I roll his way. “I do.”
My phone rings with a FaceTime call.
“It’s Patrick,” I yell out.
With no hesitation, this Dave randomly shares my energy and raises his glass to this call. “Finally!”
I laugh and pick up. “Oh, hello, my friend Patrick! You are here with my new friend, Dave! We are in Puerto Rico and drinking drinks.”
“Well, hello, New Friend Dave!” Patrick says jovially. “I’m Patrick, calling from Cleveland. Where are you from?”
“Way northern Maine,” Dave answers. “A small fishing village.”
“And what do you do there, sir, in way northern Maine?” Patrick asks.
“I own a food truck. Serving mostly seafood in the small town where I grew up.”
“Wait, what? So, you feed fishermen?” I ask. “Aren’t they sick of seafood?”
“Oh, not at all,” he says. “They actually can’t get enough. And then there’s the tourist season, so that’s good for business. It’s actually right now, in the summer. Best and stupidest time for me to get away, but here I am. For an anniversary of sorts.”
Patrick yelps. “Diana, run away. He is clearly a serial killer.” He whispers, “Should I call 911?”
I whisper back, “Not yet, but I’ll let you know if things take a weird turn.”
To my annoyance, Patrick has to chime in with, “Oh, by the way, New Friend Dave? Food trucks are Diana’s weakness.”
He raises his glass. “Not a bad weakness.”
“Do you offer fried oysters? ’Cause I’ll marry you right now,” I blurt out.
David smiles. “I do.”
“Patrick, did you hear that? I’m about to get married!”
My friend’s laughing eye roll can be seen on our video all. “Lucky man!”
I look at my lounge partner as I jab my finger at the phone. “By the way, David, you should know that Patrick used to pretend he was allergic to seafood, but it was bullshit!”
“It wasn’t bullshit. Not entirely,” Patrick claims weakly.
“You were never allergic. The lie started when your mom microwaved fish and it rightfully put you off.”
He sighs. “She didn’t microwave it. She put it in a Crock-Pot with thousand island dressing and cooked it for a century.”
“Even worse! No wonder you lied!” I shout and then laugh at Dave’s horrified expression.
Microwave?he mouths at me.
Patrick grumbles, “Fine. But I had anemotionalallergy.”
“Until I fixed you,” I say smugly.
“Yeah, you fixed me,” he agrees. “And I fixed your bathroom when that toilet exploded above you.”
“Hey! What’s that background noise?” I ask.
“Running a grocery errand for Katrina. And hang on. I have to look for something.”
