Page 19 of The Accidental Dating Experiment
A guy whose reputation is sterling. Whose colleagues adore him. Whose protégés think he walks on water. A man who put his entire heart and soul into medicine after his wife—my mother—died unexpectedly when I was thirteen.
“I’m taking a week off to—” I stop. Don’t want to mention the class I’m developing, the house we were given, or any of the things I’m doing that aren’t good enough. He has a way of making me feel like an ant under a magnifying glass on a sunny day, insignificant and scrutinized at the same time.
“—to work on some online studies,” I finally say.
He nods a few times like he’s giving it some thought. “Good. Good. Education is good.”
We have so much to say to each other. “Yup.”
More silence as my dad fiddles with a napkin. Then, he clears his throat awkwardly. “We should have lunch while you’re here. Better yet, dinner. Or play a round of golf. Did you ever learn to play golf?”
Yes. But I learned because my friends play golf—Carter, Sawyer, and our bar-owning buddy Gage. We play because it’s fun. My dad wanted me to learn because doctors need an outlet to relieve stress.
But therapists? I don’t even want to hear how low stress he thinks that job is.
“Lunch works,” I say.
“Or golf. I’ve got a standing tee time on Wednesday.”
I’m saved from any more invites when Clem returns, giving him a bright smile. “Doctor Blackstone. Good to see you.” Her tone is playful. “Here I was thinking you’d left me for another tapas bar.”
“It’s only been a few days,” he says, amiable once more. “And I’d never leave.”
“Whew. Thank god,” she says.
I’m pissed now that this place isn’t mine. It’s his. Like this whole damn town.
Then, Clem turns to me and plunks a brown paper to-go bag on the bar. “Here you go. If you love it like I know you will, be sure to leave a review.”
She flashes a warm smile, and I can’t be pissed at her. She’s just a good businesswoman. “I will. The olives were great.”
She looks down at the small bowl in front of me. “Want me to pack up the rest of those for you to go?”
Dad looks at the dish with skepticism. “You like peppers now? You always hated spicy things as a kid. I didn’t think you’d ever develop a spice tolerance.”
He says it like “develop a spice tolerance” is code for “grow the fuck up.”
“I did,” I say. “And yes, I’ll take them, thanks.”
But before Clem picks up the dish, I fish around for a little red pepper, pop it in my mouth, and let that spicy vegetable burn my tongue. It’s a little five-alarm fire, but I don’t let on. I just smile and eat, then say goodbye.
7
THE HORNY HOUSE
Juliet
The stars flicker brightly in the beautiful night sky, visible through the kitchen window as I scrub the last bowl to a shine. Nope. There’s a remnant of dinner still on it. I attack the risotto speck, and then, victorious at last, I set it on the drying rack.
“That’s done.” I hang up the towel next to a white wooden cupboard. “Is the kitchen the only room in The Horny House that doesn’t feel like a retro brothel?”
Monroe is sorting the takeout containers into compostable and recyclable.
“That’s your name for it?” he asks as he folds up the paper bag.
He seems ultra-focused too. The dinner he brought back—a mouthwatering asparagus risotto and a delish arugula salad for this vegetarian, and chickpea cakes and seared salmon for him—took care of the hangry in both of us. While we ate, we tackled his preliminary notes from earlier, and he mentioned that he ran into his dad. He didn’t share details, but I figured that was why he needed to zero in on tasks.
By the time we’d finished eating, we had the start of a plan for the house and a list of everything we needed to accomplish. I contacted a realtor who we’ll meet with at the end of the week. While we’re here, we’ll paint some of the rooms, and there’s so much sorting to do. Monroe was out hunting and gathering when I found another room at the end of the hallway, sort of a small storage room full of mirrors—mirrors with scalloped edges, with gilt frames, with exposed light bulbs.