CHAPTER THREE #3
“That man has never done anything halfway.”
The first section covered basic facts: birthdays, hometowns, family members, education, employment, food preferences, allergies, and daily routines.
The second concerned their invented relationship.
When had they first met? Who had initiated their first date?
When had the relationship become exclusive?
Where had Michael proposed? Who knew about the engagement?
The third section was titled Potential Areas of Inconsistency.
Nat began typing answers into the document.
She sent Michael her birthday, the name of the small town where she grew up, the fact that her parents had been married thirty-six years and currently lived four states away, and Lena’s name under emergency contact.
She listed shellfish under allergies and wrote Anything cooked without imagination beside foods disliked.
His response arrived two minutes later.
That is not a food.
She typed back.
It is an entire category.
His answers were concise. He had grown up in a suburb outside the city.
His mother, Elaine, lived forty minutes away.
His father, Richard, lived in Florida with his second wife.
Michael had one younger sister, Caroline, who was married and expecting her first child in November.
He preferred tea to coffee, disliked olives, ran four mornings a week, and had no allergies.
Nat read the family section twice. There were no extra details and no indication of how often he saw any of them.
She moved to the invented history.
We met at a tasting dinner twenty-two months ago, she wrote. You disliked the mushroom course but pretended otherwise.
His answer came back.
Why would I pretend to like mushrooms?
Because you were attracted to the food writer.
I don’t dislike mushrooms.
Then you loved the mushroom course but disliked the dessert.
Why must I dislike part of the meal?
It gives the story texture.
They settled on a tasting dinner for a restaurant opening Nat had covered almost two years earlier. Michael had attended with a colleague. They spoke near the kitchen after Nat accidentally knocked a tray of wineglasses into him. He asked for her number after helping collect the broken glass.
I would not collect broken glass without gloves, he wrote.
This is why our romance requires fiction.
Their first date had been at a quiet Italian restaurant Michael selected after researching reviews, health-department records, and average noise levels.
Nat arrived nineteen minutes late because a delivery truck blocked her car.
She ordered for both of them without asking.
He objected, tasted the food, and then admitted she had chosen well.
That sounds plausible, Michael wrote.
Nat smiled at the screen.
They made the relationship exclusive after four months and became engaged three months ago.
The proposal had taken place in Nat’s apartment over dinner.
Michael rejected her suggestion that he had hidden the ring in a soufflé because of the choking risk and the likelihood of structural collapse.
They finally agreed that he proposed after she burned dessert and opened the windows to clear the smoke.
Why would that inspire me to propose? he asked.
Because you realized life with me would never be boring.
His reply took longer this time.
That also sounds plausible.
Lena went to bed shortly after eleven, taking Howard with her.
Nat remained on the sofa beneath a knitted blanket, answering questions until the invented relationship began to feel unnervingly detailed.
They had a favorite neighborhood restaurant, a song they both tolerated, and an argument about whether towels should be folded in thirds.
They celebrated their anniversary on October seventeenth.
Michael had supposedly told his sister about the engagement.
Nat had told Lena, which at least had become true.
Near midnight, only one question remained.
What did you first notice about your partner?
Nat stared at it. Mrs. Gable might never ask. The answer mattered less than how naturally they delivered it, and they could invent something easy. Michael had already noticed flour on her clothes. She had noticed his watch and his determination to arrive prepared.
She typed: I noticed that you looked like a man who had never lost anything in a kitchen drawer.
His reply appeared almost immediately.
That does not make sense.
It makes perfect sense.
I noticed the flour on your jacket.
Nat looked at the jacket hanging over Lena’s dining chair. The streak remained on one sleeve.
That’s not romantic, she wrote.
Several minutes passed before his answer appeared.
I didn’t say it was. I said I noticed it.
She told herself the small disappointment she felt was exhaustion. She closed the document, lowered the laptop screen, and prepared to sleep.
Her phone sounded.
Michael had sent one final message.
For the record, I would have noticed you at the tasting dinner.