“This is gonna be great,” Freddie said in a stage whisper.
“Fred, don’t you dare …” Ah, there was no point. Little brothers were created to mock, torment and steal from their sisters, and Fred was a shining example. Besides, Ron was here.
Damien was right. He wasn’t quite … clean. Not that he was filthy, mind you. But here I was, in a wicked cute dress, a green-and-white pattern with flattering belt and, yes, darling orange suede high-heeled shoes for that pop of color. I’m just saying. And Ron … Ron wore faded and stained blue work pants, matching shirt. “Callie?” he asked, frowning fiercely.
“Yes! Hi, Ron! It’s so nice to meet you!” I chirruped, hoping that this would soon be true. He had an earthy, not exactly unpleasant smell about him. “Have a seat.”
He obeyed. Ron was a large, solid guy in that reassuring manly man way. We’d done the whole tennis volley of e-mails, and he’d actually seemed pretty nice. Friendly. Asked questions, gave answers. Our knees bumped, and I quickly shifted so as to avoid any unintended signals or dirt.
“Sorry, I’m late,” he muttered. “It was my night to milk.”
“Oh! Milk the, um … cows?” No, Callie. The monkeys. I heard the telltale wheeze of my brother’s laughter already, Annie’s little snort. Super. “I mean, you said you were a farmer. I guess a dairy farmer, right?”
He nodded.
“That’s great. I love cows,” I said. It was true. I did. Especially the kind on the side of the Ben & Jerry’s truck.
Ron’s eyes dropped to my chest. Damn! My adorable dress was quite low-cut … not slutty low, but low enough. If one has a great rack, one must use it to distract from food babies and the like. Or so I’d thought before now. Ron looked very … assessing, as if calculating my own potential in the dairy department.
“You don’t happen to supply Ben & Jerry’s, do you?” I asked. It could never hurt to have an in …
“No.”
“Cabot’s? I love their cheese.”
“No.”
Freddie squeaked.
“So, anyway,” I said, determined to charm. “It’s nice to finally meet face-to-face.”
Ron said nothing.
“Want to order something? A drink? Nachos?” I asked.
He glanced over to Jim, who called out, “What can I get you, pal?”
“Beer,” Ron answered.
“What kind? We have Coors, Coors Light, Bud, Bud Light, Amstel, Amstel Light, Miller, Miller Light …”
“Bud.” Ron looked back at me. Took a deep breath. Let it out. Dropped his eyes to the girls again.
“So, Ron, tell me about yourself,” I said, tipping my head so my shiny hair might distract him from my bosom.
“I’m a farmer,” he said, not looking up.
“Yes! We covered that, I think. Have you been a farmer long?”
“Yup.”
This guy made Ian look like Joy Behar in the chat department. The peanut gallery was having fun, anyway. I reminded myself to remember this at Christmas and not buy them so many presents.
“That’s great.” Tick. Tick. Tick. “And … uh, you said you were divorced?”
“Yup.”
Nothing more. The Betty Boop in my head rubbed her hands together. He’s a challenge, that’s all. We are not going to admit defeat here. He will like us. We are adorable, let’s not forget!
I glanced around. Above the bar, the Sox were on. Poifect. Man-talk. I could fake baseball chatter with the best of them.
“Ron, do you watch sports?” I asked. He was still staring at my chest. I did wear this dress, so I couldn’t exactly be irritated. “Ron? Up here, pal.” I snapped my fingers. Ah. Finally. Eye contact. I smiled to show I understood. “Do you like baseball? How ‘bout them Sox, huh? Second place. That’s not bad. Those damn Yankees, right?” I smiled ruefully. I often checked the sports page for just this sort of chatty tidbit. He still said nothing. Maybe he was diabetic or something, having a blood sugar crash. I often felt the same way when I went too long without cake batter. “Ron? Do you like baseball?”
“Nope,” he said. His eyes dropped back to my chest.
“Everything okay, Ron? You feeling all right?” I asked.
“I’m fine.”
Freddie wheezed behind me. Could I smack him from this angle? Alas, no.
Well, clearly Ron wasn’t going to stop looking at my chest unless I made him, so I picked up the little napkin that had come with my drink, unfolded it and held it in front of the girls. “Ron? What’s the deal?” I asked. “You were very nice in your e-mails … can we please have a conversation here?”
He shrugged. “Well … the e-mails …” His voice trailed off.
“What?” I asked.
He scratched his head vigorously. “My aunt wrote them.”
Behind me, Annie and my brother sputtered and choked. “I see. Well. Tell your aunt she seems very nice. Maybe she’d like to go out with me, hmm?”
Nothing. No reaction.
“I think we’re probably done here, Ron,” I said gently.
“Great,” he answered. “Want to go back to my place and watch porn?”
Holy Lord in heaven! “I … I … I’m gonna have to pass on that one, Ron,” I finally managed. “You take care.”
Thirty seconds later, when Ron was a memory (though the smell of manure still hung in the air), Fred and Annie staggered to my booth and collapsed across from me. “I hope you’re gonna marry him.” My brother sighed.
“You really should let me screen them,” Annie said, wiping her eyes.
“You picked the human hair guy!” I reminded her.
“At least he was clean,” she said.
“Ish,” I corrected. I sighed. “Fred, buy your best girls drinks, what do you say?”
“Sure, Calorie,” he said amiably. “Jim! Another one of those candy-ass drinks for my sister, okay? Annie, what do you want?”
“I have to go,” she said regretfully. “Tonight’s Family Fun Night. We’re playing mini golf.”
“Rub it in, O happily married woman and mother of perfect child,” I said. She smiled modestly. “I don’t get it, guys,” I continued. “I’d want to date me. Why is it so hard for me? I’m wicked fun, I dress nicely, I’m friendly … I’d love to date me. Wouldn’t you?”
“The whole incest-sister thing aside?” Fred asked. I nodded. “Sure,” he said.
“I’d date you,” Annie agreed. “If I was gay, I would. Definitely.”
“Thank you,” I said. She smiled and gave me a quick hug, then went off to Perfectville.
Freddie and I ordered nachos and talked about work as we ate—my work, his lack thereof, and what he might do with his life. “You could always be a lawyer,” I suggested. “You do love the sound of your own voice.”
“True, true. Not that the universe needs another lawyer,” he said. “Hey, completely meaning to change the subject, I guess the next stop on the Tour of Whores is coming.”
“So much fun,” I murmured. “Poor Dad. All this for nothing.”