Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
CORMAC
GROUP CHAT
Name edited by Dottie Hendrickson
THE FAIRY GODMOTHERS
Dottie: Did she comment on your outfit, dear?
Ann: Of course she did. She’d have to be blind not to notice the change in you, honey.
Ann: You rolled up those sleeves, didn’t you?
Ann: The sleeves were the most important part.
Me: Yes.
Me: I’m turning my phone on silent now.
Here’s something I’d prefer for Nora never to discover:
The little old ladies my father befriended have infiltrated my life.
It started off very innocently. Dottie gave me her phone number at the wedding and asked me to get in touch, and after a couple of days, I started to feel rude about ignoring her.
She’d gone to the trouble of reaching out to me at the wedding, and she was elderly, whether Nora was willing to admit it or not.
I’d probably feel guilty if she keeled over before I kept my promise.
So I texted her on the Tuesday evening after the wedding, reiterating that I wasn’t comfortable allowing her and the other elders into my father’s new house without Mrs. Applebaum-Peebles’s express permission.
My phone immediately started ringing, which had horrified me for a good ten seconds—who calls a stranger?—before I summoned the will to answer.
“I understand completely, dear heart,” Dottie said into the receiver as soon as I uttered hello, as if we were continuing a conversation rather than beginning one. “Ann and I will simply bring their gift to your home. It’s no trouble at all.”
I hadn’t invited them, but my mother has always advised me that gifts must be accepted with grace and the magic word, so I agreed and thanked her. Dottie will bring the gift over sometime after I return from Atlanta.
The conversation could have ended there, but she asked what my plans were for the rest of the week.
“Well,” I replied after an awkward beat of silence. “I’ve got a couple of concerts in Atlanta this weekend.”
“Good for you, dear. I heard one of your jingles on the radio the other day. And will you be seeing Nora?”
I should have known better than to answer, but I confirmed that Nora was dog-sitting for me—and also that I’d agreed to go on a double date with her and the unhappy couple next week.
“What will you be wearing for your date? That suit looked quite dashing on you last weekend.”
“I’m probably just going to wear a T-shirt,” I sputtered out. “You know. Normal clothes. We’re going to some casual restaurant. It’s no big deal.”
She made a tsking sound low in her throat before whispering to someone in the room with her: “He’s going to wear a T-shirt for his double date.”
“Oh, no,” a muffled voice replied. “Tell him…”
The important message was lost to mumbles, and Dottie dropped off the line to have a garbled discussion with her friend.
“Dottie?” I prodded.
Finally, she returned. “Have you considered trimming your hair?”
“Uh…no?”
“Come on over to the tea shop, my dear, we’ll take care of everything for you. You needn’t worry about a thing. We’ll make sure Nora sees you in a whole new light.”
“Nora?” I asked, scratching my head. “I told you it was fake, didn’t I? She isn’t interested in me. This is all about José. I think she’s in love with him.”
“Oh no, they’re not right for each other at all,” Dottie said. “Not to worry. Ann, the other Wise Elders, and I will make your light shine ever brighter.”
Good God, there were more of them?
“And Nora will surely take notice of what’s in front of her face,” she continued.
“But…I don’t want Nora to take notice. I mean, we barely get along—”
“Oh, my dear boy. We observed you together at the wedding. That sort of chemistry can’t be created with artifice.”
“But that’s exactly what created it.”
She changed tack. “Don’t you want to shine for your own sake, dear?”
I considered saying no—considered it strongly—but if Dottie and her friends wanted to help me with my hair and whatnot, I figured I should let them.
No one ever bothered talking to me about such things except for my father, who gave me the gruff, nonspecific advice that a man should always be impeccably groomed—advice I’ve followed to an extent.
I shower every day at precisely the same time—an alarm on my phone guarantees it—and I wash all of my clothes when they’re dirty.
But I’ve never really cared about clothes, other than whether they’re clean.
To my eyes, everything looks just about the same.
So I agreed, and the next thing I knew, I had a new haircut, new glasses, and a new wardrobe. I insisted on paying for the new things, of course, but the haircut had come courtesy of Ann, who’d learned how to cut hair from YouTube videos. All things considered, it looked pretty good.
