Page 25 of The Accidental Dating Experiment
“Because they see him as this brilliant surgeon from Darling Springs,” I supply.
“Exactly. He barely spared a second for me after my mom died,” Monroe rage-whispers, “but somehow I’m not here enough for him?” Then he quickly shakes his head, like he needs to eradicate those notions or perhaps just gain some distance from them. “But enough about me. You ready to see your mom?”
He’d almost always rather talk about someone else. I smooth a hand over my shirt. “To give her a pep talk after a breakup? As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Talk about irony,” he says.
A laugh catches my attention, and I snap my gaze to the doorway. There is my mom, smiling brightly, laughing with Agatha, looking nothing like Mom.
Agatha gestures to us, and Mom breezes in wearing not-mom jeans.
A not-mom shirt too. And not-mom shoes. It’s like she stopped shopping for clothes at the same store where she buys her groceries and went to the boutique where the cool kids shop. She’s dressed in high-waisted flare jeans, a wine-colored scoop-neck top, and platform Converse sneakers.
Her bangs have grown out, and they’re swept into beach waves.
“Hello, sweetheart,” she says, reaching the table. I pop up, and she draws me into a hug. “You look amazing. Radiant. Glowy. Thank you for meeting me.”
“Anytime and thank you. Also, what’s with the fashion makeover?” I blurt out when she lets go. Because this whole glow-up is throwing me off.
“Oh, this?” she asks, plucking at the jeans like she’s just noticed what she’s wearing. “Thanks. I hired a stylist.” Before she can say more, she turns to my companion. “I’m so glad you could make it, Monroe. When Juliet told me you’d be coming, all I could think is that makes a good thing even better.”
What is this good thing? I need to know, and I need to know, stat.
“You’re looking great, Harriet,” Monroe says. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.” They’ve met a few times through Sawyer, but she also knows him from the podcast. “And it looks like divorce is treating you well.”
I love that he doesn’t say I’m sorry you split. He doesn’t offer a sympathetic frown. Instead, he embraces the changes in people’s lives. It’s the therapist in him. But I’m having a hard time embracing this new fashionable mom who’s dangling a good thing in front of me.
“What’s the good thing, Mom?”
With a serene smile that would make the Mona Lisa jealous, she whips out her phone. “This is the good thing. I need your help selecting which of my many online dating matches I should go out with first. I’ve started dating, and it’s so much fun.”
Up is down, right is left, and my off-the-market-for-thirty-five-years mother likes dating so much more than I do.
“Who are you, and what have you done with Harriet?”
9
I’M NO GOOD AT TENNIS EITHER
Monroe
The problem with being a shrink is you can often, unfortunately, spot the emotions in yourself you’d rather not see. Like jealousy.
I’m actually envious of Juliet. I wish I had this kind of problem with my dad. Sorting matches, rather than dodging insults.
Instead of wallowing in envy, I give all my attention to studying the matches.
Juliet’s mother swipes the phone screen once more with enthusiasm and natural skill. She’s been showing us man after man.
“Just a few more.” She swipes to a photo of a balding Black man with crinkled eyes and an easy smile. “Josiah owns a hardware store, likes to play Scrabble, and believes in being the best parent to his adult children and, get this, his cat.” Harriet beams like that detail makes her day. “I like cats.”
She flicks to the next candidate—a white guy with a full beard. “Darren here is a short-order cook who believes the best of life is ahead.” Next, she swipes to a ginger-haired guy with a pale complexion. “Patrick is a professional photographer, but he’s never been married, so even though he’s very funny, he might be a player.” She screws up the corner of her lips, seeming delightfully concerned about the playboy potential as she scrolls to a guy who looks to be Indian. “Then, there’s Raj. He’s a divorced dentist who plays pickleball, and, well, I play pickleball.” She says it like that’s even more wonderful than the guy in the cat fan club. “I always wanted someone to play pickleball with.”
“Mom, how many matches do you have?” Juliet asks, gawking at the screen.
With a crease in her brow, Harriet hums. “Well, let’s see.” She clicks on her notes, where she’s listed each man with a checkmark for Monroe, Juliet, and Harriet to rate his potential. She mutters numbers under her breath, counting.
“And the answer is—she can’t count that high,” I say.