Looking up, my gaze catches his. “Even better—my parents see my single lifestyle as a shortcoming, right?”
“Right … And probably your main one.”
“I’m ignoring that. But I’d be willing to argue that their insistence on my settling down may actually push me further from wanting that life.”
Across the table, John merely blinks.
“What if that was what I did?” Grinning like an idiot, I hold my best friend’s stare.
My friend who looks very confused. “What?”
Leaning as far forward as possible, I whisper, “What if I convinced someone’s family that any traits they see as shortcomings in a given family member is actually the family’s fault? You know, instead of the individual’s.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Think about it.” My face begins to hurt from how wide I’m smiling. “As therapists, we’re trained to assess, diagnose and treat all kinds of issues within family relationships”—I shrug—“so, I’d go to their holiday celebration with a mental list of every perceived shortcoming by their family. Then, one by one, I would convince whomever necessary how the defect is actually their fault instead of the individual’s. Using psychological facts, of course. I’d be the perfect holiday date. ”
A smile breaks out across John’s face. “A holidate.”
“A holidate,” I nod, crossing my arms. “Charge a small fee?—”
“$500?”
Shaking my head, I take another sip of water. “Nah, that’s too steep.”
“Wow, I didn’t know you could put a price on ruining someone’s holiday. But here we are.”
Ignoring him, I spout a revised offer. “What about $300?”
John laughs. He grabs a napkin, snagging the pen from our bill. “Oh, that’s much better.” The man scratches down our proposal cliffnotes.
“What are you doing?”
“Making a few notes. You never know, this could make a hilarious story one day,” he says, never looking up. John’s written short stories on and off for years. He even worked on our college newspaper. But storytelling has always been his passion.
Maybe that’s why he loves working with families—he wants to write their happy endings since he never got one himself.
“I thought you wanted to write a mystery.”
John shrugs, finally looking up from the napkin. “I could be persuaded to switch things up.” He grins.
“You know what”—I reach out and snatch the napkin from him—“I’m not so sure I trust you to hold onto that without doing something insane.” Grabbing my bag from the floor, I toss the napkin inside while he protests.
“Come on, man. Not fair.”
A quick peek into my water glass lets me know time is just about up. Sighing, I look back at my friend. “Look, it’d be fun. But until then, I guess I need to go home and see if Nacho has any fresh excuses for me to use over the next few weeks.”
“Are you and the furchild still coming over tomorrow to watch the game?” he asks as I put on my coat.
“Of course. Will Cici be there? Or will she be too busy shopping?”
“She’ll only be there if you bring cookies.” John holds up both hands in surrender. “Her orders, not mine.”
Chuckling, I toss my bag onto my shoulder. “Then I guess I’d better deliver.”
3
Callie
