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I’m merciless on CupidZoom, passing over any man with an Ivy League college, any man who shows pictures of himself wearing a Tartan plaid scarf, or who likes two of the following list: sailing, downhill skiing, golf, plus anyone who uses the term equestrian, or has a pilot’s license. If he likes Coldplay, or if the only rap music he likes is Eminem, he’s out. And if there is a III at the end of his name? Triple adios, motherfucker.
Latrisha helped me make that list. A two-bottle-of-wine list right there.
Needless to say, my dating history veers toward cooks, musicians, and students on the ten-year plan. My longest-running boyfriend was a cook, a musician, and a student on the ten-year plan; he wrote songs for me that I hated, but I didn’t have the heart to tell him.
Newsflash: acting like you’re into a song that a guy is singing really soulfully while looking deeply into your eyes is harder than faking an orgasm.
So that one didn’t work out.
“Are you going to put Smuckers’s name on the medallion?”
“That’s what I was thinking, but it might not be fun enough,” I say, then I sketch out the words Smuck U.
“I love that too much,” Latrisha says breathlessly. “With his little sweet face? It’s like it means kiss you or fuck you or love you or hate you. What are you going to wear?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re part of Smuckers’s entourage. Sort of like, the organ grinder and the monkey—they both get the little vests, right?”
“I hope I’m the organ grinder in this scenario,” I say.
“Oh, def. Henry can be the monkey.”
“An entourage. I didn’t think of that. Or what I’m going to wear, jewelry-wise.”
“Girl, you’re a jewelry maker and you didn’t think of the accessorizing component to all this? It needs to be just as fun as what we’re doing for Smuckers.”
For seven years I’ve funneled my creativity into earning respect. The idea of ultra-subtle class. I never go for wild provocation. But she’s right.
I feel this shiver of excitement as I flip my blank book to a new page. I’m imagining bright colors. Gorgeous, playful imagery. Sassy, irreverent sayings. I start sketching. Designing this line is the jewelry-maker’s version of playing hooky. And when I imagine his gaze landing on me and Smuckers in coordinating shit? The fun only doubles.
Henry wants to go? Oh, I will go.
Chapter Eight
Henry
I push into Chantisserie. “Two. Booth.” I set a hundred-dollar bill on the host stand.
Brett gives me a look. You could be nice—that’s what the look says. But between his fake nice request and my very straightforward hundred-dollar bill, I know which one this guy would choose. Every time.
People are not that complicated.
The host peers over his glasses at us, then down at his book. “This way.” He leads us to a booth by the window.
Brett orders two scotches on the rocks even though it’s early afternoon.
“It’s mood alteration o’clock somewhere,” I say.
“The second one’s for you.” He pulls out his iPad and slides it over to me. “The good news is that they found the loophole you thought they would.”
I nod. I felt sure our lawyers could find a way to twist the “qualified to serve as permitted by state law” clause to eject her on grounds of incompetency. “And something like this would fall under private mediation, right?”
“That’s what they say.”
Our drinks come. “Shouldn’t be hard to prove, considering half a dozen people have witnessed her channeling the thoughts of a dog. Where’s the bad news?”
He reaches over and swipes the screen. “They have to file, then get on the schedule. It’s going to be slow.”
