“And dish soap,” I add.
A stunned silence follows, thick and delicious. Sharon blinks once. Twice.
Noah makes a sound that might be a cough or a laugh being strangled to death.
“Well,” Sharon sniffs, her voice clipped now, “it’s been a hit with everyone else.”
Color drains from my face as the words catch up with me. “I—sorry. That slipped out.”
Noah leans in again, his breath warm against my ear. “Bold review. Gordon Ramsay would be proud.”
Across the lawn, the other women stand in a half-circle of shock, their mouths forming synchronized Os.
Noah gives them a casual nod. “Ladies.”
Then he gently guides me away with a hand at the small of my back.
“What came out of my mouth?” I whisper, stunned at myself.
He smiles. “Apparently? Honesty. And it looks good on you.”
______________
The evening was off to a bit of a rough, or possibly glorious, start after my confrontation with Sharon, the rest of the neighbors standing a few feet back. I figure I’d make a polite exit after twenty minutes with a half-hearted excuse about “needing to check on the cat.”
Wait. I don’t have a cat.
Needing to check on Frank. Yes, that’s much better. Frank sounded like a dog with gout. Very believable. And there’s no reason to fake Frank because Frank is real. Maybe I’ll take him for a walk around the cul-de-sac tomorrow to prove his existence.
But then Noah appears at my side, with a confident smirk and blue-eyed mischief.
“So.” He holds out a paper plate like a warrior with a paper shield. “I dare you to try every single dish on this table. No exceptions.”
He nods toward the chaotic spread of questionable casserolesand ambiguous Jell-O molds, the kind of offerings that could only come from a family reunion or the seventh circle of culinary hell.
I narrow my eyes, crossing my arms over my chest. “Are you sure about that?”
“Positive.” He steps closer, so close I catch the warm scent of cedar and laundry detergent, something too domestic for how feral he looks with that cocky grin.
“Well, I dare you right back.” I grab a second plate and slap it against his chest, throwing down the paper plate gauntlet.
He puffs out his chest like we’re in some kind of middle-aged dare showdown, and I can’t help but notice how his shirt strains across his shoulders with the motion. Rude.
“I’m not worried about me.” His voice is low, teasing. “I’m worried about what’s lurking inside that crockpot over there.”
I follow his gaze to a bubbling mass of beige something, possibly potatoes.
“Don’t look directly at it,” I whisper. “It knows.”
We stand shoulder to shoulder, surveying the buffet table like we are entering battle, which, in a way, we are. There are no name tags on the dishes. No allergy warnings. No ingredients list. Just total chaos. The PTA would have a fit, and as an honorary member of the PTA, I should have volunteered to make hand-written signs in my perfect calligraphy.
I grab a scoop of something mushy and violently green, plopping it into a red Solo cup for dramatic effect. I lift it in both hands, as if offering it to the gods.
“I present to you,” I intone with the kind of solemnity reserved for ceremonial toasts or nuclear codes, “the infamous Mystery Dip. I overheard Janet say it’s ‘family famous,’ which either means delicious or potentially hazardous.”
Noah leans in, squinting at the sludge. “This feels like a prank from someone’s great-aunt who lived through the Depression.”
I dip a chip in, hesitate, and take the tiniest bite.
