Page 7 of Never Say Yes To Your Best Friend (I said Yes)

She freezes and gasps. I think the whole place freezes and gasps. “Eggs! There were eggs in the quiche. I was warned that you’re very allergic. That was the one thing your mom made suremy mom told me, other than the time and place. I totally forgot until right now. I…I was nervous and ordered the whole spread. I didn’t think…I thought that…”

“Oh, um,that?” She slowly grabs her napkin and dabs the crab juice off her face. “It’s not really a thing anymore. I’ve basically outgrown it. It’s more…um…seasonal now.”

“Seasonal?” I slowly sit back down. I’m so confused. Are we dealing with a life-or-death situation here or not?

“It really acts up in the spring. Pollen. I think it interacts with pollen.”

“We literally live in Tampa. There are flowers and trees all year round.”

Her eyes sweep the place. She’s looking anywhere but at me. “I’m going to be fine,” she assures me, but she sounds nervous. A beat passes, and then she suddenly dabs at her eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s just that it’s really sweet of you to care. My ex was such a total douchecookie. He’d always make things with eggs, and he’d never tell me. He thought it was just a joke. I think that’s how I built up a tolerance to it over the years. Trial by fire. Those little chocolate eggs they bring out at Easter? I can even eat those now.”

This. Has. To. Be. A. Joke.

So why does she look so serious?

She can’t really believe she was ever allergic to chocolate eggs, can she? Unless they had real eggs in them? Do they?

Oh my fucking god, what is even happening here right now?

“He was such a mean man.” Shit, she’s really dabbing her eyes now, and she sounds like she’s going to break down right away. “He’d never let me pick the movie. And he’d always argue about the silliest things. He thought cucumber sandwiches were the best, and he was so into squash. Loved it. He always said he’d do anything for me but wouldn’t stop shaving his chest, and it was always so prickly and horrible. Whenever he’d hold me close atnight, it would itch and burn, and it was just the worst. I kept trying to get him to get waxed, but do you think he’d take my advice? Nope. Never. And then there was me, doing anything to please him. You better believe I got everything waxed, and I do mean everything, straight down to the unmentionables, and by unmentionables, I mean butthole.”

What the hell? Did she truly just say butthole, or am I hallucinating sounds now?

She waves a hand at me and drops the napkin. A shaky smile spreads across her lips, which are so damn pretty. It’s hard not to focus on them, no matter how inappropriate the conversation is. Who talks about their ex on a first date with someone else? That’s one of the top wrong things to do, isn’t it?

“I’m going on and on.” She laughs, and it’s too high-pitched. It sounds forced. “They say not to talk about yourself on a date. So, tell me about your ex. What was she like?”

“Excuse me?” Definitely not going there. This is a trap. It has to be.

She looks so earnest, though.

“We’re both here, aren’t we? That means we haven’t found the one yet. With my ex, it was more than just the shaving issue. But what happened with your ex? Something sad and horrible? Was she mean? Did she want different things? Have you been on lots of dates before this one? Because I’ve been on wayyyyyy too many. So many that I’m surprised I haven’t called you Kelvin. That was my latest ex’s name. Kelvin. What a terrible name. It’s bad, isn’t it?”

Not as bad as this date. It’s unnaturally bad. Almost like she’s trying too hard, but my mom swore up and down that Genevieve is a sweetheart through and through.

Clearly, her mom is convinced her daughter is a saint and made my mom believe in a boatload of bologna.

She giggles and then burps. Loudly. Which makes her laugh harder. “Goodness. Better out than in, I suppose. Don’t want to have a gas explosion. Holding your burps and farts gives you gastric issues. Have you heard that?”

No. This can’t be happening right now. This. Is. Entirely. Wrong. It’s too much. It’s far, far too much. I don’t care about being rude at this point. I wasn’t expecting much from yet another blind date. I’m doing this so that my parents will finally, finally, leave me be. The pressure is insane. I’m not going to let them marry me off or decide my fate, but I couldn’t handle the breakdowns my mom would legit have when I refused to go on the dates she arranged. My dad would then get mad that I upset my mom, and he’d get upset, and then we’d all be upset, and it’s just easier to agree, even if it’s messed up.

Yes, I have a set of balls. I really do. Maybe some small part of me was hoping that in all this, I’d find someone, and things would be less lonely. Maybe I thought I could find someone to laugh with, joke with, and be real with. Someone who really sees me. The fact that she comes from money means she won’t care that I’m rich. She’ll just be into what makes me who I am, and I can be into what makes her who she is because I’m not worried that she’s just into me for the money. I had a few of those dates before my mom started this endless procession of blind dates, setting me up with daughters of friends, daughters of acquaintances, or daughters of anyone, as long as she knew they wouldn’t try and use me and hurt me in the end. I wasn’t immune to it. I’m still not.

Genevieve ignores that I have my phone under the table, and I’m not even looking at her. “I swear, it’s true. The farting thing. I’ll tell you how I know that. There was this guy on TV who held his farts in. He held them in for years. He was trying to prove that it was some anomaly that he couldn’t fart, and his family was all like, no, you can fart, you’re a liar, you’re not special, andhe was like, yes, I am. So, after all the years of holding these farts in, I guess it did real medical damage to him and—”

I cut her off by whipping my phone up over the table. I found the photo my mom texted me last week after setting this up. It might be grainy as fuck, but the woman in it has unmistakably blue eyes, higher cheekbones, and a far poutier mouth. No freckles.

Her face falls, and real panic sets in. She’s been caught, and she knows it.

“This is Genevieve Walker.” I don’t think my voice has ever been so dry. This is the dryness ofoverdoneturkeyandruinedThanksgivingdinnertimes a thousand. “So, who the heck does that make you?”

Chapter three

Evilla

Evilla (Still pronounced the same way as before, even though I’ve actually gone and done something that could be classified as rather evil.)

Oh, shitballs for real.Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Calm, calm, calm. Say you got plastic surgery. Say the photo is an old one. Say it was sent to him in error. Shit, why am I so terrible at lying? He’ll know. He already knows. Why the hell didn’t Gen warn me that he had a picture? Low quality or not, that’s clearly not me.What did I think he had? A physical description? Yes, that’s exactly what I thought he had. And I had the one Gen showed me from an online portfolio right before she tucked me, all made up, into the cab.Fudge, fuck, fucklestuckle.

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