Page 48 of Happy After All

“No.” I flash back to the things Chris revealed during the Zoom meeting.

HadI googled him, maybe I would’ve known all of that.

I keep myself on restriction with things like that. It’s respectful. Or maybe it’s just protective.

“Come on, I can figure it out by looking at the website for the event.”

“I didn’t know that you are evil,” I tell him. He’s already got his phone out of his pocket, and he’s looking up the A Very Desert Christmas event. I don’t even know what’s happening right now. He is willingly engaging in conversation, and he is pushing for information.

“I’m appalled,” I say.

“Are you?”

“Yes. I believe in digital boundaries.”

“Is that right?” He looks up at me. “Amelia.”

He says my name, and it hits me like an arrow.

“That is true,” I say, suddenly feeling warm. I clear my throat and look away. “I have ... I have an idea.”

“Oh?”

I decide I have to stop standing in the courtyard talking to him where he can just leave. I have to stop doing this here. Here, we talk, he retreats. Here, we have a well-worn thing. I need to change the script slightly.

“I want to tell you more about this. I want to ... Let’s go out.”

“What?”

“Desierto Encanto is less than a quarter mile down the road, and it’s a good bar. We can walk there. We can ... have a conversation. I need a drink.”

“Okay.”

I didn’t really expect him to agree. Now he has, and I realize I have myself a date.

Kind of.

Chapter Twelve

Fake Dating—a trope found primarily in romance stories, where the main protagonists pretend to be in a relationship (for business, for the purposes of impressing nosy family members, to incite jealousy). The fake relationship eventually becomes real.

Desierto Encanto is the best bar in town. There are neon cacti placed all around the room, and the walls are painted in a modern desert motif, with howling coyotes and sunset landscapes. The bar is a large slab of pink quartz, and the stools look like geodes that have been cut in half, all in blue, purple, and pink. I move up to the bar and take a seat on the stool and order two margaritas.

I look around the room, realizing that for as small as the town is, I don’t know anyone in the bar all that well. Maybe because my best friend is a single mom who never gets to go out and my other friends are in their eighties and nineties.

This is the dating scene, which I’ve never been part of in Rancho Encanto.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve called this meeting,” I say, pushing the margarita toward him.

“I’m riveted,” he says.

I tap the side of my glass. “You know, my ex-boyfriend ...”

“The one I just learned about?”

“That would be him.”

“Fucking fuck,” he says, picking his margarita up and taking a sip.

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