Page 18 of The Dating Game

Will likes adventure. I frown. Then why does Sydney think we’ll be a good match? As covered last night by Grant, I am boring. Borrringg.

Before skydiving the last adventure I went on was trying a new grocery store. And that was only because the guy I broke up with before Grant frequented my old one, and he kept accosting me by the bananas asking me to get back together. Really ruined bananas for me.

Also, still bitter about having to make that change.

“I’m sorry, Brooke.” Sydney attempts to appease me by sticking out her bottom lip; a move I’m pretty sure she picked up from her daughter. Too bad she’s not a cute 8-year-old asking me for ice cream.

“I hope you know you’ve ruined any chance of him agreeing to go out with me,” I inform her, both relieved and disappointed by this truth. “So I guess you’ll have to pick a new guy.”

“What? No!” Sydney cries. “That’s not your decision to make, missy! We can salvage this relationship!”

“Sydney, there is no relationship. Will probably thinks I’m a total nut now.”

“Brooklyn Natasha Garza,” Sydney puts her hands to her hips, “you lost a bet. You have to do what I say.”

“Not if I can’t,” I retort. “What do you want me to do–get those handcuffs you mentioned and put one on him and one on me so he has no choice but to go out with me?”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Sydney muses. “Though I don’t actually have handcuffs. I bet Belinda does, though.”

“Oh my goodness!” I cry. “You have officially jumped off the deep end. And also, eww!”

“Not eww,” Sydney cries. “Her husband is a retired police officer. That’s all I meant. Goodness, Brooke, get your head out of the gutter.”

“Get yours out of cloud-cuckoo-land,” I shoot back.

“Fine, no forced proximity handcuffs,” she huffs. “But you still have to ask him out.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“I should get something from you embarrassing me that way,” I say, trying a new angle. “Like a lessening of my sentence.”

“What sentence?”

“My dating sentence.”

“What do you mean?”

“I should only have to last six weeks instead of three months,” I say, aiming super low so that there’s more room for negotiation.

“What? Six weeks is barely more than your month-long average,” she protests.

“Fine, seven weeks,” I say. “And really think about what happened just now before you say no. The man you want me to ask out walked in on me sitting blindfolded in an empty church sanctuary. And I had no explanation for it.”

Sydney studies me.

“Fine, two months,” she says. “Final offer.”

“Done. Two months and I win our new bet.” I stick my hand out and reluctantly she takes it. As soon as we’ve finished our routine (shake, snap, click plus finger-gun) she smiles at me with clear satisfaction.

“Doesn't matter anyway,” she tells me, “because as soon as you’ve dated him for any length of time you’ll never want to stop. You’ll be married before next Christmas.”

“Ha! Fat chance,” I inform her hotly, even as my heart flutters at the very thought.

Chapter 6

Will

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