(Here’s a secret: I made a larger cheese plate than I needed to.)
(A bigger secret: My heart just skidded into my rib cage on the heels of its sneakers.)
“I am absolutely— ” He’s interrupted by his walkie-talkie’s static crackle. “Starving.”
“You left your door unlocked,” I accuse him. “Melanie just broke in. What are you doing here? This is a private function.”
“Nothing to steal in there.” He shrugs. I am about to argue when we’re interrupted.
“What’s your 10–20, Panda Bear?” Renata’s sharp voice says from the walkie-talkie. When he doesn’t answer, she tries again. “I told him that this wouldn’t work. Come IN, Panda Bear, what’s your 20? OVER.” A couple of seconds later, a flock of birds fly over us.
Teddy allows himself a soul-deep sigh then presses the side button. “Affirmative, Fashion Victim, that’s a big 10–4. I might be a while. Babe Ruth’s put out a big plate of cheese and grapes and crackers. There’s even a third glass, just for me. Over.”
Renata replies, “Cheese party in the courtyard on a Friday evening. Is there wine? Describe what sort of cheeses. Over, obviously.”
I go inside as he begins describing them to her— hard yellow doorstop, gooey white hockey puck, gross one with mystery bits— then find Melanie in my bedroom picking through the things on top of my dresser. “Teddy’s here.”
“Good, good,” she says, distracted. “Is this all your makeup?” She opens an eyeshadow tin with her fingernail like she’s prizing the lid off a Petri dish.
I lie. “I’m not sure. Maybe there’s more in the bathroom.”
“Already looked there. Okay, so a lot of this is very old and needs to go in the bin.” (She’s not wrong. I used that palette for prom.) “I’ll want to see your clothes at some point too. That’s Week 3 of the Method.”
I lower my voice. “We won’t go into full details of the Sasaki Method while he’s here. We’ll let him sit with us until he gets bored and wanders off.”
“Good plan.” She goes outside. “Hello, Teddy, oh helllllooooo cheese.” They begin cutting into the cheese, squeaking knives and banter aplenty.
“Renata’s revving up the scooter as we speak,” Teddy warns us, assembling a palmful of preloaded crackers for more efficient scoffing. He hands me one with a small flourish.
“I think it would be better if you left,” I tell him as kindly as I can. He reacts like he’s never been so hurt. “This is something that I want to keep private.”
“Aren’t we friends?” He’s got me there. “If you’re worried I’m going to tell my dad or Sylvia that you’re doing this, I won’t. I just want to help.”
“Ah, just let him stay. He’s impossible to get rid of.” Melanie gives me a single sheet of paper. “I want you to sign this first.”
It’s something resembling a waiver.
“ ‘In participating in the Sasaki Method (hereby referred to as ‘the Method’), Ruthie Maree Midona’— ah, so that’s why you asked my middle name— ‘acknowledges that she does so on a voluntary basis and is able to opt out at any point in the process.’ ”
“But I hope you don’t,” Melanie interjects.
I continue reading. “ ‘She waives, releases, and discharges Melanie Sasaki from any and all liability, including but not limited to the following that may result from following the Method.’ ”
I read out loud the following events I am indemnifying her against:
•Hurt feelings
•Unfulfilled expectations
•Emotional turmoil or distress as a result of online dating
•Being murdered by a blind date (Teddy chokes on his mouthful)
•Costs associated with unplanned pregnancy (my turn to choke)
•Miscellaneous expenses incurred from any recommended physical presentation improvements, hereby known as “the Makeover”
•Any costs associated with the inevitable wedding that shall result from participation in the Method
“Initial each,” she instructs.
I hesitate for a long moment on the hurt feelings. “You are a very creative person. Where’d you get this template?”
She watches my pen, halted on the signature line. “I found one online and modified it. The most important part is that you agree that this is voluntary. And down at the bottom you see that I copyright the term the Sasaki Method. I mean, I would if I knew how. What I’m saying is, don’t steal my amazing idea, you guys. I’m getting rich from this one day.”
“I’m happy to sign that,” I try to not sound too dry. “But I want a confidentiality clause.”
“I didn’t make one.”
I look at the son of Jerry Prescott. He’s currently eyes closed, blissful and chewing.
I write an amendment: All information regarding Ruthie Maree Midona’s participation in the Method will remain strictly confidential.
“We all sign. Whatever happens, I want it to stay between us. I’m also adding a clause here that says we will not discuss or participate in the Method during working hours. No resources from the office are to be used.”
Melanie replies, “Whoops, too late. I’ve stolen nine sheets of paper and half a spoonful of ink. Sorry, Teddy, I’ll pay your dad back. But the binder, I bought specially with my own money.”
“Relax, I’m not gonna tell him.” Teddy takes the pen and signs next to my amendments when it’s his turn. It’s a surprising signature, very adult-man, and would look right at home on real estate contracts. “Or am I? Maybe I’m a corporate spy, sent to investigate all the minor paper thefts going on around here.”
I’m starting to notice that he always checks to see if I laugh at his jokes. When I smile, he lounges back in his seat and eats grapes like life is grand. Melanie and I sign the document too.
“Breaker, breaker,” the walkie-talkie squawks. “Fashion Victim incoming, over.”
“I don’t mind this one,” Melanie confides in me. “She makes me feel like getting old won’t be too scary.”
“I’d better get more cheese.”
“There’s more cheese? I don’t have to hold back?” Teddy says with his mouth full and the word TAKE on his cheese-knife hand.
“That’s you holding back?”
Serious-eyed, he swallows and says, “Will you marry me, Ruthie Maree?” And I hate to admit it, but my heart hears the words, and it’s gaping-blushing-starstruck.
Melanie pretends to pack up her folder. “My work here is done. Remember, lilac bridesmaid’s dresses.”
“Even the cheese I thought would be gross isn’t gross,” he’s telling her when I go inside for more snacks. “It’s walnuts in cream cheese with honey. I’ll get a lilac tie to match you all.”
I lean on the kitchen bench to privately regroup.
“Don’t you dare try to be Ruthie’s husband,” Melanie scolds him. “We’re going to do a worksheet on it, but I already knew the moment I saw you. You’re not the right type for her.”