But it didn’t end there. The little old ladies programmed a group chat into my phone before releasing me into the wild, insisting that I give them regular updates.
Now I’m standing in the doorway to my house, Cookie sitting at my feet, watching Nora Leigh walk away from me.
It still feels impossible that she’s staying here this weekend.
I can’t believe she agreed to it, and that I agreed to it, and that we’ll be going on that awful dinner date together next week, in a restaurant whose awning is covered with cutesy laughing vegetables.
(Yes, I looked it up on Google Maps. I prefer to be prepared.) Honestly, I don’t know who the restaurateurs are trying to fool.
If plants had any sentience, they wouldn’t be overjoyed to be eaten, and no one can convince me that consuming an overpriced stalk of broccoli will be an unforgettable culinary experience.
But I did agree, and even though it’s sure to be a disaster, I’m looking forward to it.
Not because I think Nora’s going to be bowled over by the continued evidence of the little old ladies’ work, of course, but because it’s…interesting.
Yes, that’s a good word for it. How many times in the course of your life are you asked to pose as the secret fake boyfriend of your high school crush turned nemesis?
Before Nora closes the fence behind her, she turns and gives me another of those little Queen of England waves, a saucy smile on her face.
There’s a familiar lurch in my chest as I return the gesture.
Her smile spreads wider, and there’s nothing more beautiful on this earth than Nora Leigh with an honest-to-God smile.
I got several of them today, and suddenly I feel like a greedy man.
“This isn’t good,” I mutter to Cookie. “This isn’t a good development at all.”
Cookie barks in agreement.
When we get back inside, I decide to tilt into the insanity and dial Dottie Hendrickson on my phone.
“Oh, wonderful,” Dottie says into the speaker before addressing her next comment to someone else, probably Ann or another of her Little Old Lady crew. “It’s Cormac with an update.”
A groan escapes me. I hate gossip, and hate it even more when I’m at the center of it. Why am I playing along with them?
“I’m not…I’m not doing that,” I insist. “I was just calling to say thank you, you’ve all been very kind, but I don’t need any more help. Nora’s just a friend, and friends don’t care about what each other looks like. I mean, I wouldn’t even say that we’re friends. We’re just at a ceasefire.”
“What’d he say?” It’s Ann’s voice, muffled.
“Turn on your hearing aid, dear. He said friends don’t care what each other looks like.”
“Oh, I’ve never heard something so absurd. Of course we care what each other looks like. Do you think I let Dottie walk around with orange hair for more than a day or two last fall? Not on your life, baby. I backed her into a bathroom with a pack of dye, and we haven’t looked back, have we, Dot?”
“The orange was festive,” Dottie says with a sniff.
“I’m not dyeing my hair,” I put in quickly, feeling it necessary to establish that particular boundary.
“Of course you’re not, dear,” Dottie says. “You have lovely hair. It’s one of your best features. And we’re not trying to change the way you look—”
“Those glasses were broken. There’s no reason a young man who retired at thirty gotta be walking around wearing broken glasses. You do that, women will think you’re a cheapskate. They’d be right, son.”
“Indeed.” Dottie hums under her breath. “And every young person should feel confident in him or herself. Don’t you feel confident with your sleeves rolled up and those lovely new glasses?”
“Don’t forget the haircut.”
“Yeah, I guess,” I say, although I don’t care very much about any of it. The only reason I agreed was that it felt nice that they cared. And…sure, I had liked the way Nora looked at me when I was wearing a suit.
“Excellent,” Dottie says. “Now, we know you need to get going, dear, but please keep in touch. And if you need any help during your date next week, we’ll be on call. Ann and I have already blocked off our schedules to make sure we’re available.”
Jesus, I have so little game, two little old ladies have appointed themselves my dating advisors and developed a schedule to ensure they’re on call. And they say they’re trying to build up my confidence?
Still, I don’t hate the thought of knowing they’re out there, wanting to help me. It’s kind of nice, even though I have no intention of taking them up on it a second time.
“Okay, well. Thank you, I guess. It’s not a real date, though. We’re just trying to sabotage her best friend’s engagement.”
