“Our idea of a perfect date is a walk with our family to the local, organic juice bar,” Haven says slowly and methodically, like she’s one of those social media phenomena who share their all-organic, made-from-scratch, sprinkle recipes in a monotone voice whilst wearing a potato sack that costs four thousand dollars. She’s the wife from Tink Three and married to a guy named—I kid you not—Ocean. They’re from California, have six kids under eight years old, and, if they’re anything like their parents, I’d bet my Tinkerbell, they look like supermodel babies.
Sumer Morrison nods enthusiastically. She can think of nothing more romantic than overpriced, freshly squeezed fruits. “And Ocean, what was your answer?”
Ocean runs a suntanned hand through his naturally bleach blonde, perfectly styled locks and shares his prewritten answer to what I’m calling the jumbotron—the screen bigger than the trailer I’m sitting on top of—where we can see each contestant’s handwritten response and our current scores.
Owen and I are tied with three other couples.
“Juice Walk!” Sumer cheers them on when his answer is revealed.
Haven nods once, closing her eyes and pressing her hands together as if in prayer, silently blessing us all with a glimpse of the crown of her head. Ocean winks at the camera and flips the toothpick he’s been chewing on for the last hour to the other side of his mouth.
Next up are the Woodhouses. Gloria and Clyde have been married for fifty-eight, majestic years—Clyde’s words—and they haven’t missed a single question thus far. Each and every time their turn comes around, the Woodhouses partake in a low-key, geriatric, make-out session that has made me blush more than once. I honestly can’t wait to hear how they answer this one.
Shoot. I kind of hope they win.
“Mrs. Gloria… Glo-r-ia,” Sumer sings Mrs. Woodhouse’s name as an ode to a song I remember my mom playing when I was little. “After fifty-eight, blissful years together, what do you think Mr. Clyde said is your idea of a perfect date?”
Gloria sits straighter, where she’s back-to-back with her husband on the roof two trailers over from ours. I briefly wonder how they managed to climb up the ladder at their age, but, honestly, the way they’re quick to jump up and lock lips like Mr. Clyde has just returned from war has me thinking they stay pretty active.
“Every Sunday, my Clyde and I go to church. Then, after, we sit at a coffee shop for a tea date—black for me, green for him—and we listen,” she says with a giant smile on her face. I can already tell by the way Clyde’s little foot is happily tapping away that his answer is the same.
“Listen?” Sumer asks from atop the podium built in the middle of the circle. It’s been fascinating to watch her interact with each couple as if she’s sitting in a one-on-one interviewbeside us, and not twenty-five feet away. “What do you listen to? Each other?”
“Oh, no.” Gloria waves her hand. She’s never heard anything so preposterous. “We listen for the tea… ya know… the gossip. The happenings around our town. It’s aTea Date.”
Owen’s body shakes with quiet laughter against my back. “They’re hilarious.”
“Right? Are we rooting for them?” I say under my breath.
“I’m notnotrooting for them,” he answers but reaches behind to link our pinkies together. Our cameraman, Todd, swoops in to get a closeup. Owen huffs but gives my finger a gentle squeeze. “Way to kill the vibe, Todd.”
He shrugs but smiles behind the camera. I don’t think Todd’s technically permitted to speak to us. So, naturally, we’ve done nothing but try to engage with him. He hasn’t spoken back yet, but we’re gonna crack him like an egg.
“Okay, y’all.” Sumer swooshes her attention to us and off of the Woodhouses, who aredeepinto their favorite type of celebrations. “Let’s move on to our favorite newlyweds, Mr. and Mrs. Jones.”
Heat creeps up my neck at the title and at the sudden nerves that I may have answered this one wrong. Owen and I have technically never been on a date. We hang out at the house. We go to Badgers’ events together, family functions, Monday lunches with his siblings and parents, parties with mutual friends but certainly nothing ever labeled a date. So, for this question, I went with my gut.
Sumer looks at me just waiting for me to say something along the lines of,“We simply adore a sexy, candlelit dinner on the floor of our living room with a fire blazing and our newlywed hormones raging.”
But, instead, when she asks, “Brooke, what do you think Owen said was his idea of a perfect date?”
I smile and answer, “April 25th.”
I feel Owen jump from his seat behind me, the crowd laughs halfheartedly, completely confused at his answer on the screen—obviously not sharing our appreciation forMiss Congeniality—and he lifts me to my feet, pulling me into a bear hug.
“April 25th. It’s not too cold. Not too hot. You just need a light jacket,”is written in Owen’s scrawl on the jumbotron. I can’t help but laugh along with him when he awkwardly picks me up with one arm and swings me in a circle before setting me on the roof again.
It’s silly, really. The answer that should point to the fact that Owen and I aren’t a real couple has, instead, put a proud glint in his eye that makes me feel like I’ve won the million-dollar prize on Day One.
Frankly, I don’t know what to do with that.
“That’s my girl. I knew you’d get it,” he says, pecking my lips, then helping me back to my seat. And, am I crazy or has Owen turned up the affection over the last few hours? During counseling, then again for our camera, and now. It’s a small change but certainly noticeable.
I know I was innocently pondering the lack of kissing we’d done since our wedding, but that’s all it was… pondering. A curious observation any girl would make. The beginning of a hypothesis that I hadn’t decided if we should test. Nevertheless, I’m embarrassed at my confusion over it all. Because as I look back, every touch, every lingering, secretive gaze, or tender kiss to my head, my cheek, my hands… affection that never felt like anything more than the norm between Owen and me, I’m now seeing as the precursor to something more. Almost as if he’s been planting tiny seeds of affection for years just waiting for them to bloom into a great big flowering tree, begging to be made out with.
And let me tell you, Owen’s an expert gardener, because I want to.
Yes, there’s a part of me that does want to hold tight to the rules we set in place when we agreed to do this. Rules will keep us safe—keepmesafe—when this ends and so will the whimsical but fictional roles we’re playing. Owen has clearly smudged the lines—not that I have complained one bit—but I feel like we’re playing with fire here. I’ve had specific boundaries with all of the men I’ve casually dated, but those boundaries, now, with Owen, feel all the more prudent.
