Dating Makes Perfect

by Pintip Dunn

  “We’ll take them.” Mat accepts the bibs from the hostess, tying one on as soon as she leaves. “Do you want to put yours on, too?”

  We haven’t even ordered yet, which means there’s no hurry. But he’s smirking big-time, having way too much fun. I know I’m good company—but not that good.

  I narrow my eyes. “Did you know they had bibs here?”

  He grins. “That might have been one of the reasons I was all for this restaurant when your mom suggested it. I mean, I wanted you to feel comfortable. In your natural habitat. Wearing your regular accessories.”

  I pick up my straw and blow the wrapper in his face.

  In response, he scoops me up and tugs me closer. Not an inch separates us on the bench. He leans forward until his forehead touches mine. “I really like you, Winnie Techavachara.”

  “Even at this angle?” I ask, since his face is charmingly distorted from this perspective.

  “Especially here.”

  He backs up, looks around slyly at the wooden booth walls, and then pecks my lips.

  The contact is over in half a second. It might even be quicker than the first kiss we had in the courtyard. And yet, I melt anyway. This peck just shows me what I should’ve learned the first time. There are different kisses for different contexts. And each one is special in its own way.

  Footsteps approach, and I leap away from Mat. This booth might create a false sense of privacy, but we can’t be lulled. This restaurant is no more private than our school. I have to remember that.

  By the time the waiter appears in front of our booth, I’m diligently studying the menu.

  We order a wide variety of items because I want Mat to sample the restaurant’s repertoire.

  “What heat level would you like?” the waiter asks, pen poised above his order form. “The Everythang sauce ranges from weak sauce, level one, to ridiculously hot, level four.”

  “Oh, ridiculously hot for sure,” Mat says, ever cocky.

  “Um, Mat?” I venture, having dined here—and burned my tongue—on a number of occasions. “You might want to reconsider. Even level three is pushing it for me.”

  “Nah.” He smiles at me playfully. “Ridiculously Hot is my namesake. I have to go for it.”

  My lips tug. He’s cute. I’ll give him that. Even if he has no idea what he’s dealing with. “I don’t know about you, but I find it hot when my date’s head remains intact.”

  “I’ll be fine,” he insists.

  I turn to our waiter. “A little backup, please?”

  “No way.” He continues jotting down our order, a smirk on his lips. “It’s a perk of my job to watch my customers cry.”

  But even that doesn’t convince Mat to budge.

  After the waiter leaves, my stubborn date rubs his hands together. “You wanna discuss stakes? How about: if I can handle the ridiculously hot sauce, then I get to kiss you.”

  “You don’t need to win a bet for that,” I protest. “And I’d really rather not go to the emergency room tonight.”

  “Oh, come on.” His eyes gleam. “Where’s your sense of adventure? This will be fun.”

  It is fun already. His enthusiasm is infectious, and I can’t help but smile, even though I know this many chilies can’t possibly end well.

  “What is it with you and your bets?” I ask in mock exasperation.

  As soon as I say the words, however, I remember another bet. Or rather, a pair of bets—the one he made with his buddies and the follow-up wager I placed with Kavya.

  I haven’t thought about the bets all week, because quite frankly, they no longer seemed relevant. The connection between us is so real, so genuine, that it rises above any juvenile action we’ve taken in the past.

  Or so I thought.

  The best cons, after all, are the ones that play the long game. Maybe Mat’s engineering the biggest deception in the history of time.

  An image of Ramon flashes across my mind. His wide smile when he caught us in the courtyard. The exuberant thumbs-up. I assumed it was the normal reaction of a guy finding his buddy in a compromising position. But what if the gesture was much more than that? What if it was the victory cheer of a guy who had chosen Mat’s side in a bet among his buddies? If the bet involved more than one of his friends, they would’ve picked sides, right?

  I drop my face into my hands as doubt slithers through me. I hate that I’m insecure. I hate even more that I’m suddenly questioning our every interaction.