Dottie laughs as if I’ve said something funny, which makes me realize I probably phrased that poorly. “For a good cause,” I add. “That woman sent threatening texts to Nora.”
I realize I’m closing my hand into a fist only when I feel my short nails digging into my palm. But I don’t ease up. It feels good right now.
“Should we send HER texts?” Ann says. “I’ve been practicing textual role-playing with George. He likes it when I pretend I’m a Russian spy.”
“No, dear,” Dottie says evenly. “We’ll leave this one to the young people.”
I’m not entirely sure I believe her.
The guys and I drive to Atlanta in our band bus, a.k.a.
the VW van Mick’s uncle gave him a few years back.
It smells like the inside of my high school locker room, but there’s room for all of us and the equipment.
Mick drives the way he does everything else—in a hurry, and with an abundance of swearing and not much caution—so the rest of us take turns being the designated driver.
Today, it’s Travis’s turn, and I’m glad for it.
My thoughts keep blipping between Nora and a couple of ideas I’m working on for the nonprofit foundation Kenji and I are establishing to fund young tech entrepreneurs’ projects. It’s really exciting work, and—
Mick nudges my shoulder.
“What do you know about that hot bridesmaid?” he asks, the corner of his mouth lifting into a bemused smirk. “The one who’s not Nora.”
“Haley?” I ask, trying to remember her name.
“Nah, her name’s Hazel.”
“Apparently you know more than I do,” I say. “All I know is that she’s Nora’s cousin, and Nora thinks she’s hot.”
He gives me one of his dubious looks before nodding. “That there’s nothing but the truth. We spent a little time together at the end of the wedding.”
“You like Hazel?” I ask, surprised. Mick doesn’t seem to maintain interest in the same woman for more than a few days at a time, and it’s been a week since the wedding. “I could ask Nora about her.”
He nods once. “Say, how’d those two phone numbers work out for you?”
Rob, who’s sitting in front next to Travis, looks back with a grin. “Who do you think gave him that makeover?”
“Nora did that to you?” Mick asks, then whistles. “Shit. She didn’t do too bad. You look put-together. Maybe I’ll let her do me next.”
“There will be no doing of any kind,” I say tightly. “And no, it was the little old women who did this to me. Ann said I looked like a cheapskate running around with broken glasses.”
“She was right,” Mick says, an amused glimmer in his eyes. “Or like a guy who got his bell rung one too many times.”
He’s referring to how my glasses came to be misshapen at the boxing gym.
While I wish I could say some guy punched them in a match that I ultimately won, fist raised in victory, it didn’t go down like that.
On my first visit to Bell’s, I hit the heavy bag, and it rebounded and smacked me directly in the face. Hence the dented glasses.
Liam had promised not to tell anyone other than Mick, who “deserved to know” since it was his gym.
“Very funny,” I say. “Let’s talk about the show.”
Rob is all about strategizing, so I know this will distract him—and he, in turn, will distract Mick.
We’ll be performing in front of a big crowd tonight. Bigger than any we’ve performed for before, and then we’re doing it again tomorrow night, same venue.
Sold out, our manager said. Sold out.
If I let myself think about it too hard, my anxiety will spin out. I’ll start thinking about how I could fuck up, and the whole band will stumble without the road beneath them.
I check my phone later that night, before we go onstage, and there’s a text from Nora—
A selfie of her sitting beside Cookie, who’s giving her a distrusting glare.
Sorry, but now we’re BFFs. She’s going to miss me when you come home.
Remember to imagine everyone in the crowd as NPCs. Like, truly obnoxious ones.
You’re welcome.
I quickly reply:
Okay, robot overlord.
I’m grinning as I tuck the phone away. And what do you know? I don’t feel the slightest bit nauseous.
I play flawlessly all night, each note vibrating through me like a second heartbeat. And every time I look out at the crowd, I imagine everyone in the crowd as a bunch of NPCs—as if we were playing some cosmic version of The Sims, and they were ordered to attend our concert.
Every time I think about it, I think about Nora.
I’ve never smiled so much during a concert.