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Right here, I have everything I need. I’d do well to remember that.
“Including chocolate chip cookies,” I point out, then wink at Grams.
“Are you trying to steal my recipe again?” Grams asks.
I scoff. “Steal? I developed that with you when I was…what? Ten? I suggested we add the?—”
“Shh. Enough about my secret recipe.”
“Our,” I mutter.
She pats my head, then winks at me, whispering, “Maybe ours.”
I smile, but it disappears too soon. Today just didn’t go the way I wanted. At the dinner table, Grams shoots me a curious look. “All right, what did you mess up today?”
“Why do you assume I messed something up?”
With her fork midair, Eliza says, “Because you’re in a funk, Daddy.”
And maybe I didn’t shake off my mood. With a sigh, I set down the utensil and tell them about the meeting this morning and the one a little while ago. “But we’re not going to get the pop-up. Shame because it would have helped with the second bar.”
“But pretending you’re engaged sounds like fun,” Eliza says as her fork dives into the cheesy goodness. “Like a game of make-believe. What’s the big deal?”
“That’s an excellent question. What is the big deal?” Grams asks, meeting my gaze with a serious one of hers.
One that says I’m being a stick in the mud. And the fact is, they’re probably right, too, like my friends.
After dinner, as I take the trash to the street, I click open my text app to send a note to Elodie when I find one from her.
Elodie: So, I have this idea…
Gage: Yeah. Me too.
Elodie: You go first.
Gage: It’s been brought to my attention it’s NBD to pretend we’re engaged.
Elodie: What do you know? Same here!
Gage: Yeah? Who told you?
Elodie: Amanda. She basically said it’s so patriarchal if we don’t pretend we’re engaged.
Gage: Explain.
Elodie: Apparently wanting two people to be involved is patriarchal, so faking an engagement is an act of defiance along the lines of fuck the patriarchy, which is something Amanda is big on, and I suspect Eliza will be too.
Gage: It’s a new world. We’re just living in it.
And the thing is, I want to do more than live in it. I want to thrive. I don’t want to be the nothing works out guy. I want things to work for me. As I close the lid on the trash, I kick the last remnants of my funk to the curb, sending her another text.
Gage: Want to be my fake fiancée for the next three months to get the shop?
Elodie: Is this your proposal? Because if so, let me put down the dishes and squeal.
Gage: You’re doing dishes? I was taking out trash. That is kismet.
Elodie: Then, I’m not even stopping doing these dishes as I say yes to your temporary fake fiancée-ship.
