Wait.
“We’re rich enough to afford photoshop?” I asked. And he still got off brand soda drinks sometimes!
“It’s a weekly subscription now,” Joanne informed me.
“Good to know.” Okay, this was happening. And the benefit of having no filter was that sometimes I could just get right to it. “Do you like gay people?” I asked her.
“Once or twice,” she replied and smirked. “But experience has taught me it’s better to go for the straight ones.”
…
I turned to my father seriously. “I think I like her.” That was the power of an unexpected witty remark.
“She can hear you,” Dad said.
“Unless,” I said, ignoring him because I couldn’t hear him. “Unless that was your way of not answering the question.” I studied her. Maybe she didn’t like that she’d accidentally dated gays.
“I’m fine with gay people.” And that was all, like it was that simple.
Sure, it was, in a lot of places. Here? Less likely.
“Helpful information to know,” she continued after a moment. “Might be that I’m originally from the West Coast. I lived in Washington most of my life.”
And now she lived in the Midwest. That brought up more questions than answers. Such as, “Why did you move here? Are you dumb?”
“Ryan,” Dad chided.
“Fair question,” she said. “That’s a longer story, involving my husband—”
I made a distressed noise.
“I’m single now,” she assured. “Widowed, thank you for consolations,” she cut me off before I could say sorry or something and that was okay, I didn’t always like the condolences either. Mom passed away a long time ago, long enough that it was time for Dad to move on, maybe even with this woman.
Dad was watching us, wary but hopeful, not sure of what he should do. My brain knew exactly what it wanted to do. Ask crazy questions. Such as, “Do you have any gambling debts, mob ties, embarrassing tattoos?”
She rested a hand on the table, seeming more at ease. “One out of three, but a girl’s gotta have a little mystery.”
…
The tattoo, right? That was the one out of three. Had to be the tattoo. What if she was a mob boss? I would be terrible at talking with an Italian accent! Wait, that was probably not obligatory and also maybe offensive. My bad, mob. Don’t hurt me!
Someone at the counter called her name, and she went to get her order. Dad sighed, opened his mouth, then waved a hand, leaning back in his seat after rightfully concluding that I wasn’t going to listen to whatever he was about to say.
She came back over, resting her takeout box on the edge of the table.
“Where were we?” I continued. “Either this first husband and whether he died in a mysterious boating accident or whether you’ve ever been a part of any intelligence gathering agencies, foreign or domestic.” I smiled brightly at her. “One of those two topics, dealer’s choice.”
“That would mean your choice,” she informed me, looking more amused than anything else. Good, that was good. “How about we just cover the basics for now?” The question was apparently rhetorical, also good, so I didn’t bang on the table and ask her what she was hiding.
“I own a farm in town,” Joanne told me. “Met your dad when he helped me deliver a calf.” She made a face. “It wasnota meet cute, due to the cow placenta—"
“Meat cute,” Dad interjected.
“You put those Dad jokes back in hell where they belong,” I advised my father.
“My finance job in a former life was dull enough to put anyone to sleep,” she continued. “And farming is disgusting and difficult but rewarding.” Sounds fake but okay. “I enjoy Scrabble, I lie about my age and that I only have one glass of red wine a night instead of two, but I tell the truth about everything else. I have two grown kids and no grandchildren, and you will probably hear more about that then you will ever want to.”
She was doing good until the end.
