Ding.
“Ready?” she finishes on a laugh.
“Yup. Now we’re in the important phase.”
“What phase is that?”
“The crisping.” I give her one last kiss, don the pink oven mitts that match the ones she gave me, and check the oven. A wave of yummy ham caramelized in brown sugar and pineapple hits me. “Oh babe, this is going to be amazing. The Carltons are going to pick your proposal based on this meal alone.”
She’s hovered over her computer as she says, “They would be crazy not to.”
“Now we’re going to turn this on broil and let it crisp the edges so we get that perfect texture.”
“I’m going to do a quick rinse off and avoid my hair and makeup as best as possible.”
“Why?” I ask, spinning around as she starts to walk away. “Don’t want sex smell on you?”
“Can you not?” She shivers with revulsion. “God, Jason.”
“What?” I laugh. “Bottle that up in a candle for me, especially if it’s a special-edition Dottie scent.”
“That’s right,” she says, walking away, “Get out all the pervy comments now. Let them fly so you’re on your best behavior when they get here.”
“I’m an ace at these things,” I call out as she disappears. “A fucking ace.”
Keeping the oven door open so I have a trained eye on the ham, I rehearse in my head all the thoughtful questions I came up with to ask Mr. and Mrs. Carlton.
How did you two meet?
Was it love at first sight?
Did you—
Ding.
“What was that?” I ask myself, looking around the kitchen. Am I missing a timer?
Ding.
I check the oven, then the counter . . .
Ding.
My eyes fly to Dottie’s computer. Oh, okay. I chuckle to myself, letting the short panic fade. I have everything timed out, and at this point in preparation there should be no extra—hey, why does that email have my name as the subject line?
I glance at the ham and then turn back to the computer, leaning a little closer.
Does it say Jason?
I squint.
Yup, that says Jason.
Maybe it’s a different Jason . . . or maybe it’s about me and the dinner tonight. Should I look at it?
No.
That’s Dottie’s email. She’ll read it and tell me what it says. Right?
What if she doesn’t? What if she’s too nervous to tell me what it says? I don’t want to disappoint her tonight.
I bite my bottom lip and look toward her bedroom.
Maybe a quick glance, just to get the gist of it.
I step away from the oven but then catch myself.
“No,” I mutter, turning away. “That’s her work email. It’s private. If I need to know the information, she’ll tell me.”
Keeping my eye on the ham, I watch the juices spark inside the oven while the email bores a hole in the back of my head.
It’s calling out to me, tapping me on the shoulder, encouraging me to read it, look at it, practically smell it for information.
“Ah,” I groan, pulling on my hair with my oven mitts.
Just a quick once-over.
I glance at the ham one more time. I look down the hallway—the coast is clear—and then I read the email.
Dottie,
I’m assuming everything is set for tonight. I have all the confidence in the world that you can close the deal.
As for Jason, how did he take the news about your fake relationship? I’m assuming okay if he’s willing to go along with tonight. I still feel uncomfortable about you using him for the dinner, but as long as he’s in the know, that’s all that matters.
Knock them dead. Love you, kid.
Dad.
My eyes swim over the words, rereading the same sentence as if it’s not registering in my brain.
I still feel uncomfortable about you using him for the dinner, but as long as he’s in the know, that’s all that matters.
Using me?
Fake relationship?
What?
I shift on my feet, reading the email again. He must be mistaken. What we have isn’t fake. There’s nothing fake about our relationship. I’ve never felt something so real in my life.
But . . . what if . . .
No. I shake my head and step away from my computer, my mind reeling with every conversation I’ve had with Dottie.
This is real. Real for me, real for her.
Then again . . .
When did she talk to the Carltons about me? They’ve been on vacation for a while, so she must have told them before they left. When was that though? Shit, either way the timing doesn’t seem to work. Why would she tell her dad this was fake unless . . . it started that way?
Shit.
I wrack my brain, trying to figure out the timeline, tempted to go through her emails to help me but think better of it. I’m sure they aren’t ones she’d keep.
What about the enchilada fiasco night? She went to work that day pissed as shit at me. I didn’t think she’d come to dinner, and yet she showed up. But . . . she more than just showed up; she came on to me and hard. It was weird at the time, still fucking weird now that I think about it, but if she was desperate to seal the deal, I wouldn’t put it past her to do anything it takes.
Holy.
Fuck.
I step back again, both oven mitt hands on top of my head as I try to understand the implications of this.
Does she actually like me? Or has this all been a fucking game to her? Have I been a pawn in her life? Using me for sex and career gain?
I don’t want to believe it, but then again, I know the drive that hides behind those seductive eyes of hers.
I still feel uncomfortable about you using him.
Why would her dad say those specific words? “Using him.” He would only use that precise term if that’s what she told him.
My heart plummets to the floor, shattering right there on the spot as my breathing starts to pick up.
All the late-night conversations, the flirty smiles, the serious talk about belonging to one another . . . it was all a farce, a goddamn lie for her gain.
Fuck. It’s like Melissa all over again. I’d thought she was into me as well, but she’d been all over other guys at the same time. Why can women lie so easily? What do they really gain from being so . . . false?
“Fuck,” I say to myself just as a burning smell hits my nose.
I spin around only to find the oven bursting with a flaming ham.
“Ahh,” I scream as if my body was replaced with a ten-year-old girl’s. Flames crawl out of the oven and tickle the kitchen air as I dance around the tiled floor, arms flailing, trying to locate a fire extinguisher. “I’m going to die,” I say in the most dramatic voice ever heard. “Fire. It’s a fucking fire.” I jog in place, my cock and balls bouncing against my apron. “Charred to death naked. Ahhhhh.”
I bounce.
I dance.
I flail every limb of my body.
I pray to Jesus for indoor rain.
“It’s a goddamn inferno in here. This is how I die, naked, and—” I spot a red canister in the corner and quickly run to it.
Praise you, praise you!
I pull the metal clip, take the hose, and point it at the oven. Using my most efficient twinkle toes, I waltz around the kitchen, a fire extinguisher as my partner, hand and hose, and together we douse the fire until it’s completely out.