Page 2 of Sterling Fight

1

[Genie]

Icannot believe I’ve agreed to this date.

The last place I want to be is in this dimly-lit pub just outside of Knoxville, Tennessee. And the last person I want to be meeting is Ralson Meyers.

The forty-something, portly man is the son of a friend of a friend of my mother’s and newly moved to the Knoxville area. By default, my mother thought I should know him despite the relationship distance—the son of a friend of a friend of hers—and she’d decided I should meet him. Like I was a personal welcome to Knoxville committee.

Honestly, I’d like to ship him back to Sterling Falls, our hometown in West Virginia.

However, being a cordial, dutiful daughter, I agreed to meet Ralson. I’d even allowed him to pick the location, which happened to be a decent looking place from the outside, featuring a green canopy over the large, mullion window and a deep-red, oak door. The Boxer had a cute logo with the patchwork face of the corresponding dog breed in black, white, and brown on the wall opposite the door of the small entryway. I might have passed this place a dozen times and never given it a thought.

Ralson had heard of it and wanted to check it out.

Once inside, Ralson thankfully recognizes me compared to the vague description of him I’d been given from my mother.

“He’s got brown hair and a sweet face.”

She meant that the limited hair he has is brown and his face is unremarkable. But I wasn’t here for his looks. I was doing my mother a favor.

“Huh,” he says after an awkward moment where he goes in for a hug and I hold out my hand to shake his, thus causing me to jab him just above the beltline. “You don’t look anything like your Instagram photo.”

My Instagram is a graphic image with a distorted face, wavy, short hair with blond and brown stripes, and a wide smile. Quirky_Girl_Calendars is my handle, and I don’t know how he’d know that nor why I’d look like a caricature. Since my mother hardly gets my business name correct, I’m surprised Ralson found me on social media.

I smile tightly at him before he leads me to a table. The pub only has a few as the majority of the space is taken up by the physical bar lining one wall. A swing door is in the back corner and each time it opens, the sound from that space invades this area like the roar at a football game. Cheers and jeers filter into the rectangular area, continually distracting me.

“It’s been difficult living without my mom.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know your mother passed away.” Mom hadn’t warned me Ralson was in a sensitive position or that he’d lost his mother who was the friend of Mom’s friend. Now I feel bad.

“Oh.” He chuckles, the sound heavy and wet. “No, no. She’s still very much alive. I mean, it’s been difficult living without her because I used to live with her.”

I want to whole-heartedly believe he means temporarily. Like he went to college, earned a degree, and lived on his own before something tragic happened, say a job loss or even a temporary transfer.

But he continues. “It’s the first time I’ve been on my own.” He smiles, pleased with himself, and sitting taller. “How do you feel about laundry?”

“Uh . . . I do it regularly?”

“Wonderful.” His muddy-brown eyes flare but the gleam is unnerving, just like this conversation.

One drink and I’m out of here. I pride myself on being single and willing to mingle, and not interested in marriage. Still, there are multiple reasons not to mingle, and just embrace singlehood. Like the improbability of finding the right-for-me man.

“I like to have mine done on Fridays.”

O-kay. I nod.

“So, I’m happy to drop it off, if you want to just pop me your address.”

What the . . .

He slides his phone across the table toward me and I stare down at the device. Is he serious?

“Um. I don’t own a laundromat.”

He chuckles, his shoulders jiggling. “My mother told me you were funny. Quirky.” He tilts his head, like he’s pleased with his own joke and I’m starting to wonder if this entire setup is one bad prank. Any minute someone is going to pop through that swing door and tell me I’m being punked.

That a forty-three-year-old man did not just proposition me to do his laundry because he’s no longer living with his mother.