Page 21 of Knot Just for Show

“I’m getting hustled on my end, too. I’ll talk to you tomorrow though, right Ursula?” Ronan asks tentatively.

“Of course. I look forward to hearing more about you,” I answer, a little breathless, as Kimmy opens the door all the way, tapping her foot expectantly.

“Don’t get your hopes up, I think I told you all the interesting stuff today—it’s all boring book keeping and floral orders from here on out.”

I can hear another man clear his throat on the other side of the partition. It must be the production assistant for the men’s unit—giving Ronan the hook the same way Kimmy is staring me down right now.

“I look forward to it—I’ve always wanted to know when the buying season for dyed carnations really takes off,” I call to him, drifting toward Kimmy’s grasping hands.

Ronan’s laugh, sweet and raspy like dried grass in the breeze as I am escorted by Kimmy down the hall.

Chapter Seven

Lysander

Tasha, my business partner and gallery co-owner, had laughed in my face for nearly a full minute when I told her I was taking a five week leave to appear on the reality dating programBuild-A-Pack-Blind.

She had thrown her sleek, blond head back, tears beading at the corners of her eyes as she gasped for breath, convinced that I had made the funniest joke she’d ever heard. It wasn’t until she’d collected herself, catching her breath and dabbing the black mascara globs from her damp lower lashes, that she realized I hadn’t moved a muscle.

I can understand why she would have had trouble accepting the premise of me on a popular reality dating show. I am at the unique intersection of strikingly neurodivergent, consummate work-o-holic, incredibly wealthy, and woefully inexperienced with dating and courtship for a man of my age.

Tasha would more likely have expected me to say I was joining some sort of monastic cult and taking my leave from society.

And yet, here I am, waiting in a ‘bubble’ room for my next date— doodling a mystery woman in ballpoint pen in the margins of my production-provided notebook; contemplating a little Matisse homage; a green stripe of highlighter down the center of the woman’s scratched ink face.

“Hello?” A voice drifts in from the other room.

I halt my sketching and kick my legs off the couch—swinging myself into an upright position, my notebook folded closed neatly on my lap.

“Good afternoon,” I greet her.

“Jeez, is it even still afternoon? I feel like I’ve completely lost track of time in these damn ‘bubbles’ without having windows and stuff,” she laughs to hide her exhaustion, but I can tell by the soft breathy edge to her words just how tired she is.

“Yeah, it’s like a casino or something.They don’t want you to think about what time of day it is. Keep ‘em at the tables, or in the ‘bubbles’ as the case may be.” I do my best at levity, but I myself am also pretty worn out and low on social battery.

“Well, I guess this is a case in which I really hope that the house doeswin,” she titters nervously, beautifully carrying our shared conceit over the finish line.

“Agreed. It’s why we’re here, after all—to meet people we wouldn’t have otherwise gotten close to in the outside world.” I open my notebook and tap the butt of my pen against the empty page beside my doodle.

“Lovely to meet you Miss–?” I prompt her for her name.

“Ursula.”

Ursula. Female. Proper Name–from Latin: Ursula, diminutive of ursa “she bear” (see ursine),my brain supplies. I’ve gotten better about the compulsion to recite the information aloud by rote as soon as my brain recalls it—but I’m so nervous right now that I almost start blurting out the etymology of her name back at her like a robot.

Behaviors like that are what used to make my father say that I could never function properly in thereal world. He was wrong of course, but I’ve still done a lot to make my behaviors more palatable to ‘normal,’ neurotypical types.

“How have you been enjoying your dates thus far, Urusla?” I ask instead.

“I’ve been enjoying some more than others…” she prompts me with a meaningful pause, and I feel momentarily sheepish that I didn’t think to introduce myself before asking her about her dates.

“Lysander.”

“LikeA Midsummer Night’s DreamLysander?” she asks hopefully, and I can’t help but smile.

“Yeah, exactly that Lysander. Mom had a list of Shakespeare themed names, but that was the one that ended up making the cut.”

“It’s a good one.”

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