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The only reply I can give to that is, “I’ve got a spare yogurt if you want it.”
“God, yes, please.” We find the strength to carry on.
“I’m twenty-five,” I say, feeling weirdly embarrassed by the fact.
“Twenty-five” she says in a marveling tone as she writes it down. “Only three years older than me, how’s that possible? But you have great skin,” she amends, realizing how that sounded. “You’re just so grown-up, running this place. That’s all I mean.”
I’ll follow her suggested profile format. “Low-maintenance twenty-five-year-old peasant who makes a lot of apologies.”
She snorts in amusement and taps her pen. Her dark eyes assessing me critically, she asks, “How do you know that you’re low maintenance?”
“Look at me.”
“It’s not just about looks.” Melanie is charitable. I’m okay-looking but I’m not fancy. “Do you like the guy to be all over you? Texting you all the time, taking you out places, giving you presents? Do you want him obsessed with you, or someone who gives you space?” She thinks of something. “Oh, whoops. If you’re not into guys, that’s cool too.”
“I’m really not sure.” I watch her blink several times and clarify, “I like guys. But I don’t know if I want him all over me.”
(Liar. I’d love that.)
(I think.)
“What was your last boyfriend like?”
“He was . . .” I can’t think of anything except very religious. I make a praying shape with my hands and hope that’s enough. “A long time ago.”
She narrows one eye. “How long ago, exactly?”
I cannot answer that without opening myself up for a total crucifixion. “Quite a while ago.”
If this were a teen movie, they’d intercut a couple of scenes here: Me in a prom dress slow-dancing with a Devout Young Man, literally named Adam. Cut to us in a single bed, partially naked. Adam is facing away from me, his shoulders shaking with sobs. If you think that memory can’t get any worse, what if I told you that:
My dad is a reverend?
Adam went to my dad for counseling the next morning?
Counseling re: the sin he committed with me?
Yeah.
My counseling was outsourced to Mom and she told me that Dad was “deeply disappointed” by my “choices.” Apparently, he was so disappointed that we haven’t had a proper talk since, and I’ve never made a bad choice again.
“Looking to jump back into the dating scene.” Melanie writes that down. “I’ve written all my friends’ dating profiles, and for my older sister Genevieve. My bridesmaid’s dress is this pistachio color. That’s the thanks I get.”
An engaged sister? Melanie has some heavy-duty credentials. But this feels like the start of another teen movie and I have no intention of starring in it. “Please don’t actually post anything without my permission.”
“I won’t,” she replies, so puzzled by my suspicion that I’m ashamed. “We’ll create a schedule of homework activities starting out very easy, until you’re down at the Thunderdome getting your neck kissed by some sexy guy. We won’t just pick the first one who comes along. By the time I leave here, you’ll have someone.”
I gape at her. “That is literally impossible.”
“Not when you follow the Melanie Sasaki Method.” She writes that down and underlines it many times. “The Sasaki Method. How catchy. That sounds just like a self-help book. That sounds like a Netflix series.” She’s sold the rights within ten seconds of having the idea.
She’s not the only one jumping way ahead; I’m still caught up on the sexy-guy-neck-kissing concept. By the time she’s worked her magic and left, I’ll be watching the Christmas special of my favorite TV show, Heaven Sent, on my couch with someone who wants to kiss me. Is it actually impossible?
“So you in? The Sasaki Method?” Melanie grins widely. “It’ll be a lot of fun.”
I’m a sleep-on-it person. “Can I think about it?”
“I want a reply by Friday, close of business.” Today is Monday.
