Page 90 of Ice Ice Maybe
I rolled my eyes. “You sound like my parents. Slow down.”
“Me?” Tyson said. “You just met her this month and you’re already riding on the freeway of love in your pink Cadillac.”
“I have no idea what that means,” I said.
“Aretha Franklin?” he said.
I shrugged. “Still no clue.”
“What a waste of a perfectly good musical reference,” Tyson sighed. “You need to listen to more eighties music.”
“I’ll get right on that.”
“Anyway, I knew this was going to happen between you two! Didn’t I tell you Zena was every man’s fantasy girl?”
“Yes, you did, but you’ll have your own soon enough,” I said.
Tyson snorted. “I’m not holding my breath. I didn’t tell you about my last disaster date.”
“Do I want to know?” I asked, bracing myself.
“Picture this,” he said, setting down his coffee and shaking his head. “She shows up and immediately starts telling me about her ‘plant babies.’ Turns out, she has names for all thirty-seven of her houseplants. There’s Fitzgerald the Ficus, Aloe Vera Wang, Kafka the Cactus, and Parker the Spider Plant.”
I chuckled. “At least she’s creative.”
“Oh, it gets better,” Tyson continued. “Throughout dinner, she kept getting texts from her plant-sitter. By dessert, she’s in full panic mode because apparently, Hemingway the Hibiscus was a little droopy.”
“How did it end?” I asked, already guessing.
Tyson sighed dramatically. “She called an Uber to rush home, but not before telling me that calendula would do wonders for my dry skin.”
I smirked. “Obviously, you took her advice because you are positively glowing today.”
We shared a laugh, then spent the next ten minutes swapping dating horror stories, each one more outrageous than the last. From ghosting to catfishing, it seemed like we’d experienced the full spectrum of modern dating disasters. Luckily, I didn’t have to worry about that anymore.
“You know,” Tyson said, his tone turning more serious, “hearing all this makes me realize how lucky you are with Zena. You two really click.”
A smile spread across my face at the mention of her name. “Yeah, we do. It’s different with her, you know? Like we don’t even have to try, but still, it’s exciting at the same time.”
Tyson nodded, a knowing look in his eyes. “Are you nervous about her meeting your parents?”
I shook my head. “Are you kidding? They are going to love her, and vice versa. The dinner menu, however, is what scaresme. Mom said she wanted to surprise Zena with one of her specialties.”
“Oh boy,” Tyson said. “What’s it going to be? Her infamous tuna noodle casserole that has absolutely no tuna whatsoever? I forgot, what did she use for that one?”
“Chickpeas and seaweed,” I said. “And here’s the thing, I have no idea what she’s going to prepare. You know how my mom gets with her experimental cuisine. She took over the kitchen at the apartment and said she did not want to see my face until it was time for dinner.” I checked my watch. “I still have a little over two hours.”
“Man,” Tyson said, shaking his head. “I almost want to be there just to see Zena’s face. Almost.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I said. “Let’s hope Zena’s stomach is as strong as her patience.”
“What’s the latest on Mitch Redding?” he asked. “Does he still want to use your head as a hockey puck?”
I shook my head. “Nah, Zena brokered a deal: I stay out of his face, he focuses on getting us to the playoffs.”
“Smart woman,” Tyson nodded approvingly. “And it’s working. Three wins in a row is nothing to sneeze at.”
“Tell me about it,” I agreed. “The game against Tampa Bay was something else. I’m looking forward to getting back behind the Zamboni this weekend for the Devil’s game. Nothing like the smell of freshly polished ice.”
