I pull in a gasp and muster all my energy into not feeling offended. But it’s difficult. So, so difficult.
I shake my head and try to salvage this date that truly hasn’t even begun. I have plans! Things set in place that I’d really like to play out. “Have you never seenYou’ve Got Mail?”
He grunts, that curling lip reappearing. “No.”
“It’s a classic. It’s about enemies who become friends who become more, and it all starts with them sending emails.” I soften my tone and smile at him, offering him a little grace after that blonde comment. I’m not gonna lie, it takes every ounce of compassion in me to do it. “It’s sweet and romantic and?—”
“Does she catfish him too?”
“There’s no catfishing! Not here and not in that movie. In the film, he’s the one who knows who she is. And when they meet up, and she realizes who he is and that she’s been talking to him the entire time, she is perfectly lovely about itall. She’s happy, even. She throws her arms around him, and shekisseshim.” She does not accuse him of lying about his hair color—but I don’t mention that. No, I stare at Lance, waiting for his apology so we can begin this amazing date I’ve planned. I’m too far in to give up now.
“So, thereiscatfishing involved. And you find that romantic?”
I stomp my foot—just a little twenty-five-year-old tantrum. It’s not my fault. Lance is being a dummy. “How many times do I have to say this? I didn’t catfish you! Everything I said in those emails was true.”
“Except—” He holds up one finger—one condemning finger. “You aren’t blonde.”
“I never said I was blonde!”
Lance throws a hand my way and grumbles, “I’m pretty sure you did.” He scowls and peers all around me—head, shoulders, knees, and toes—but never does he meet my eyes. “I’m out of here,” he says.
“Wait! Aren’t we going to lunch?” Yes—I’m still trying. I promise myself here and now to never tell Rosalie.
Another scoff as he backs two steps away from me. “That’s not happening. Not now. Not ever. Thanks for ruining my afternoon as well as my favorite coffee shop. I won’t be back.”
The western sun shines down on us, but instead of warming me, it’s melting me. I am going to be a puddle of sticky, icky goo for someone to step in at any moment.
I swallow, the nerves inside of my body twisting into painful knots. I cross my arms over my aching chest, all done trying to salvage any part of this date. “You know what you are, Lance?” I say, because I need the last word. Because I’ve been nice. I planned a perfectly lovely datethat we will both be missing out on now. “You are a brunettist!”
He glances back, his brows furrowed and his poopy-brown eyes glowering.
“That’s right! The truth is out. You’re prejudiced against brunettes. Well, we’re people too! That’s right, you thick-headed man who can’t even spell buck-tracker, brunettes are people too!”
“Brunettes are people too?”Rosalie says. She’s giving me a pointed stare across this couch, one that makes me think she’s replaying the whole scene in her head. And yeah—I did not listen to myself. I told her the entire story, including how long it took me to ditch prejudice Lance.
She doesn’t seem to find it all that offensive though. What does Rosalie know? She has hair the color of wheat that rains down her back like a waterfall. Plus, she has the most romantic name in the history of ever. Her parents were in tune with the gods of romance when they named her. Mr. and Mrs. Conrad are the sweetest—of course they’d give their daughter a beautiful name.
While I am namedFran—Frances, if you want to get technical, after mygrandfather. You heard that right—grandfather. Does it get more masculine than that? Does it get anylessromantic? It’s no wonder Lance said my name as if it were a dirty spoon, leaving a bad taste in his mouth.
The gods of romantic names were on break when I was named. My mother wasn’t all that thrilled about giving birth to me. My dad, who decided Mom was right all along about this parenting gig and ditched us eight years later, tried tocheer her up by telling her that she could be the one to name me. He wouldn’t interfere.Gee, thanks, Dad.
Only Mom didn’t give a hoot about naming me. She never once considered what I’d have to live with. She was named Josephine—after her grandfather Joseph. And so, when the nurse came in asking for a name, she laid the same fate on me. Except that Josephine is perfectly beautiful and graceful. Like Jo March, for heaven’s sake. Whereas Frances is practical, plain, and unpleasant.
“Fran,” Rosalie says, interrupting my thoughts.
I blink back to reality, my best friend coming into focus once more. “He’s a hairist, Rose.”
Rosalie slaps her forehead with the butt of her hand. “You’re making up words again.”
“I’m not. If I’d been blonde, he would have taken me to lunch—he basically said so himself!”
“Well, then you don’t want him, do you?” She sighs. It’s dramatic, but then I kind of like a little drama. It’s one reason remakes and I go so well together.
“You’re right. I don’t want him. Not in the least.” I bite my inner cheek, because while Lance may have been all wrong for me, I still wanted to finish out that date. I had lunch at a local bookshop waiting for us, with a Noel Streatfield book as the centerpiece.
She reaches across the couch and takes my hand. “Are you okay, sweetie?”
I sigh. “I’m fine.” And I am. “Just disappointed.”
