Page 22 of Text Appeal

“Hang on,” says Lulu, looking like she’s caught me red-handed. “Uncle Connor didn’t get it wrong, did he? Thought you two kneweverythingabout each other.”

“I said itfeelslike we know everything about each other,” I say with much patience.

Connor groans. “My bad. Thought you said you loved Mexican when we were texting last night. But it was so late. I must have gotten what you said confused.”

“How were you texting?” Stuart’s brows draw tight together. “You forgot your cell at our place when you stopped by near bedtime and only picked it up this morning.”

“That’s true,” says Nicole, confused.

Connor’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Which is probably for the best. He is the worst at deception.

“What’s this?” asks Denise, perking up.

“Uncle Connor, were you lying?” asks Lulu jokingly.

The man in question continues to sit there slack jawed. Not even having such a handsome jaw can save him. Shit.

“Of course he’s not lying,” says Martha. “Goodness gracious.”

“But look at his face.” Lulu cackles with glee. “What is even going on with you people?”

“Good question,” says Denise, giving us both suspicious glances.

I had a friend back in the day who was into theater in high school. They said if you fumbled a line, the trick was to stay calm and stay in character. To take a deep breath and keep going. But if your cast member freezes, that’s when you get inventive. You must move the audience’s attention to yourself to give them a chance to recover. And that’s what I do.

“You work so hard, Connor. You’re thinking of Monday night after we met. I took a melatonin last night and was out until morning. But you’re right about the rest, I did say I love Mexican.” My smile is as fake as my relationship. “So, Martha, if you can fit it on the plate, I would absolutely love some chili.”

“So…that’s something that happened.”

“Yeah,” says Connor with a pained sigh.

We’re seated on the hood of his car on Main Street. This is partly due to my need to air out my clothes in the cool breeze. (Denise is going to be purging the scent of my perspiration for months to come. I left her dining room smelling like a gym.) And partly due to the location of the ice cream shop. Lucky for my date we made it before closing time.

“What do you think?” he asks. “Is the ice cream working?”

I load up my spoon again. “No idea. I can’t feel my tongue.”

“Show me.” He takes my chin in hand, and I open my mouth wide for him to see. “It’s definitely still there.”

“Great. My dress is sticking to my back and my bra feels like it’s soaked up about a gallon of sweat. As soon as I finish this, I am going to take a cold shower for at least an hour.”

“How was I supposed to know your tastebuds could only handle bland food?”

“It’s not their fault they’re spice-challenged. They’re doing their best.”

A grunt.

“Fear not. I’ll eventually forgive you for getting me into this mess.”

He nods and digs his spoon into his quart. “Guess I’ll be able to sleep after all.”

I shove some more frozen goodness into my poor sore mouth. At least I’ve stopped needing to constantly pee. And with all the water I drank to wash down the chili, my skin should soon be as clear as can be. There’s a positive.

“Can I try some of your raspberry cheesecake?” he has the audacity to ask.

“No. Eat your orange and chocolate chip and be happy.”

He smothers a smile. “You’re so mean.”

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