I shrug. “Or maybe the dog was a biter, and now she associates dogs with bad memories.”
Paige seems to contemplate this and then returns the cards before restarting her search.
After a good five minutes, she holds up a new card and beams. “This one.” She gestures to it like a proud toddler who’s drawn their first stick figure. “This is the one. Right?”
I tilt my head, taking in the bright-pink card like a piece in an art museum. “Does Alicia like pink?”
“Ugh.” Paige slaps my arm with the back of the card several times before putting it in the cart. “You’re the worst!”
I laugh, and Paige glares at me, but that scowl is instantly offset by the emerging smile she tries to conceal. It feels good to make Paige smile. Ever since she found out she didn’t get the copywriting job at Wonderman & Fleck, she’s been frantically searching for something else that could give her the right experience she wants before applying to Z3 Group. But none of the jobs she’s considered seem to excite her, leaving her stressed and without a plan.
I push the cart forward, surprised the wheels aren’t stuck in place from not moving for so long, and trail behind Paige as we walk down the baking supply aisle. I’m just placing a bag of flour in the cart when my phone buzzes. When I pull it out of my pocket, I see that Zia just texted me.
My chest fills with nervous energy as my thoughts drift back to my second date with Zia last Saturday. If I thought Zia was beautiful when I first ran into her at Paige’s office, it was nothing compared to the sequined red dress and fiery lipstick she wore that night. The woman could stop traffic—and not just because she was wearing a traffic-stopping color.
When we arrived at our restaurant, I half expected paparazzi to jump out of the bushes to snap photos of the beautiful woman clinging to my arm. Which she did—a lot. I may or may not have flexed my bicep whenever her hand rested there, but what else is a guy to do? I’ve never dated a girl who’s demonstrated such obvious appreciation for what they like. But that just seems to be Zia. Her confidence is as bright and bold as her wardrobe.
Zia and I spent an hour after our dinner walking around a secluded path that circled a nearby lake. The summer heat had relaxed into a warm breeze, and Zia immediately kicked off her heels and walked barefoot next to me. As we talked, I held Zia’s heels in one hand while her fingers occupied the other.
“Who is it?” Paige asks, snapping me out of my thoughts. She adds some vegetable oil to our shopping cart.
“Uh… It’s Zia,” I say.
“Oh.” Paige laughs awkwardly before taking up a sudden interest in a nearby display of birthday candles.
This is the reason we don’t talk about dating, dates, boyfriends, girlfriends, or anything of the non-platonic variety. It’s like the Grim Reaper of boy-girl friendships. Things get awkward. Things get messy. Things get torn to shreds. And before you know it, you’ve spent four and a half miserable years without each other.
I’m not about to go through that again.
So I do what’s worked best in the past and deflect like it’s my job. “Hey, don’t let me forget to pick up some more granola for my mom. And some beans. Lots of the stuff she had in her pantrywas expired. Did you know there was a guy in Denver who died of expired pancake mix last year? I heard that on the radio.”
Paige must be as eager to ditch the uncomfortable tension between us because suddenly we’re diving deep into a conversation about 1950s housewives and the evolution of pancake mix.
Eventually, we grab the beans and granola and start working our way down the fridge aisle when my phone buzzes. Zia again. That’s when I realize I never opened Zia’s first message. I quickly remedy that.
Zia: Will you give my cousin’s number to Paige? We have to make this double date work. Ian will absolutely love her!
Below this is Ian’s number, followed by her most recent text.
Zia: I just made reservations for this Saturday at six for all four of us. This is going to be fun. And I hope you like Indian food. This place is my favorite.
My stomach churns. Not only do I not like Indian food with its chunky soup-like textures, but also I can’t stomach the idea of sitting across from Paige on a date. If talking about Zia in aisle twelve made things awkward between us, going on a double date will do us in.
“Strawberry yogurt or vanilla?” Paige asks.
“Uh… vanilla,” I say just before I’m completely distracted by another text from Zia.
Zia: I know you are protective of Paige, but I promise, Ian is one of the good ones.
He’s “one of the good ones”? The words remind me of Gabby Barrett’s popular country song. Suddenly, I’m picturing Paige with Ian, the supposed “good one.” I imagine them sitting on the porch swing of their farmhouse late at night, talking about the gaggle of kids filling their home before he serenades her with Rascal Flatts.
I undo a button near my collar. I’ve never really cared for country music.
Paige and I hop into our usual checkout line, but the cart in front of us is packed to the brim with mostly small items. This is going to take a while.
Paige picks up a magazine with a picture of Meghan Markle on the cover then places it back on the rack, covering it with a magazine featuring Beyoncé, then she smiles. Sometimes, I can’t explain the things she does. She starts thumbing through a different magazine with Joanna Gaines on the front when the lyrics to “The Good Ones” start running through my head again.
Great, now my brain is a tumble dryer full of country lyrics and Zia’s cousin Ian. I don’t even know this Ian—but do I really need to? I’ve never known an Ian who didn’t end up being a complete jerk. I wouldn’t let Paige within a ten-foot radius of that kind of guy, let alone help set her up with one.