  “What’s wrong?” Mat asks, alarmed.

  I lift my face. “The bet you made with your friends.” The words come out hoarse, each syllable pushed through a cheese grater. “Did you win?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You said you could make me fall for you,” I say between clenched teeth. “Is that why Ramon looked so thrilled when he caught us? Was he on the right side of the wager?”

  I’m not sure what I expect. Maybe embarrassment, denial, even deflection.

  Instead, he leans over and kisses me on the cheek.

  “Stop that. We’re having a serious conversation,” I say.

  “You’re cute,” he says.

  My temper spikes. “First of all, that’s incredibly patronizing. And second, you’re avoiding the question.”

  “Oh jeez. I didn’t mean to say, you’re cute when you’re mad,” he says, stricken. “I was stalling, and that came out totally wrong. I also think you’re cute when you’re happy. And nervous. And frustrated. You’re extremely cute when you’re hungry. I just…I’m messing this up, aren’t I?”

  I soften. “You don’t have to stall. Just be honest.”

  He lets out a long, slow breath. “There was no bet,” he says sheepishly. “How’s that for smooth? You asked me why we almost kissed, right after you and Kavya were gushing over the dress you bought with Taran in mind.” He looks pointedly at my necklace. “This green dress, which exactly matches the emerald I got you in the seventh grade.”

  “You remember,” I murmur.

  His eyes flash. “Of course I remember. I remember everything about you. I could hardly admit that I wanted to be the person you wanted to impress. So I made the bet up.”

  “My bet was with Kavya,” I confess, “and I made her wager a whole dollar. Couldn’t convince her to go any higher. The only purpose was to tell you that I had made a bet, too.”

  I don’t know who moves first. But all of a sudden, his arms are around my back, and mine circle his neck.

  Our location, our circumstances, haven’t changed. We’re still in a quasi-private booth in the corner of Lowcountry. Still on a date that my parents believe is fake. Still shouldn’t engage in PDA, for both my own comfort and my parents’.

  And yet, those things fade next to the boy in front of me.

  “It worked, you know,” I say. “You achieved your goal. I did fall for you.”

  He smiles, and then he tells me the same thing, but without any words.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Around one a.m. that night…

  Me: How’s the tongue?

  Mat: Pretty sure my taste buds = scorched beyond repair

  Me: LOLOL. I did warn you

  Mat: Which means it’s probably also your duty to soothe me

  Me: Glass of milk. Dr Pepper. Both will coat your tongue

  Mat: I was hoping for something a little more…personal

  Me: You could use the mug I painted for you in 7th grade. That’s personal, amirite? It has flowers on it. And butterflies

  Mat: *grumble* Thanks

  Me: *big, cheesy grin* Anytime

  Mat: Do you think your mom planned for this to happen?

  Me: She didn’t exactly pour chili pepper down your throat

  Mat: She sent us there. Think about it. Tons of garlic. Enough chilies to breathe fire. Not
a bad way to prevent two people from kissing

  Me: Garlic’s not a deterrent if we’re both eating it

  Mat: *jots note to self* Good to know.

  Me: You should’ve seen yourself. Nose flaring, eyes bulged. Now THAT’S a deterrent

  Mat: Too bad you didn’t get a pic

  Me: Oh, don’t worry. I did

  *Sends photo*

  Mat: Huh. I didn’t notice you taking this

  Me: You didn’t notice much, other than gulping down your water and knocking over mine

  Mat: Just saving you from Chicago’s terrible tap water

  Me: Sure you were

  Mat: I actually look hot here. Check out my biceps. Hello, granite

  Me: Figures that’s the first thing you would notice

  Mat: Happy to notice more. Send me a pic of you

  Me: Not following your logic?

  Mat: It’s only fair. Quick. Take one now

  Me: Are you sure? I’m wearing my glasses. Eye mask on forehead. Ratty T-shirt

  Mat: Stop getting me riled up and do it already!

