the newspaper. “That’s exactly what it’s like. You’re always proud of them when they accomplish something big.”
“I didn’t know you had children, Gary,” I say.
“I have three ferrets,” he says with a smile, and you know what? He does look proud.
Chloe widens her eyes at me briefly, then takes off her apron. “Nick, I’m taking my break!”
“You just took a break,” Nick calls from the back.
“Tobin can handle it,” Chloe says, coming out from behind the counter. She gestures to my usual table. “Come, sit. Tell me literally everything, in excruciating detail.”
“First off, I don’t get how we didn’t know Gary had ferrets already. That kind of seems like something he would’ve mentioned,” I say, sitting down.
“If you think I want to talk about Gary’s ferrets right now, then you’re being deliberately obtuse,” Chloe says. “Spill the beans, woman.”
I run through the entire story, and Chloe squeals at all the appropriate parts. “And get this . . . he has a kid,” I say, leaning forward.
Chloe tilts her head, like maybe she didn’t hear me. “Okay?”
“A kid, Chloe.”
She continues to stare blankly.
“Like. Tom. Hanks.”
“There it is,” she mutters. “I thought this was maybe a step forward for you. Like, sure, you’re not throwing yourself at the super-hot movie star who comes in here almost every day—”
“Drew comes in here every day?” I ask, but she keeps going.
“Even though your refusal to do so is basically an insult to me, your best friend, who would love nothing more than to hear a secondhand account of what those abs really look like in person—”
I purse my lips.
“But I thought that maybe accepting a date with an apparently hot, just-slightly-older man meant that you were committing to life here in the real world, where our interactions don’t consist of banter written by Nora Ephron. However, I see now that I was wrong.”
“Could you please stop talking like this? Like you’re narrating a podcast about my life?”
“Hon,” Chloe says. “No one’s going to make a podcast about your life unless you murder someone or get murdered by someone. And even then, the bar is pretty high these days.”
I ignore her and say, “He said he asked me out because his therapist told him to take chances. His therapist. This is a guy who’s in touch with his feelings, like Tom Hanks in Sleepless in Seattle.”
“Big whoop!” Chloe says, throwing her hands in the air. “Everyone’s in therapy. Gary’s in therapy. That doesn’t mean you need to date Gary.”
“You girls know I’m happy with Martha,” Gary says from across the room. I wave at him.
“Chloe,” Nick says, palms on the counter. “Planning on getting back to work at any point?”
She smiles and faux-sweetly says, “Yes, sir!” then turns to me. “Listen, babe. All I’m saying is that you need to remember this kid he has is a person, not a plot device, okay?”
“I know that.”
“Do you?” She gets up and heads back to the counter. She shakes Tobin by the shoulders. “Dude. Were you asleep?”
“I was meditating,” Tobin says groggily.
“Go meditate in the kitchen while you wash the forks,” Chloe says.
I sigh. “Hey, did I mention that our date is tonight? Here?”
Chloe leans over the counter. “So I get to see Mysterious Hot Blue-Eyed Older Man in the flesh, hmmm?”
“Stop saying flesh like that. It sounds . . . lascivious.”
“Good, because that’s how I meant it.”
“I’m looking forward to meeting your new fella,” Gary says, stopping by my table.
“He’s not . . . this is our first date, Gary.”
Gary adjusts his hat. “But you never know what might happen.”
That’s what I’m afraid of, I think as Gary walks through the front door and I’m hit with a gust of cold air.
* * *
• • •
I choose a tight dress for my date. It’s perhaps too tight, but Carter primarily sees me in a puffy jacket, and I’d like to remind him that I do, in fact, have a body underneath my several layers of insulation. I don’t even know why I own this black dress with a neckline that’s entirely too low, but it’s probably a leftover from college, when Chloe and I had friends who liked to sometimes “go out,” which entailed going to some weird bar with a smoke machine and dance remixes that only served to make already terrible songs even more terrible.
“Uncle Don! I’m leaving!” I call as I run down the stairs. I don’t want to pull a Barry and be late to this date. For starters because it’s rude,