Page 16 of Not Your Valentine
“Helen!” calls a familiar voice.
Oh, no.
I could recognize that voice anywhere. Auntie Lisa’s not related to me, but I’ve known her for most of my life, and she’s always lived at the far end of Markham. As in, a long way from this restaurant in downtown Toronto. What is she doing here?
I’m suddenly filled with fear that my mom sent her to spy on my date, even though that’s a ridiculous notion. Mom knows I’m “dating” Taylor, but she doesn’t know we’re going out tonight—or where, exactly, we’re eating. Besides, my mom would never do something like that. At least, I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t, but it’s such an odd coincidence.
Lisa’s standing beside our table now in her faux fur jacket.
“Hi, auntie,” I say, not sure whether I should stand up or stay sitting, but knowing I definitely have to introduce Taylor. “This is…This is…my boyfriend, Taylor.”
There is a 90% chance that this encounter will get back to my mother.
Just kidding. It’s more like 99.99%—not 100% because I figure there’s a small chance Lisa could hit her head and get amnesia—so I have to make sure I sell this relationship. I didn’t expect my fake relationship to be tested so soon, but alas, here we are.
We complete the introductions, and Lisa looks at Taylor with an assessing gaze. He doesn’t flinch.
“You know what happened with her last boyfriend, don’t you?” Lisa says to Taylor, loud enough that everyone in the restaurant can probably hear. She isn’t capable of speaking quietly.
I cringe and look longingly at the spinach borani. I want her to leave so we can finish our appetizer in peace. And so I don’t have to hear about my worldwide humiliation yet again.
“He dumped her at a restaurant on Valentine’s—”
“I promise I would never do that,” Taylor tells Lisa, interrupting before she can share all the gory details.
Then he reaches across the table and takes my hand. He’s warm, in contrast to the cold air blowing at my back because someone is holding open the door, and he gives my hand a gentle squeeze. I must really be starved for physical affection because that almost makes me melt.
I look away from our hands, my gaze landing once again on the spinach borani.
Dammit, I want to be eating, but there is, admittedly, something nice about Taylor committing so thoroughly to this act that when he turns in my direction, there’s a fondness in his gaze I’ve never seen before. I congratulate myself on my forethought in choosing a fake boyfriend who was in the improv club in high school.
Lisa seems pacified, and she gets out of the way so the waitress can serve the table next to ours. “It was good to see you, Helen.”
After she exits the restaurant, I release a breath that I was very much aware of holding.
“Uh, thanks,” I say to Taylor. “I didn’t expect to see anyone I knew tonight.”
He shrugs then tears off a piece of flatbread. “It’s amazing how you can run into people in Toronto, even though it’s a big city.”
I’ve been out with him a bunch of times when we’ve run into someone he knows—Taylor has tons of friends and acquaintances—but this is the first time we’ve run into someone I know.
Just my luck.
“I’m sorry.” It wasn’t my fault, but since I’d hate to have been in his position, I still feel the need to apologize. Yes, being seen by a family friend adds extra credibility to my ruse, but it wasn’t part of the plan.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, in a way that makes me believe him. Not in the way some people (like me) might say it: because they feel they ought to but are barely restraining themselves from grinding their teeth.
After that, our date improves, and when our main course arrives, Taylor pushes his sleeves up even farther and I find myself admiring—I mean, looking at—his forearms again. Just getting into my role as his girlfriend, you know? The act is starting to come naturally.
It’s better than most first dates. Not that I’ve been on a first date in a while, but I remember some were particularly painful. Like the one where I discovered that his politics were incompatible with mine and he didn’t think my sister should be allowed to get married. Or the one where he “forgot” his wallet and I had to pay…and he was the one who’d picked the expensive restaurant. Or the one where he complained to the waitress when his food took more than ten minutes to arrive and believed that her inability to conjure food out of thin air meant that she didn’t deserve a tip. Or the one where I couldn’t shake the feeling that he had a fetish for Asian women.
I suppose that’s why I lasted with Charlie. In comparison, our first date was pretty good.
But still, it’s even better with Taylor because I already know who he is, and I’m not worried about where this is going. We’ve planned exactly what will happen: we’ll “date” until sometime after Valentine’s Day. Hang out a little more than usual and post pictures to convince people of our relationship, nothing more. I appreciate the predictability of the plan, Auntie Lisa notwithstanding.
Another positive thing about this date? The food is really good. We ordered two stews: ghormeh sabzi and gheymeh bademjan. The latter has yellow split peas, lamb, and eggplant, and it’s my favorite; Taylor likes the other one better, so that works out well.
He looks at me with a curious expression on his face.
