Page 64 of Best Served Cold

“Give it another thirty years, son,” Constance says. “You’ll be singing a different tune.”

“Sophieis a romantic,” Dottie says pointedly. “And she just realized it last night.”

I can’t deny she’s saying exactly what I’d like to hear.

Honestly, I don’t know what I want to happen. I worry this whole fake-dating, for-real-wanting Sophie business is a bad idea. Messy, just like Travis said. It’s possible I made my life a lot more difficult by deciding to play along last night.

This deal with Sophie might very well save me from having to engage in those miserable dinners with Jonah, Patricia, and my dad. But at what cost? I’m still lying, something I pledged not to do anymore.

I’m not going to back down, though. I refuse to let Sophie or Emil down.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like some advice?” Dottie stresses, giving me a knowing look.

“Advice about what?” I say.

“About your situation,” Dottie says.

“I don’t have a ‘situation.’ So I don’t need advice about it.”

“You’re going to get the advice whether you like it or not, son,” Constance says. “Might as well tear off the Band-Aid.”

She may be bad at crocheting, but she raises a good point.

“Okay,” I concede. “What would you do in my position, Dottie?”

“Well, a young man and a young woman who are pretending to be in love need to know each other very well, wouldn’t you say? Spend quality time with her, dear. Ask her questions about herself.”

That seems pretty obvious and straightforward. Definitely not worthy of the trip over here. “Yeah,” I agree. “That’s the plan.”

“And the universe didn’t bestow you with the voice of an angel so you could sing in that garbage band,” Dottie continues. “Sing sweet music to her.”

My lips twitch up as I think about the boom box last night. “We’ll see. But, yeah, I figured I’d take her out.”

“Would anyone else like to share advice?” Dottie asks the others, making an encouraging gesture with her hand.

“Be useful,” says Constance of The Bad Crocheting. “No woman wants to spend all day working and then have to wait on a man. Show her that you’re not afraid of getting your hands wet.”

“You said get his shirt wet?” asks Ann, adjusting her hearing aid. “Yes, I see your point. He does seem to fill it out nicely. A wet shirt might seal the deal.”

“Not what I meant, but you may have a point. Might even want to take it off. Especially if he has tattoos.” Constance turns to me. “Do you have tattoos? My granddaughter’s boyfriend has at least a dozen. I thought they were a lot of fuss and bother, but she can’t seem to get enough of them.”

“Maybe you should invest in a few if you don’t have any,” Ann suggests, as if a tattoo is as easy to acquire as a haircut.

“Oh, yes,” Dottie says, taking a little notebook and pencil out of the pocket of her apron and scribbling furiously. “That could be effective.”

“Yeah, I’ll be sure to pick up a pack of temporary ones the next time I go to the drugstore,” I joke. I have a few real tattoos, including the band’s logo on my arm, but something tells me they might ask me to take off my shirt and give them a show if I tell them.

Constance snort-laughs, but Ann is nodding quickly, as if she thinks putting on a variety pack of fake tattoos is a grade-A strategy for seducing a woman. “And get her some scratch-off lotto tickets,” she adds.

Constance harrumphs. “We all know what makesyoudrop your granny panties.”

Ann shrugs, looking unoffended or possibly mis-hearing her.

“Well, all right,” I say, pushing my chair back. “If I want to romance her, all I have to do is buy her some scratch-offs, do the dishes, and then pull off my shirt. If she doesn’t have me arrested after that, I’ll consider myself lucky.”

“Above all, be yourself,” Dottie says, rising to her feet. I stand, keeping the baby wipes, because I still haven’t looked in a mirror.

“If you’re an agreeable sort of man,” Constance adds. “If not, you’d be better off pretending to be someone else.”

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