His eyelids did a slow and confused waltz, like eventheyweren’t sure how to process me.
“I’m just saying,” I added, grinning as I picked the menu back up, “if the world ends, it won’t be because I ate a cheeseburger.”
He scoffed but didn’t reply and went back to studying his limited entrée options.
“So...what kind of doctor are you?”
He coughed lightly. “History.”
“What?”
“My PhD,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “It’s in history.”
I bit back a laugh, one hand flying to my mouth. “Oh, sorry. I thought you were adoctordoctor.”
His shoulders stiffened, and the awkward guy from five seconds ago evaporated. “Iama doctor.”
“Technically.” I leaned forward, voice softening to a conspiratorial whisper. “But if that woman at the table next to us suddenly goes into cardiac arrest and her husband starts screaming for a doctor, you’re going to stand up and start lecturing him on World War II whileIactually save her life.”
He closed his menu—notgently.
“This isn’t going to work,” he said flatly. “Your parents clearly made it a point to leave out the fact that you’re rude, arrogant, and unfit to be anyone’s wife.”
A smile tugged at my lips before I could stop it.
Bingo.
I’d been dialing it up on purpose, making it rowdier, messier and unapologeticallyme, hoping he’d throw in the napkin and storm off, giving me just enough moral high ground to tell my mother, with a tragic sigh,well, I gave it my best shot.
I couldn’t help feeling a little cheated, though. Most of the eligible bachelors I forced myself to meet with had the decency to stick around long enough for me to at least get a free meal out of the whole ordeal. I hadn’t even broken out the good material yet.
But instead of storming off, he noticed the grin creeping across my face and sat back down.
“I was expecting an apology, not a smile. Is this a joke to you?”
I toyed with my rings, twisting gold against skin, and let a fragment of honesty slip through. “Look, you seem like a nice guy, in that boring, healthy, flosses-daily kind of way, but I don’t want to be reduced to someone’swife. I didn’t grow up dreaming about matching towel sets and changing diapers.”
He stared at me, unreadable. “So why did you agree to this?”
“Because as much as I hate the idea of getting married, I’m also sick of living with my parents. I'm sick of asking permission to go out with my friends, of getting hounded withWhere are you?messages after eight p.m. like I’m still a teenager. So yeah, I agreed to get set up because I wantfreedom, not a lifetime commitment ceremony for one man’s emotional bare minimum.”
I braced myself for the judgment, the eye roll, the patronizing laugh, theyou’ll change your mind one day speechI’d already heard a million times.
“I’m not interested in getting married either.”
My head snapped up. “What?”
“I’m only doing this because my mom is dying,” he said. “And it’ll make her sad if she dies and I’m still single.”
For the first time during the evening, I felt like an ass. A well-dressed,charmingass—but still.
“That’s...a way more legitimate reason than mine.”
“Of course it is. Your reasoning is ridiculously immature, while mine is noble and compassionate,” he replied casually. “So, you in?”
My brain stalled. I hadn’t actually expected him to agree—not after a dozen coffee dates and setups that had all fizzled out with a diplomatic rejection or a gentle:you’re not what I’m looking for. I’d never prepared myself for ayes.
Most people looking to get married dim their identity back—turn the volume to polite, hide the quirks, tuck away their honest, sloppy selves until they’ve successfully locked each otherdown, only revealing the mayhem once it was far too late to return the merchandise.
