Page 7 of The Dating Charade

“You think you can help her? You think she’ll be all right?” Edie’s voice warbled as she clasped her hands together at her chest. The elderly woman had been watching the paramedics pull her friend up from the kitchen floor at least once a week for over five months now, and yet every time, she genuinely seemed to believe Donna Gene was on the precipice of death.

“She’ll be just fine.” Jett smiled, stood, and began the routine. He picked up a pair of small crystal salt and pepper shakers from the table and moved them to the counter. Something smelled foul, but his glance around the room suggested too many contributors to locate the item at fault. A bucket of grease sat next to the range, along with a frying pan containing chicken pieces well over a day—or even three days—old. His boot slid the overflowing trash can a couple feet away, along with another bulging trash bag on the floor. The trash bag pushed into the litter box, forcing him to wonder: when was the last time he’d seen a cat in the house?

Sunny began fighting a defiant window.

“You boys are trying to kill us! It’s all but ten degrees!” Edie pulled her robe tightly around her thin neck and fumbled in her cardigan pocket for her hand sanitizer. She sprayed it over her face to, as she often reminded them, “ward off the germs of outside air.”

Sunny began his well-worn spiel as Jett emptied the containers on the table above Donna Gene’s head. A deep southern accent always magically appeared whenever he talked to elderly ladies. “Oh, Mrs. Kolak, you know how I get when up in these parts. It’s just like in the mountains of Colorado, so high up I can’t get ’nough air in my lungs to keep me from passing flat out like one o’ them faintin’ goats. I need the fresh air to keep on keepin’ on.” He flapped his button-up a few times as he drank in a few breaths from the open window. “And you do want us helping your friend here, don’t you?”

Edie resumed her trusty clutched-hands-at-chest position. “Oh. Most certainly.”

The table cleared, Jett grabbed both sides of the table and carefully began to pull. He met little resistance as he lifted and released the prisoner beneath. Together, he and Sunny unraveled the sheet from his pack, and in less than two minutes Donna Gene was cautiously lifted and settled back into her trusty living-room recliner.

The second her legs touched the burgundy fabric, she opened her mouth, continuing a conversation as if seven days hadn’t spanned their last meeting. “Now, as I was saying, Jetty boy, a solid specimen like yourself is wasting your days without someone nice to warm your toes with.” She lifted the remote and, with eyes glued to Jett, turned the volume down. “Frankly, your fear of rejection concerns me.”

Uh-oh. When Donna Gene used such highfalutin words as “fear of rejection,” he knew exactly where this conversation was going.

Sunny grinned and headed toward the door.

Donna Gene eyed Edie, who was slowly making her way to the couch. “It concerns us both. Makes us wonder if it has something to do with childhood trauma.”

Childhood trauma. Their phrase of choice.

The amount of Dr. Bob they watched in the span of twenty-four hours had done unusual things to Donna Gene and Edie, one of which was turn them into self-pronounced psychologists diagnosing anyone within a two-mile radius. As nobody actually lived within a two-mile radius, all their enthusiastic energy fixated on one of their favorites. Him. So far he was dealing with PTSD, middle child syndrome (he was, in fact, the oldest of two), dependent personality disorder, OCD, an overactive thyroid, and couvade syndrome—which he hoped meant something different to them than the usual definition. Otherwise he’d developed the pregnancy symptoms of an imaginary wife.

Lowering his tablet and medical questions, he gave an acquiescing sigh. “Now, Donna Gene, where on earth would I find time to coax a woman into picking me out of a crowd? If I did, I wouldn’t have the time to visit you.”

“Oh, stop.” Donna’s cheeks lifted as she waved a hand at him. “I’m serious, now. You’re a fine young man. Are you sure there’s not something holding you back from all the blushing brides out there?” She laced her fingers together over the remote as though it were an encyclopedia. This was her office. “Are you dealing with some inner angst?”

A clicking sound came from behind him. He turned to see Edie nodding on the couch as she scribbled something on a paper. “Because we have theories.”

“I have no doubt.” Jett slid the tablet back into his backpack. “Well, all I can say is to the best of my knowledge, I’m not suppressing childhood trauma. But mark my words, if I remember that I am, I’ll let you two know first thing.”

This evidently soothed the old ladies, because Edie began nodding again, scribbling something while she mumbled, “Receptive to help.”

“Do that, Jetty boy. Because we talk about it often and, for the life of us, find your case baffling.”

“I can only say I’m glad you’re on the case, because it’s equally baffling to me as well.” Jett zipped up his backpack and took a step toward Sunny standing by the door. “We’ll be seeing ourselves out now. You two have a nice Thanksgiving.”

Both faces fell. “So soon?”

“Afraid so. I’ve got a roast to cook. Can’t leave the guys hungry.”

Both of them waved as Sunny opened the screen door. Donna Gene tapped her temple with her remote. “We’ll be drilling the old lemons, Jetty boy. Don’t you worry.”

The TV volume kicked back up to deafening level as they stepped out into open air. Pine icicles clicked together as a breeze swept through the surrounding trees. Everything about the world just outside their door was as opposite as could be from the inside: silent, clean, still. And yet, a part—a very, very small part—of Jett could see why these women let the raucous television shows fill their ears with sound. If they sat in silence up here too long, chances were they’d start to feel just how lonely they really were.

“You know what you could do—” Sunny started as he climbed back into the cab of their vehicle.

“No.” Jett turned on the ignition, knowing exactly where Sunny was going. He backed out and turned around. The road made a steep decline.

“Seriously, man. Just a couple months ago I went on a date with a gorgeous brunette—or was it blonde?” Sunny leaned back, resting his hands behind his head. “Met at the aquarium. She actually shared my affinity for shark culture—”

“No.”

“Lost her halfway through, though.” His eyebrows knit together. “I should message her . . .”

Jett shook his head, staring straight ahead. “Date however you want, Sunny, but I couldn’t stand thinking women were out there swiping left and right over my picture. Judging me on the type of food I like. Deciding who I am from a paragraph.”