  Me: Fine

  I sit up and take a ridiculous selfie. I stare at the girl in the picture for an endless moment. Why does this feel like leaping into the abyss? But if Mat’s at the bottom, then I’ll risk it. Taking a deep breath, I hit Send.

  Mat: I’ll keep it 4evah

  Me: Shut up

  Mat: No, really. I especially like the cat face on the eye mask. What is it with you and cats anyway? It’s like you’re overcompensating for your cat allergy

  Me: I like cats

  Mat: I got that part

  Me: Just because I can’t have one as a pet doesn’t mean I don’t like looking at them. Speaking of things I like to look at…send me of pic of you

  Mat: Thought you’d never ask

  Five seconds later, a photo arrives. Of Mat. Without a shirt.

  Mat: Well. What do you think?

  My entire vocabulary has fled. I’m surprised I can even make sense of his words.

  Mat: Have you fainted from all my hotness?

  Good question. Do red cheeks, a pounding heart, and a dry mouth count as fainting?

  Mat: Winnie? This isn’t a come-on, promise. That’s just how I sleep. I didn’t even show you my boxers. We’ll have to save that for next time.

  I’m laughing now. I can’t help it. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like Mat—and I probably never will, ever again.

  Mat: Kidding, kidding! Seriously, are you there? Can you respond, please?

  Me: I’m here. Thanks for the pic

  Mat: Are you going to keep it 4evah?

  Me: First I have to figure out how I’m going to sleep

  Mat: *cackles* OK. Sexy dreams—I mean, sweet dreams

  Me: Brat

  Mat: It takes one to know one. Talk tomorrow?

  Me: Definitely. Nite

  I throw down the phone and flop against my pillows, the smile practically splitting my face. I don’t know how I’m going to face him tomorrow, or any other day for that matter. But for now, I’m just going to revel in another first.

  Mat Songsomboon just sexted me.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  I wake with the same smile on my face. Bits of sun stream around the closed blinds, which means my room is bathed in a perfectly muted light. I snuggle into my comforter, soft and cozy. A minute passes before I remember what day it is and what happened last night.

  Sunday, which means I can sleep in. And yesterday, I had my first real date with Mat. My lips stretch even wider as I recall the moment his forehead touched mine, the way I laughed until my stomach hurt when he tasted the Everythang sauce, even the photo of him without a shirt.

  It’s been a long time since I was this carefree. This—dare I say it?—happy. Since I could completely let go and give myself to the moment. It feels good. Every second in Mat’s company feels right. And I can’t wait for more.

  I reach for my cell phone, but I haven’t received any more text messages. Little wonder. I kept him up late last night, and he’s probably still sleeping.

  What does he look like when he’s asleep? Does he curl his hand under his cheek, the way he did as a little boy? Or is he a sprawler—his long arms and legs taking up the entire bed?

  I refuse to think about what he wears—or doesn’t wear. My cheeks hot, I determinedly close my eyes, preparing to drift off again.

  But then the doorknob rattles, and Mama walks inside. She heads straight for my blinds, twisting them open with a snap of her wrist. “Rise and shine.”

  Groaning, I pull the comforter over my head. Classic Mama. No soothing music to ease the transition into wakefulness, the way Papa rouses us. (He read an article once about the most effective way to wake a person up.)

  “It’s past eleven,” Mama says. “You have a date in forty minutes.”

  My eyes pop open, and I sit up, throwing back my blanket. “I do? But it’s Sunday. And I just had one last night.” Not that I’m complaining. Far from it. The prospect of seeing Mat again has me giddy.

  But Mama’s usually the type to create a schedule—and stick to it. With the exception of the car ride home, we’ve had practice dates: 1) once a week, 2) on Saturdays, which, 3) re-create a scene from a classic rom-com.

  Mama crosses her arms. “You’re going to Parkway Deli. It’s about time we give a nod to When Harry Met Sally.”

  “Um.” How do I say this politely? To my mother? “That iconic scene at the deli. Meg Ryan—well, she was faking an orgasm. Are you positively sure that’s the moment you want us to reenact?”

