Page 30 of The Troll’s Summer Flame

Gordon: Yes, ma’am. What do you charge? If I did want lessons?

Andrea: One lesson per cat rescue, and then I’ll charge in date-night dessert or take-out.

Gordon: That’s not fair. You need to earn money. Teachers are chronically underpaid. I read about it.

I smile. I can hear his serious voice.

“Andrea? Are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here. Gordon texted me. He sent me an article about cats and pianos. He’s... He’s not like anyone I’ve ever met. More serious. More mature.”

“How old is he?” Daddy interjects, the warning clear in his voice.

“Thirty-two.”

“Ah-ha! He’s a predator! He’s lusting after girls in their twenties.”

“He’s not lusting after anyone but me—and also, not even me. He hasn’t even kissed me.” I’m not going to tell them about the sweetest kiss ever, the little gentle kiss on the top of my head. “We’ve held hands. Wooo, so scary.”

“Don’t mock your father; he has high cholesterol. You stress him, he’ll have a stroke and need to be put in one of those wheelchairs, and we’ll have to get a stairlift.”

“Mother, that’s like an Olympic level of jumping from A to B. Daddy doesn’t have to be stressed. At all. Gordon is a great guy, and he’s very, very safe. He’s boring. Okay? Mature, great, and boring.”

“He can’t be that boring, or you wouldn’t like him,” Dad says accusingly.

That’s true. “He’s entertaining in a way that you would approve of,” I amend, texting back the guy in question.

Andrea: I am not underpaid. I’m under-entertained. Without you around, my summer would be dangerously boring. I could perish from boredom. My blood would be on your hands.

Gordon: ...

Gordon: ...

Gordon: I would never let you get hurt. I will continue to entertain you. We could go fishing. Or hiking.

Andrea: I’ve never done either. But I would, if there was a certain hunky wilderness guide along to make sure I didn’t get lost and eaten by bears, or catch a brain-eating virus in the river water.

Gordon: That’s two lessons paid for, then.

“What makes this guy so special? Why would you miss Tita Anna’s Red, White, and Blue mini bundt cakes? She made one for you, you know.”

That hurts. I can’t believe I forgot about that. Tita Anna’s pandan-flavored bundt cakes with a strawberry filling are worth fighting a whole new revolution over. But... “Josiah can eat mine,” I say, throwing my brother under the bus.

“Your brother is on a Mercy Doctors trip to a ghetto somewhere, giving up his holiday weekend in the service of others, God protect him,” Mom says, following up with a rapid prayer that flips between Tagalog and English depending on how emphatic she is. “You would know that if you two spoke more often.”

“Yes, Mom. Did you call and guilt-trip him?” No. Josiah is the favorite. He not only went the medical route, he specialized, and he’s working with the best wound care specialists in the tri-state area as an intern.

I’m proud of him. Crazy proud. We’re just not crazy close, not since he got swallowed whole by his career and his “mission,” which is noble and all, but...

It’s just another reason life has been feeling lonely.

“He is saving lives! You are dating a fireman!”

“Who also saves lives! Ha!” I counter. And before my parents can tag-team me again, I add, “If I don’t date, I can’t get married and have grandkids for you.” I pull the ultimate ammunition, which will bite me in the butt one day. Probably soon.

“That’s not even an issue,” Dad begins, and I can hear Mom chatter him to silence, a vehement burst of sound.

“We want to meet him. Soon.”