Chapter 19 A Brief Experiment in Love Triangles
“So, where are you from?”
The question came from mom rather than son.
“Oh. Um. San Francisco, California.”
“And what are you doing looking for an Irish husband?” And thus commenceth the interrogation.
“Oh. You know. Just.” Needed something for the podcast. “Gotta love that accent, right?”
She huffed. This, it seemed, was not the right answer.
I looked to Dave, but he had his chin on his fist and was staring off, eyes glazed, at the scenery, not the least bit interested in anything that was going on inside the jaunting cart, nor outside, by the looks of it.
Well. I guess this woman is my real date.
At least Simone is going to be thrilled!
“Actually. Would you mind if I take a photo of the three of us?”
She narrowed her eyes a moment. “I suppose that would be fine, wouldn’t it, Davey?”
Davey shrugged.
I put the phone on my selfie stick, and we all looked to the back of the buggy so that we could get the horse and driver in the shot, mother and son smushed together for no reason, me firmly on the other side.
Then something dramatic happened. The horse did what all horses must do and pooped—big-time. It was a breathtaking quantity of poop. Peggy—only about a foot away from the drop zone—screamed.
Then she pounded on the side of the buggy. “Stop that! Stop it, I say!” I guessed this horse didn’t take orders from Peggy. Then she yelled at the driver. “This is a disgrace! This is supposed to be romantic. You’re charging us a pretty penny for this. I want a refund! You hear me?”
I was in heaven! I wished I could film it for Simone.
I couldn’t wait to tell her! I knew, however, that laughter would not be welcomed at this juncture of the date, so I was sputtering, trying to hold it in.
Tears started to swim. My eyes shot to Dave, thinking that he might also find this hilarious, but he didn’t look up from scrolling—as if anything on Instagram might be better than this.
Finally, Peggy sat back down with a huff and a few more threats.
“Aw. This photo is great!” I got an action shot. “Did Jackie mention to you that I may like to talk about this date on my podcast?”
She pursed her lips and made a face, clearly disgusted by my chosen profession. “He did. It was one of the conditions of the discount.”
“Oh, okay. If you change your mind, just let me know, but I’d love to be able to use these photos as well. Would that be all right?”
“Well.” She sniffed. “It’s not like anyone we know would listen to that, anyway.”
“Great. Thanks!” Because this angle goes right up your nostrils.
“So, this is what you do for money, then?”
“It sure is. I love it.”
“And you would cancel your little radio show if you actually found someone who wanted to marry you?”
“Cancel it?”
“It’s a dating show, for Christ’s sake.”
Well, she was a turd, but she wasn’t wrong, I had to give her that.
What would I do? Would I lose everything?
I supposed it would come down to what I wanted more—the man or my dream job.
I knew it was a thing, but I never really gave it much thought because .
. . well, I also didn’t have a contingency plan for the possibility of an alien invasion where I would be forced to marry a large harem of handsome, tentacled aliens who would keep me super-busy with ritualized group sexy-times either.
I mean, technically, that could happen. But no, I didn’t have a plan.
“Well . . . things would have to change, certainly, but I don’t know. I guess I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”
The good news was, I was never going to come to it. Especially not with dates like these! Thanks, Peggy.
“You’re no spring chicken,” she huffed, and I ignored her, turning away to hide my grin.
“So, Davey.” Perhaps all he needed was a little nudge out of his shell after being mother smothered his whole life. “What sort of things do you like to do?”
He looked at me with a curled lip, but it wasn’t a smile. “Like to do?”
“You know, like with your spare time.”
“I watch a lot of YouTube. And I play Call of Duty.”
“How old are you, exactly?” Peggy squinted. The statement sounded more like a retaliatory comeback than a genuine question. “Jackie told us you were twenty-eight, but now that I see you in the light, I know that can’t be the case.”
“Twenty-eight? I’m thirty-eight.” I laughed. “Maybe you misunderstood?”
“Thirty-eight! Thirty-eight? Davey here is only thirty-five!”
“Well, three years isn’t a huge deal, surely?”
“He’s ready for children! Are you going to be able to give those to him?”
I couldn’t help it—my eyes shot to the stallion in question. He was on his phone, because why wouldn’t he be, and I thought of those hands on my breasts, trying to unbutton my jeans while his mom watched from the sidelines and shouted play-by-play commentary and demands for improvement.
“No way!” I laughed. It was out before I knew what I was going to say. Oh no.
She reeled back as if she’d been slapped. “Any woman would be lucky! Not that you would know, you’re so old and dried up. This date is over!”
I looked at Dave. He was still on his phone.
Conclusion: date unsuccessful.
Uncontrollable variable: extreme medical condition whereby the umbilical cord is still attached in adulthood.