Ever since the Billy thing, they’ve been pestering me about finding someone and settling down. It’s constant. Every single time she calls, Mom asks me if I’ve met a nice young man yet. She calls me every other day, at least. Sometimes she texts just to “check-in” and asks me if I’ve gone on any dates since she last asked the day before. Like it happens by magic. Even Dad gets in on it once in a while. He supports Mom in her worrying, at the very least. I don’t know if they’re worried I’m going to implode if I hit thirty and am still single, or if they’re not so sure about my ovaries (they haven’t made it a secret that they’re desperate for some grandkids to love on), or something.
But it’s bad. It’s really, really bad.
Susan’s wedding has only made things worse. Nothing like a wedding to cause a person to think about their own romantic story. Or dwell on how their said daughter is still currently devoid of one.
I know when I go back home in a couple of days, it’s going to be endless hounding, and I just can’t take it. Dean, who knows my parents well and me even better, politely suggested that I’d save myself a ton of trouble if I just paid someone to pretend to date me for the few days I’m there for the wedding, to give my parents some hope. Once they saw I was good, they could move on to thinking about the wedding. It would be a hassle-free four days, and my sister wouldn’t be pissed at me for stealing some of her limelight by making my parents worry about my singlehood. Everything would be great.
Dean pulls up in a huge parking lot behind an even bigger brick building. The thing sprawls out on a corner lot and goes up a few stories. I’ve been here a few times as Dean’s sort of wingman. This bar is one of the most popular in Seattle. The fact that it’s a gay bar doesn’t deter me at all from having a good time. It’s actually way more fun, being single and straight, to go to a gay bar instead of hitting a regular club. As soon as I say I’m actually not gay or that I’m happy single, I get left alone.
And there aren’t any guys coming up and smacking my ass or grabbing other inappropriate parts of me. It’s really, really nice. The place is nice too. It’s all brick on the outside and ancient-looking since I think it was an old factory at one time, but the inside is super modern, super clean, and features two floors. One is more mellow, for people who just want to hang out and have more of a lounge-type feel, while the lower part has the typical dance floor, multiple bars, and booths on one end type of deal.
“We’re here,” Dean states the obvious as he parks his car. “Get your game face on. We are going to rock this.”
“You have to do most of the work.” My voice comes out wobbly and barely more than a frightened whisper. “I mean, talk to people. You’re not shy like me, and this is a hundred times worse.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll help you out. Don’t I always help you out?”
“I’m not so sure, given that this was your idea, and now I’m having some serious regrets.”
“Hey.” Dean places a comforting hand on my shoulder. Somehow, he’s not even the least bit clammy, even though I feel drenched in sweat. “Don’t worry. I’ve got your back. I always have your back.”
“I know.” I do know. I don’t doubt Dean’s love and care for me. I never had a brother, but Dean goes above and beyond that. He might have got me into some seriously dumb shit in the past, but he’s also bailed me out more times than I can count.
“This isn’t any different. And what guy wouldn’t want two thousand dollars for like four days of doing nothing?”
“Uh, plenty. It’s not a whole lot of money.” Even though it was all that I could spare at the moment.
“I’ll pitch in some if I have to,” Dean assures me.
I sigh so hard that my lungs nearly give way. “I don’t want you to have to do that. This is my problem, not yours.”
“Your problems are always my problems. I love you; you know that. I want you to be happy. I know your parents are hard on you, and I know you’re tired of it. I know you just want to be left alone, but you can’t actually force them to leave you alone because you love them too much, and you’re too sweet to tell them to stop badgering you about getting laid, married, and popping out kids left and right.”