Chapter 2
Oliver
Glasses clink together at each table I pass, barely heard over tonight’s crowd. Friday night in the sleepy town of Serenvale Springs never fails to disappoint in Theo’s Place, and tonight is no exception thanks to the constant stream of musical talent they keep lined up.
Blythe would have loved tonight’s selection—a female folk duo. But as we left our parents’ house tonight, my little sister refused to hear about anything other than taking a hot bubble bath and climbing into bed.
Slipping past one, two and three more people, I make it to my destination with only one almost-stain on my burgundy sweater. Hanging my coat on an empty chair and dumping my work satchel beside it, I drop into the seat across from John.
“You look great,” he comments, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. Dressed in gym clothes, the man throws back a big gulp of the ice water resting beside his main drink.
While he had the opportunity to get in a workout after the last client of the day, I had time for a lovely family dinner complete with plenty of love and guilt.
My answer is a pull of the too dark beer he ordered and had waiting for me.
“How were Mom and Pop Rhodes tonight?” John, my best friend since junior high and business partner, is the only one who could get away with calling my parents such juvenile names.
Especially to their faces.
But John and his older sister, Rindy, made themselves at home within my family the day they moved to our neighborhood.
Going out with them in tow was always a riot—everyone assumed they were adopted since their appearance is our exact opposite.
Where my sister and I are blond with fairly tanned skin, the McNalley siblings flaunt raven hair with skin nearly as deep.
And while their parents still live states away, John and Rindy have both made a home for themselves in Serenvale Springs.
John pops a chip into his waiting mouth. “Did they bring up marriage again?”
“They waited until dessert, at least.”
“I’m telling you, man, they’re getting antsy for some grandbabies.” John pushes the pizza dip toward me, and I impolitely help myself.
“I guess Nacho isn’t good enough for them. Poor girl.”
“Guess not,” he grins.
Speaking of kids, “Where’s Cici tonight?” John’s five-year-old daughter and all her spunk are nowhere to be seen.
Not that she usually joins us for beers on a Friday night. But thanks to her constant chatter around the office, I usually have an idea where she’ll be on any given day.
“Joanna wanted to take her shopping for clothes,” he shrugs. From the relief written on his face, John is more than happy to let his sister-in-law take on that particular experience. It’s just as well—Cici’s outfits typically look as though they were put together by a colorblind person.
It’s safe to say that John isn’t the most fashionable man. He’d probably see clients in sweats, if it were left up to him.
In fact, I think Rindy does most of his shopping. That woman and her wife have done enough shopping for Methuselah’s lifetime.
“So, Jo and Rindy picked her up from school today. The shopping commences in the morning,” he finishes.
“And tonight?”
“An over-the-top slumber party, complete with movies and all the ice cream she can handle.”
“I’m sure there will be every other sweet treat imaginable available, too,” I grin. Joanna has quite the sweet tooth.
“Don’t I know it.” Smiling, John shakes his head. “You know, I may never know why Angela left us, but I do know I’m thankful every single day that she didn’t take Cici with her.”
Swallowing, I nod. For the past four years, this time of year has been nothing short of difficult for my best friend. Tackling the mouthwatering pizza dip between us, I allow John the few moments I know he’ll need after mentioning his ex-wife.
Just as the folk duo switches songs, John clears his throat. “Are Marshall and Sandra at least giving Blythe the same kind of grief?”
I snort, rolling my eyes. “Are you kidding? She’s perfect in their eyes.”
“And yours.”
Shrugging, I grin. I may be biased, but Blythe’s a pretty awesome sister. And in my line of work, I see plenty of family dynamics.
“You know”—John takes a drink from his frosted glass—“I don’t mean to sound like your parents.”
“Oh, this is gonna be good.”
“But I think you’d be a great dad,” he finishes.
“Aw, come on,” I plead. “At least let me get through one drink before you start agreeing with my parents.”
John laughs, slapping the table. “You know, I think Ci’s teacher is single. She’s pretty, kind, intelligent.”
“Then why don’t you go out with her?” I quirk a dark blond brow at my friend.
John peers at me over his nearly empty glass. “Because I’m not interested in her like that.”
Having seen my friend’s waning glass, a server brings over two more.
“I dunno,” I swirl the drink, pretending to be puzzled. “Sounds like she might be a catch. Maybe you should think about it.”
John shakes his head. “It’s still too soon, man.”
“What if the right person came along?”
Crossing his arms, my friend looks over at the band. “Then, maybe. Cici needs someone else she can count on, don’t get me wrong. But I’ll know them when I meet them.”
With this man’s reluctance, I’m honestly surprised Rindy hasn’t kicked him into next week. But then, even his sister knows when to back off, I guess.
Not that she ever has with anyone else.
But like Blythe and I, those two grew up close and managed to stay that way.
It was even Rindy’s idea to open a practice together.
Only a couple of years older, she had already been practicing.
Specializing in marriage counseling, Rindy had no trouble finding a group to take her on once she graduated.
It was when they told her there was no room to hire John too that she approached us about opening the practice together.
With my parents fully settled here, and Blythe back from school and opening her studio a couple years ago, there’s never been any reason to move anywhere else.
By the time we’re on our third glass of water and second plate of wings, John has his phone out and is creating a list of all the reasons I need to get married. Granted we only have four, so far.
“Here.” Reaching across the table, I extend a napkin his way.
Buffalo sauce continues to be haphazardly smeared across the screen before John eventually thinks better of it and wipes of his fingers. “Thanks. Okay, onto the fifth one.”
