Page 85 of The Apparent Trap

“Totally,” Georgia retorts. “Apparently ‘marry-me chicken’ was a the-most-searched recipe on Google a few years ago.”

“Exactly,” Lee says. “So it kind of inspired me to make this recipe. I realized I want to ask someone out, but I’m not convinced they’re going to say yes. So it got me thinking of whether there was a perfect ‘date me’ recipe: Like the idea that if you make the best version of something, you could get someone to date you, even if at this point you probably don’t deserve the chance.”

“Like if you’re a walking red flag.” Georgia laughs.

“Yeah, definitely. My situation to a T.” Now they’re both laughing.

“But you’re not doing chicken today,” Georgia continues.

“No, I’m not.”

“Is that because sometimes you need more than chicken?”

This is truly the weirdest segment I’ve ever seen, but I can’t stop watching. The back of my mind is prickling, but I’m not ready to examine why.

“Okay, so first of all,” Lee continues, “I think the key to a ‘date me’ dish is to start with planning to make something you know they love. Part of convincing someone to date you is showing you’re paying attention to their favorite foods. The other important thing about a date-me dish is that you need to be straightforward and make your intentions extremely clear, especially if you’re like me and you’ve been a total idiot. So with both of those things in mind, today I’m making the ‘date me’ BLT.”

I’m so shocked I stand up. I’m just standing up in the middle of this giant room of desks half full of people who don’t want to be at work, because I have no idea how else to react. What the actual hell is he doing? I look around as though someone else is going to glance my way and be like, Yeah, he’s definitely talking about you, Ezzie.

But obviously no one is going to. I’m just stuck, glued to a screen, with no other option than to see where the hell he’s taking this.

“Why is a BLT the perfect ‘date me’ dish?” Georgia asks, and I can recognize the total shit-eating grin on her face. She knows exactly what she’s doing. She’s an accomplice to this ridiculous plan.

“Aside from being the all-time favorite of the woman I’m planning to ask out?”

“Yeah, that part helps. You hope.” They both laugh again, in on the same insane joke. Do they not even care that a million people are also watching a segment that appears to be for a literal audience of one?

For me?

My heart squeezes at the thought, my stomach turning, unsure.

“So, perfecting the classics is often hardest of all, because their simplicity is what makes them shine. You need to have the best version of each ingredient, since you can’t hide behind a laundry list of flavors. You need soft but sturdy bread, perfectly cooked bacon, a juicy ripe tomato, and the right crunch of lettuce. So it’s the perfect ‘date me’ dish because it shows precision and care, yet it’s also casual and satisfying. But there’s a lot you can do to enhance it, and I’m going to show you the steps.”

He and Georgia go into the dance of a television food segment. It’s all been laid out for him by the incredible food stylists so that each part can come across seamlessly. He can toast the bread, but there’s a swap-out. He can show his method for bacon, but there’s already perfectly cooked pieces. He shares the secret of that delicious aioli he made me in his kitchen, and talks about the difference between aiolis and mayonnaise and the extra layer of flavor that makes it worth going the extra mile.

Within three minutes the entire segment is already wrapping up, as though this is just another normal block of time in the three hours of television we put on every single day. As though my best friend and the man who incinerates my insides haven’t just played some elaborate game of confusing every synapse I’m in possession of.

“Well, Lee, always a pleasure,” Georgia says, wrapping them up. “I’m rooting for you to get your date.” She turns back to the camera. “Coming up after the break, we’ve got therapist and advice columnist Nora Fischer, who will be answering viewer questions on sticking to resolutions as the New Year approaches. Stay tuned, and we’ll be right back.”

The show goes to commercial, and I’m frozen at my desk, rooted, unable to contemplate moving anywhere while Lee’s entire segment blares around in my head. What did he mean? How could he do that? Does Carmen . . . know? Did he and Georgia plan that? They had to . . . But then . . . what about everything else? Even if Carmen and my dad were theoretically okay (how could they be okay?), the trust, the age, my job. I think about all the “why else’s” he articulated so thoroughly in Sweden. And I think about everything he said just now.

What am I supposed to do with all of that?

But then I see him walk into the giant room where I and everyone else I work with have our desks. He stops when he sees me staring, waiting. He raises his eyebrows in question, his expression neutral while he waits for mine to tell him what it is I want.

I want so much it hurts. But how? How can he just blow through every single point he’s brought up and suddenly turn it on its head simply because he decided it should be so? Who does that? Can I want that? Should I want that? My head is spinning.

But I do know I can’t have this conversation here. Isn’t this one of the many layers of the entire problem?

So we both wait, a standoff, while I try to decide what to do and he remains at a distance until I make a move.

I can’t think straight with him in front of me here. I pull out my phone.

I text him, the only rational thought I can compose. This is my workplace, Lee.

He immediately responds. Really?

I look up and glare at him as he suppresses a laugh. How is this funny to him? I’m imploding, and he’s enjoying watching it.