Page 4 of The Great Dating Fake Off
Heat gathers low in my belly as I rattle off a string of digits.
“There. I texted you my email address.” He looks up. “I’m not sure I caught your name.”
My fingers toy with the sparkly fuzz lining the bottom of the party hat. “I’m Nora. D’Amato, if you need the whole thing. For legal reasons. Like, relating to using the store for your job.”
I’m surprised I didn’t choke on that word salad. Not that there’s any reason to be nervous, since there’s no dating potential here. It’s purely business.
But then…he’s not looking at me like this is purely business.
Goose bumps ripple down my arms. I really hope he can’t see those in case I’m misconstruing the flicker of interest in his eyes. His thumb absent-mindedly runs up and down the side of his phone as he stares.
“And what if I’d wanted your name and number for personal reasons?” he asks.
My heart flutters like a butterfly taking flight. “Personal reasons?”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “If you’re free tomorrow, maybe you’d like to—”
The front door swings open on its hinges so hard it nearly breaks off.
I want to blurt finish your sentence, but a harried, sweaty Benji blasts into the bookstore and tramples the moment. Physically imposing but forever unaware of his strength and the space he takes up, Benji rams an elbow into the endcap of the first bookshelf he passes in his haste to get inside.
Two women bring up the rear. One is middle-aged with an aggressive black bob, a tie-dye shawl straight from the seventies, and a loaded charm bracelet circling her wrist. She gives Benji’s height a run for its tall money, but whereas she is adorned in enough colors to fill a box of crayons, Benji resembles an angel of death in four different shades of black from his hair to his Converse sneakers.
The other woman all but chasing Benji is younger, maybe late twenties like me, and rocking a striped maxi-dress that accentuates her curves. Her sleek raven hair hangs pin-straight down her back.
They’re familiar. I mentally match their likenesses with the lone family photo I’ve seen of Benji’s on his living room wall. This is the mother he’s always “spared me from meeting” because she’s “too damn much,” and the sister who tries to marry him off to all her friends, Rosalina.
His mother continues a speech she must’ve started outside.“You think women just make new eggs? We don’t. We’re born with a set number, and when they’re old, they’re old.” Her arms move like she’s landing a plane, charms jangling as she follows Benji through the bookshelves. “And it’ll take months from when you start dating to get to a proposal, and then it’ll take months from there to lock down a church and plan the wedding, then the wedding itself, and then more months of trying. You’re thirty-four years old already! You’re falling behind schedule.”
“Can we please drop this?” Benji wheels his suitcase toward the checkout desk across the store. If he notices Sebastian and me against the wall, he doesn’t show it. “I know how time works. You remind me once a week about ticking clocks and procreation. Now, I appreciate the ride from the airport—even though I was planning to take an Uber and told you not to come—but you’re free to go about the rest of your evening. I’m here safely.”
Rosalina sighs. “Ma, you’re coming in too hot. Let me handle this.”
“I just want what’s best for you, Benjamino,” his mother replies, ignoring Rosalina’s warning. “Why won’t you let your poor mother help you? Is it because I insulted your beard?”
“It’s not the beard!” Benji gripes. “I’d just rather not discuss my love life. I appreciate the concern, but I’m very busy with work. I’ve been out of town for three days and I have pressing matters to attend to.”
I snort internally. If by “pressing matters” he means gathering up Tairn and his critter feed and taking them home, then heck yes, he does.
“Listen, why don’t I just text you the names and numbers of those girls I told you about, and then we’ll get out of your hair,” Rosalina insists. She rummages in the depths of her satchel bag, grumbling about her slippery phone. “Odds are you’ll like at least one of them.”
Perhaps sensing how futile resistance truly is, Benji shakes his head and begins poking around behind the counter. As he’s sliding the cash register from one spot to another—for no discernable reason—I feel a stab of pity for him.
In the year and a half I’ve worked here, the introverted (read: people-averse) Benji has gone on as many dates as I have. Zero. Unlike me, he’s perfectly content with that choice. Many a night has been spent with me window shopping Tinder profiles from his couch while he plays Call of Duty in his four-hundred-dollar gamer chair across the living room, uninterested in putting himself out there.
His family clearly doesn’t respect his choice.
His mother wanders down an aisle and plucks a book off the erotica shelf. She starts flipping until she reaches the middle. I wince as she cracks the spine.
Sebastian takes a small step closer and lowers his voice. “I’m going to head out.”
Before I can form a response, he’s halfway across the store. He pauses at the checkout desk and knocks a fist lightly on the counter as he nods discreetly toward the women. “Stay strong, brother.”
Benji grunts out a thanks.
The broken bell above the door fails to jingle as Sebastian exits.My pulse hammers as I track him through the giant bay window.
Damn, damn, damn. The first intriguing man I’ve met in years is walking out the door before I can figure out exactly what direction our conversation was heading. Was it a friendly dinner invitation? Maybe something more?
