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A forkful of spring greens salad is hovering at my open mouth. I set it aside without taking a bite. My father lowers his cellphone—where he was reading the Wall Street Journal—and looks in my direction.
He knows about my assignment. I told him about it in detail earlier in the week. I also asked him to keep it to himself.
“You’re an awful secret-keeper,” I tell him with a frown. He only smiles, which pops a dimple in one of his cheeks. Insufferable old man.
“How do you tolerate him?” I ask my mom.
“You don’t want to know, Catarina.” She sends Dad a wink. I make a gagging gesture, but I love them. I love that they’re in love, too. If they weren’t I don’t know what I’d do with myself. They keep me sane.
“Mia, my editor, wants a schlocky puff piece about dating bad boys, and she nominated me because it’s so apparent I’m into bad boys.” I roll my eyes. “It’s all for show.”
Mom laughs. “Sounds exciting. What does Northrop think?”
“He knows it’s for work and couldn’t care less. I’m not sure he has a jealous bone in his body.” I take a drink of my iced tea and consider that I’d like it if he had a jealous bone in his body. He’s so damned pragmatic.
“Sensible men make great husbands. And North is right. You’re a consummate professional. You can handle a rowdy sports player.”
Has it become clear yet that my mother knows not a thing about sports? She may as well have referred to Barrett as a “ball thrower.”
“Since we’re milking the fish-out-of-water nature of our relationship, I’m going to bring him here for a round of golf.” I gesture at the backdrop of Columbus’s most prestigious country club—one I’ve had a membership to since I was twenty-one.
“Splendid idea,” Mom says.
“Superb,” Dad teases.
“Oh, Hank, stop it.” She shoves his shoulder and then they share a lingering gaze of love and adoration.
My heart squeezes in envy. North and I haven’t looked at each other like that in...well...ever. I take a bite of my salad and chew forlornly.
A word crashed into my head yesterday afternoon when he sent a text saying he would be busy for the next couple of days, and I haven’t been able to shake it. What word, you ask? Passionless. North has never been particularly warm, but I haven’t noticed as much as I have recently. Maybe because, by contrast, my pretend date, Barrett, is passionate to the nth degree. He loves coffee. Hates olives. Finds lamb gyros “fantastic.”
Once the lunch plates are cleared, Dad takes his leave to practice on the putting green while Mom lingers behind to chat. “Are you sure you don’t want to play nine with us? It’s such a gorgeous day!”
It is. The greens are lush and vibrant, and the sky is an arrogant, disgusting, beautiful blue. The kind of blue that reminds me of a certain former NFL player’s eyes.
“I’m sure, Mom, thanks. I have to get back to the office. Big date tomorrow!” I make a rallying gesture: my fist balled while I sweep my arm in front of me.
“Now, dear, I didn’t raise you to be impolite. I’m sure this football man has a hidden layer. All men do. When you uncover it, you’ll likely find him to be delightful.”
Welcome to the world of Celia Everhart, where words like “splendid” and “delightful” make their way into everyday dialogue. I wouldn’t be surprised if a cartoon butterfly landed on her shoulder right about now.
“Clearly you haven’t met him.” I spare her the details of how he lost his field reporting job as well as a few hefty sponsorship opportunities with a fast food chain and a brand of motor oil.
I shake my head in annoyance. How could he have been so reckless? Does he have an anger problem, or is he so full of himself that he thinks he can get away with anything? Maybe being passionless isn’t such a bad quality.
“When you two golf here, call us so we can meet him.” My mom’s eyes twinkle. Her jaw goes slack like she just had the best idea ever.
“Um. No.” I bat my eyelashes. “Trust me. You won’t like him.”
“I like everyone.” Her top lip curls. “Except for that Matilda Hudson across the street. She’s a pill. Yesterday makes the third time she accused me of overpruning my roses.”
“While I can’t imagine Barrett reporting to you to the HOA, he is a hot-tempered redhead who has said things in anger.”
“Who among us hasn’t?”
I pat her hand. “I’d never let him ruin the world for you, Mom. Your outlook is too precious.”
“I’ve had my wild days, I’ll have you know,” she tells me. And not for the first time. “I wised up and met your father and settled down and had a beautiful daughter.” She stops short of pinching my cheek. “No golf? Final answer?”