  Mama blinks, her arms dropping. “Oh. Is that what happens? I must not remember the movie very well. Wasn’t there just a lot of screaming and a really good pastrami sandwich?”

  “Oh, Mama.” I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Are you telling me that you’ve been planning all these movie dates with only the vaguest idea of what actually happens in them?”

  She shrugs. “It’s Papa who loves romantic comedies, not me. He used to make me watch them when we first came to the States. I’ll never forget him bawling at the end of Father of the Bride. And we didn’t even have children yet.”

  My lips twitch. I can totally see that happening. Papa’s always been the sappy one in their relationship, while she’s the epitome of practicality.

  “Romance isn’t going to get you where you want,” she says. “It won’t give you a good husband, a caring father. Someone who will take care of your family. Instead, it just seduces you away from your duty, tricking you into abandoning the people you love for a foolish, unattainable ideal.”

  My mouth dries. “Are you talking about…Mat’s mother?” That’s the only possibility, really, since no one’s abandoned anyone in our family.

  She doesn’t respond. Instead, she surveys my collage of photos—of my sisters and me making goofy faces, of Kavya and me with our arms linked—and that’s answer enough.

  Auntie Nit was her best friend. They would take turns watching each other’s kids or retreat to the kitchen and drink chrysanthemum tea if we were playing nicely. Mama must’ve mourned when her closest friend left. I know, from what Mat said, that she tried to atone for Auntie Nit’s actions in the only way she knew how.

  And I never even noticed.

  I was young, sure. I was grieving the loss of my own friend. But I probably should’ve seen that something was amiss with Mama. That’s the burden of parents, I suppose—that their children will always think of themselves first.

  That doesn’t mean that I can’t try to do better.

  “She’s only one person,” I say softly. “You should know, from firsthand experience, that there are other stories of romance that end happily. Look at our family. Look at Papa. He takes care of all of us—and he loves you to pieces.”

 
She brushes away the notion. “Not in a foolish, romantic way. We’re a good match. Partners in every sense of the word. But he’s mostly devoted to our family, to you girls.”

  “No, Mama,” I say stubbornly. “He loves you, too. I know it.”

  “You can think what you want.” Her face softens, and she places a hand on my cheek. “I love you, romantic daughter of mine. But you’d better get up. You have exactly twenty-five minutes before your date arrives.”

  …

  Twenty-three minutes later, I skip down the stairs. I could’ve used the extra seconds to primp, but I’d much rather have that additional time with Mat, on the off chance that he arrives early.

  Besides, I’ve never needed much time to get ready. A quick shower, the usual ponytail for my hair. Ripped jeans, a simple T-shirt, a bit of gloss, and I’m done.

  The one thing I’m not wearing is the emerald necklace. I looked for it on my nightstand, on my dresser, even the floor. But I can’t seem to find the piece of jewelry anywhere. Oh well. I lose something at least once a day. It’s bound to turn up. My misplaced items usually do.

  Mama’s sitting on the sofa. I expected Papa to be next to her, reading one of his articles, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

  “Where’s Papa?” I ask.

  Mama purses her lips. “He went to the gym.”

  “Really? Without you?”

  It’s one of my parents’ traditions, attending the gym together on Sunday mornings. And she thinks they’re not romantic.

  “He had some extra energy,” she says vaguely.

  I tilt my head. She’s acting weird, even for Mama. But before I can ask her what’s wrong, she gestures at a composition notebook on the coffee table, the same one Mat was using to record our dates.

  “Mat forgot the notebook when he picked you up last night,” she says. “The ruler, too.”

  Oh. That’s right. It never even crossed our minds to fill out an entry. I guess we got so caught up in the realness of our date that we forgot to keep up the illusion that it was fake.

  “Sorry about that.” I pick up the notebook gingerly. “I’ll take it with me, and we’ll make a record for our dates yesterday and today.”