Page 34 of Fumbled Into Love

It’s been two days since I moved in, and tonight is the first time I’ve seen Deon at home for more than a few minutes in passing. I’ve done my best to acquaint myself with his space while respecting his privacy, though I itch to explore the side of the house he didn’t show me.

The number of items labeled in the section of the house I have explored is outrageous. Cleaning products. Baking supplies. Even his junk drawer is neatly organized, all of his random items in their container with a label. He went as far as labeling the box of batteries with the word ‘batteries’ as if the packaging wasn't a dead giveaway.

Someone needs to ban Deon from owning a label maker.

“No,” Deon answers, sitting up as I pour snacks into the massive bowl. It’s my version of a party mix without all the bad parts, like peanuts and stale tortilla chips.

The recipe is an equal ratio of Goldfish crackers, flavored pretzels, Cheetos, Cheez-Its, gummy bears, and mini M&M’s. I’ve perfected it over the years.

I glance up to find Deon in the kitchen, hand creeping into my bowl of magical goodness. He snatches a pretzel and retreats to a safe distance to eat his bounty.

“These are dating show snacks,” I chide, but his cheeky smile tells me if I turn around, his hand will wind up right back in my bowl.

“Dating show?” Deon asks, following as I settle into the couch.

Watching the premiere on Deon’s massive flatscreen is so much better than my small laptop.

“Tonight is the first episode,” I say, pulling out the bracket I completed at work. “We’re meeting all the men vying for the woman’s heart.”

“You have a bracket?” Deon studies the paper like it’s code to launch a rocket ship. “Wait, how many men is she dating?”

“About thirty, I think.” I scroll through the channels when Deon blocks the television.

“Thirty?” I laugh at his shock. “Can I have one of these?” he asks, dangling the bracket in his grip.

“You want to watch with me?” Surprise creeps into my question, and Deon blushes.

“Will you share your snacks?” I nod, and Deon’s smile is tiny. “Then yes, I want to watch with you. I can work on my puzzle tomorrow.”

His puzzle?

“Do you have a printer?”

Fifteen minutes later, Deon is scrolling through the contestant page online, asking far too many questions.

“You pick based onvibes,” I groan, growing antsy to start the show. Half the fun is reading what people post online in real time. The longer I have to wait for Deon to fill out his bracket, the longer I have to avoid reading the funny internet comments.

He dared to ask if he could read their statistics as if they were athletes and not random men selected for a dating show.

Deon scribbles his winner, and I lean over to peek at who he’s chosen. He snatches the paper away, clutching it to his chest.

“No cheating,” Deon declares. “You can’t see who I chose until the end of the episode, or else you might change your bracket.”

“I already chose David. He’sdreamy.”

Deon scowls.

“He’s not that dreamy,” he grumbles, and I chuckle, starting the show.

We watch the first half of the episode in silence, and periodically, Deon’s hand reaches into my snack bowl, shoveling handfuls of the mix into his mouth.

He’s an enigma I get closer to cracking after every interaction. I’ve enjoyed the time we’ve spent together, as short as it's been. I will admit that the first half of our fake date made me nervous about how we would pull this off. Answering my questions with grunts did not make for the best start, but a good taco truck can change everything, and by the end of the night, Deon was less guarded.

Maybe we can end this whole fake dating scheme as friends, not two people in the same friend group.

The woman pulls a contestant away from the rest of the group, and Deon leans forward, elbows braced on his knees as he watches in rapt attention.

I should focus on the TV, but Deon’s reactions are as exciting as the show. Every sigh he releases when a contestant says something dumb pulls a snicker from my lips. Even as he grumbles, his investment in the show increases.

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