Page 29 of My Favorite Holidate
His smile falters for a second, then he echoes, “Except us.”
11
CHESTNUTS ROASTING
Wilder
It’s like an icy dose of reality but that’s for the best. What was I thinking, picking this restaurant? Treating this necessary component of a temporary partnership like a romantic date?
I could very well have scheduled a meeting at the office to prep. Or a lunch appointment, for fuck’s sake. Instead, I picked a Saturday night at a cozy bistro, with fine wine, soft lighting, and romantic holiday music.
Real smart.
But I can’t let this vibe get to me. I may not read romance novels, but I know plenty of fake dates turn into something more, and I won’t let that happen. No matter how easy Fable is to talk to, how beautiful she is with her lush copper waves, her honey-hazel eyes, and her glossy lips, nothing more will ever come of this—because you can’t trust love. I learned that growing up.
Saw that in front of me with my father. He promisedus so much—lavish Christmas trips with the family, New Year’s celebrations along the California coast, most of all, time spent together, one-on-one—but it ended up being a lie. He gambled everything we had thanks to his addiction.
Nothing good can come from a lie.
Best to focus on the purpose of thismeeting. Getting to know Fable over a meal so we can pull off this holiday faux-mance.
We review the menu and when she’s done, I ask politely, “Did you find something you like?”
“The mushroom bolognese made with zucchini noodles,” she says, then stage whispers, “Mostly, I want to see how the zucchini holds up.”
“Against wheat?”
“Exactly. Is it a pale imitation or a brand-new taste sensation?” she asks, like she wants to get to the bottom of a great mystery, and I should not think it’s adorable that she’s adventuresome in ordering. So I won’t. I just won’t.
“And you?” she asks.
“The eggplant parmigiano with asiago and goat cheese. But I’ll get two. Mac just entered her leftover phase.”
“I’ve never left mine.”
“I haven’t either. Leftovers are the unsung heroes of the food world.”
“Because the flavors have had time to hang out together,” she adds, and I’ve got to keep things in check. I’m not going to let this tidbit work its way into my heart. It’s just an agreement over leftovers.
When the server arrives, I’m grateful for the interruption. After we order, it’s time to get down to business. “For us to be the best fake daters, we should be sure we know afew key things about each other,” I say, and her ex’s name is bitter on my tongue, but it’s a necessary reminder of what this arrangement with Fable is about, and what it’snotabout. It’s not about romance. It’s about mutually beneficial help.
She lifts her glass, giving me a thoughtful look. “You don’t know me after working with me for the last couple years?”
Fair question. I give her an honest answer. “I know you’re a hard worker. You’re talented. I know your favorite flavor of ice cream, that you beat everyone in the office’s fantasy football league last year, and that there’s no sequin shape you can’t master,” I say with a smile. “But I don’t know the personal stuff.”
“Like which side of the bed do I sleep on?”
The side with me.
And I shouldn’t go there.Focus, man.
“Let’s stick to food. Any allergies or likes and dislikes?”
Fable shoots me ac’monlook. “You want to talk about allergies? Should we discuss favorite mutual funds too?”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” I fire back.
“Fine, fine,” she says, then puts a little purr in her voice as she adds, “ROI, net revenue, exponential growth.”