“Yup.”
“Clearly, Nacho needs someone to listen to her complain about you when you withhold extra treats.”
“Sure,” I nod. “Clearly. That’s a solid fifth reason. Especially behind needing someone who can keep a plant alive.”
“Dude, you absolutely suck at that. Instead of a green thumb, I think you just have a death thumb.”
Chuckling while attempting to drink water is not recommended. At least, not by my shirt, which is now soaked. “Thanks, man.”
Dipping his chin, the level of seriousness exuded by my best friend is hilarious. “Name one plant that’s made it longer than two weeks in your care.”
“None.” I’d pretend to hem and haw, but the fact is, I really am a terrible plant dad.
John scoffs. “Yet, Sandra keeps the dream alive.”
Grinning, I shake my head. “Mom has got to quit gifting me plants. Though, sometimes I think their deaths are self-inflicted.”
“Only because they probably know their fate,” he points out, “which makes you needing help with your plants one of the reasons for you to find someone.”
Using the paper straw to push any remaining ice further into the water, my eyes wander to the bar’s uninspired ceiling. “I wonder if this is what the next couple of months will be like.”
“What do you mean?” John furrows a dark brow, readjusting to clap for the band, who is wrapping up their final set.
“I mean this”—I wave my hand between us—“everyone telling me how badly I need to settle down. Surely there’s something I can do, some kind of guiding light to help me make it through the holidays.
” My erratic movements attract the attention of the next table over, earning us confused looks from the large group.
While I awkwardly wave to try and deter them from having us kicked out, John keels over the table in laughter.
Only when the others finally write us off as harmless, do I turn back to my friend. “Thanks for the help,” I say dryly.
“You looked like you had it under control.” John wipes a tear from the corner of his eye.
Rolling my eyes, I lean toward him. “What do you think?”
“You mean about people saying that you deserve someone who makes you happy? Yeah, the outrage. You really should do something about that.”
If we were in private, I might just flip him off. “I’m just saying, with how much time my family spends together around the holidays—”
“And every other week of the year.”
“And every other week,” I concede, “it’d be nice to have just a little break.”
“I mean, sure. We’d all like a little reprieve once in a while.”
“John.”
“Okay, okay … ” John nods. “How exactly do you plan to make that happen?” He lifts a skeptical brow.
“Dunno. I guess I just wish there were someone like me. You know, in my position. But maybe that someone could convince my family that my life is fine the way it is.”
“It is?”
Narrowing my gaze, I pin John with a playful glare. “Yep.”
John chuckles under his breath. “This sounds like something you could monetize, given the right circumstances.”
“Convincing someone’s family that their life is actually good?” Furrowing my brow, I shake my head.
“Ehh, that’s a little broad.” John’s skepticism can probably be felt two counties over.
Looking up, my gaze catches his. “Even better—my parents see my single lifestyle as a shortcoming, right?”
“Right … And probably your main one.”
“I’m ignoring that. But I’d be willing to argue that their insistence on my settling down may actually push me further from wanting that life.”
Across the table, John merely blinks.
“What if that was what I did?” Grinning like an idiot, I hold my best friend’s stare.
My friend who looks very confused. “What?”
Leaning as far forward as possible, I whisper, “What if I convinced someone’s family that any traits they see as shortcomings in a given family member is actually the family’s fault? You know, instead of the individual’s.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Think about it.” My face begins to hurt from how wide I’m smiling.
“As therapists, we’re trained to assess, diagnose and treat all kinds of issues within family relationships”—I shrug—“so, I’d go to their holiday celebration with a mental list of every perceived shortcoming by their family.
Then, one by one, I would convince whomever necessary how the defect is actually their fault instead of the individual’s.
Using psychological facts, of course. I’d be the perfect holiday date. ”
A smile breaks out across John’s face. “A holidate.”
“A holidate,” I nod, crossing my arms. “Charge a small fee—”
“$500?”
Shaking my head, I take another sip of water. “Nah, that’s too steep.”
“Wow, I didn’t know you could put a price on ruining someone’s holiday. But here we are.”
Ignoring him, I spout a revised offer. “What about $300?”
John laughs. He grabs a napkin, snagging the pen from our bill. “Oh, that’s much better.” The man scratches down our proposal cliffnotes.
“What are you doing?”
“Making a few notes. You never know, this could make a hilarious story one day,” he says, never looking up. John’s written short stories on and off for years. He even worked on our college newspaper. But storytelling has always been his passion.
Maybe that’s why he loves working with families—he wants to write their happy endings since he never got one himself.
“I thought you wanted to write a mystery.”
John shrugs, finally looking up from the napkin. “I could be persuaded to switch things up.” He grins.
“You know what”—I reach out and snatch the napkin from him—“I’m not so sure I trust you to hold onto that without doing something insane.” Grabbing my bag from the floor, I toss the napkin inside while he protests.
“Come on, man. Not fair.”
A quick peek into my water glass lets me know time is just about up. Sighing, I look back at my friend. “Look, it’d be fun. But until then, I guess I need to go home and see if Nacho has any fresh excuses for me to use over the next few weeks.”
“Are you and the furchild still coming over tomorrow to watch the game?” he asks as I put on my coat.
“Of course. Will Cici be there? Or will she be too busy shopping?”
“She’ll only be there if you bring cookies.” John holds up both hands in surrender. “Her orders, not mine.”
Chuckling, I toss my bag onto my shoulder. “Then I guess I’d better deliver.”