too much ice cream and was regretting all my life choices. I asked Dr. Love if she had advice for getting over your older brother’s best friend who clearly sees you as a little sister. She wrote back—even though my email never made it onto the internet column—and we started a back-and-forth. She’s hilarious. And kind.
Even if she told me the best thing I could do was either lay things on the line (Nope. Nuh uh. No way.) or try to get over Mason by way of meeting someone else. Then, she offered to match me up with a guy she says is totally wonderful and also trying to get over someone.
I feel fully confident and safe about my date with Chase tomorrow night. This is the new age of the internet when you might make super close friends online whom you’ve never met in person. Or let strangers using a pen name set you up on dates with … other strangers.
The problem is that I’m terrible at dating. Like, very bad. Either I pick terrible guys—the kind who inspire me to escape through the kitchen of a restaurant to end a date early—or they find me to be too much. Usually, it’s the second one. I’ll put it this way—I’ve got a first-date curse. I can’t even remember the last time I went on a second date.
So, it’s hard to be super hopeful about that option.
As for inspiring Mason’s jealousy … if it doesn’t work, I’ll be crushed. Like, a car inside one of those giant compactor things, flat like a pancakecrushed.
Also, I’m not sure how he’s going to find out about it, since currently Mom and I are talking about it in whispers. I could have really used this as an opportunity to check the pulse on his jealousy. But Christmas morning hardly seems like the time. I’m not sure when the right time is, or if I’ll have the guts to somehow mention this to Mason atall, but I’ll figure that out later.
“It’s going to be fine, Mom,” I tell her. “Promise.”
More likeprobably, but whatever.
“I’m still holding out hope,” she says, casting a weighted look at Mason. “Maybe now that John’s gone …”
“What are you two whispering about over there?” John demands.
“Speak of the devil,” I mutter. Mom and I giggle, then say, “Nothing,” in perfect unison.
I don’t want to jinx it, but I’m really hoping Mom might be right.
John opens his mouth to say more, but I preempt him with a dramatic gasp.
Because Mason has finallyremoved the last piece of tape and is about to open my gift. Here goes nothing.
Mason carefully folds the wrapping paper on the table, still drawing this out with dramatic flair. He lifts the lid on the box with a calm that’s totally unfair given the way my heart feels like it’s going to give out as I wait for his reaction.
And wait. And … wait.
“Well?” John demands. “What is it?”
After the longest moment ever of waiting for some kind of emotion to show on Mason’s chiseled face, I blurt, “It’s socks.”
“Socks?” John asks, in a tone like I said live crickets or something.
“Socks,” Mason repeats, and I can’t read his tone.
“Socks?!” John says again.
“Socks!” Mom practically shouts, laughing. “You all have heard of the concept? Cloth coverings for your feet?”
“You got Masonsocks?” John asks.
I am mortified. I’m like Baby in the classic movie,Dirty Dancing, when she says she carried a watermelon. Yep—I got Mason socks.
