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Or a multi-part globe-trotting Netflix series.
“It sounds like you’re had a lot of adventures,” I say, feeling a new admiration for the woman.
“Having, my dear. Present tense. I’m not dead yet.” She winks.
The salesman returns. “Is the biscotti not to your liking today? I can run out and get you something else.”
“No, I’m fine, thank you.”
I’m debating whether or not to take her portion when Zelda fixes me with a warm smile.
And I may not know much, but I know that means trouble.
Sure enough, she cocks her head. “How often do you and Dash get a chance to see each other in the city? Between your work schedule and trying to start a new business, you must keep very busy. I imagine it’s difficult, juggling work with a new relationship.”
I pause. So, we’ve arrived at the Spanish Inquisition portion of the outing? OK then.
I return her smile. “It’s not difficult at all. I think it makes a relationship stronger when both partners have a full life. There’s so much more to share and enjoy with each other.”
I’m actually telling the truth. Too bad I didn’t think to follow my own advice with my last boyfriend before we got too serious. If I’d known from the start he was looking for a partner to stay at home and support his career, it might have saved us both a lot of time and effort.
And broken records. Don’t ask.
“How do you feel about children?”
What?
I fumble and almost drop an eight-hundred-dollar shepherdess. “Um… I like them?”
Children? What in the Kentucky-fried hell kind of question is that? As far as Zelda knows, Dash and I have only been dating a couple of months.
“Yes, but how do you expect to balance a budding career as an entrepreneur with babies? Family is very important to Dash.”
I gulp lemonade, wracking my brains for a tactful response.
This isn’t about you, remember? It’s about Dash’s fake perfect girlfriend.
“Family is important to me, too,” I answer vaguely. “I have a ton of nieces and nephews. They’re all adorable.”
… And make me think I’m probably not suited to motherhood myself, but she doesn’t need to know that.
“Besides, I’m young, I have plenty of time!” I say brightly.
“Not so much time,” Zelda replies. “I had Dash’s father when I was twenty. You’re, what, almost thirty? That’s already past your peak child-bearing years.”
Now, why does this sound familiar? “You know, you and my mother would really get along,” I say.
“Oh.” Zelda seems like she wanted to ask more, but too bad. Any hypothetical potential future meetups between my eggs and Dash’s sperm are nobody’s business but ours. Not that I’m planning to let his swimmers near my eggs—or any other parts of my anatomy, for that matter.
As if this outing wasn’t already terrible… Now I’m stuck in an antique store with Dash’s grandmother thinking about his jizz. Even the shepherdess appears to be judging me with her beady little eyes.
Casually, I turn the figurine until it’s facing the wall. Sorry, kid. I promise, this is a jizz-free zone.
* * *
Thankfully, Zelda gets her mind off my ovaries, and back on overpriced antiques. We hit up three more stores, drink another gallon of lemonade, and dance around a dozen personal questions about my life, education, and calcium-intake. By the time we arrive at a fancy country club that afternoon, I’m exhausted.
And I also think I might need to start taking supplements.
