Page 42 of The Great Dating Fake Off
And at the bottom of the sign, in a different font:
SNO CONES FOR SALE.
Far down the shore, a weathered building with missing shingles looms over the water. It’s surrounded by a huge wooden deck on stilts with outdoor seating. The words on the sign are written inside the outline of a sailboat. The Hideaway. It reminds me of late afternoon lake storms, cable-knit sweaters, and old oil lanterns with threaded wicks.
“This place is grander than I expected,” I muse. “The resort itself, the lake, the mountain trails for people who actually enjoy hiking, all the amenities. Color me impressed.”
“Don’t forget the S-N-O cones. We have to try one and see if we can taste the missing W,” he says. “Maybe some other day when we aren’t sopping wet.”
A lightness buoys my chest. “Deal. What’s your favorite flavor?”
“I don’t have a favorite.”
“How is that possible? What do you order, then?”
“I get something different every time. I’m guessing you have a favorite, though, judging by your sassy tone.”
“Mango. That’s my flavor. It is superior.”
He runs his hands through his hair to smooth it back. “You really get the same one every time? You’re not just messing with me?”
“I get the best one every time.”
His brown eyes shine like honey in the sun as he looks at me. They toe the line between light and dark. Mood ring eyes. “And if by some tragic occurrence they don’t have mango—which is not really a typical flavor, I might add—which one would you get?”
“I probably wouldn’t get one.”
“That’s ridiculous.” He drifts close enough that I can see the water clinging to his lashes. “You’d skip out on a snow cone on the off chance you might not enjoy it as much as mango? No one is that committed to a flavor.”
I lift my chin, a defiant smile tugging at my lips. “I like what I like.”
“What about ice cream?”
The sunlight dapples the water around us. “I like strawberry gelato.”
“And nothing else?”
I force myself not to smile at the naked exasperation in his tone. “You’re going to tell me you don’t have favorites of everything?”
“Not really, no. I like too many things to pick favorites.” He pauses. The water ripples around him as he gently moves his arms underwater. “I may regret asking this, but what are some of your other favorite things?”
“Let’s see. Great River is my favorite place—”
“Hold it right there.” Confusion wrinkles his forehead. “You’ve been to Vegas, Key West, and lots of other places. That can’t be your answer.”
“Yes. I’ve lived in forty-nine cities and been to countless others, and Great River wins.”
“Out of all the places on David Attenborough’s planet Earth, that’s your pick? Why?”
“Because I love it. And because I chose to live there.”
His laugh crests and falls. The deep, unselfconscious sound soothes something visceral inside me. It’s like he’s pressed a pressure point just enough to release it. “They should really use you in a commercial for the tourism board. You’d be the best advertisement there is.”
Sebastian makes talking feel like a game, like we’re volleying the pickleball. I get the sense I could tell him I’m a touch-starved Capricorn who hasn’t ever been someone’s real wedding date as easily as I tell him my mother is a paradoxical mix of hopeless romantic and commitment-phobe who forgets to call me for months at a time when she’s in a new relationship, and he’d know what to say to keep the conversation going.
“What specifically makes it the best?” he presses. “I think I’m too close to it to see it clearly, having grown up there.”
“Best and favorite are not always the same thing. But it’s my favorite because it has a fantastic walking path along the Connetquot River, an idyllic downtown, and friendly people. I can picture raising my future kids there. And I’ve got my places in town now. Took me a while, but I’ve got a lobster bisque place, a grocery place, a Thai place, a coffee place—you get the idea.”
