“Wonton strips.” I have to stop myself smiling. “That’s what they’re called.”
“Yeah. Well, they’re delicious.”
We look over the menu in silence. As the waitress approaches with our drinks, Mitch leans in and whispers in my ear, “You can order whatever you want.”
I’m tempted to point out to him that everything on the menu is about the exact same price, but instead I thank him.
Once the waitress takes our orders, Mitch holds a wonton out for me. “You want one?”
I shake my head. “I saw that you guys won last night.”
He nods. “Just barely, but, yeah. A win is a win.”
We sit in silence for a moment as the local radio station plays over the speakers and our feet brush up against each other.
Mitch coughs into his fist. “So I guess Ellen Dryver’s your best friend, right?”
I reach for my glass of water and do that thing where your mouth can’t quite find the straw. “Yeah. She is.” I tell him some about Lucy and Mrs. Dryver and how Dolly Parton brought us all together.
“You’re, like, a die-hard Dolly Parton fan? I mean, isn’t she really old?”
I don’t know if there’s a how-to-go-on-a-first-date-without-making-a-total-fool-of-yourself handbook out there, but if there is I’m pretty sure ’fessing up to your weird Dolly Parton obsession is not on the do list. But I feel this intense sense of loyalty to her that I can’t shake. “Okay, so here’s the deal: yes. I am a huge Dolly Parton fan. But there’s something you have to understand about Dolly Parton fans: we’re nuts. And since there’s such this high level of crazy amongst all of us, I am, in comparison, not as batshit as most others. Like, there are people out there who have devoted their lives to creating ceramic Dolly Parton dolls. Some people even leave their jobs and families behind just to be near her.”
“Okay,” he says. His brow crinkles together, and I can see that he’s really making an effort to understand. “Okay, but on, like, a scale of one to ten?”
“On a scale of one to ten, ten being total nut job, I guess Ellen and I would be fours. Maybe fives? Mrs. Dryver is a total eight, but not quite a nine because she hasn’t had plastic surgery. Yet. And I guess Lucy was about a seven.”
“Was?” he asks.
The memory of her sinks through me and settles deep in my bones. “Was. She died in December of last year.”
He sits back. “Oh, wow. Hey, I’m really sorry.”
“Thanks. It’s fine.” I reach for a wonton. “What about you? Who’s your best friend?”
Please don’t say Patrick Thomas. Please don’t say Patrick Thomas.
He pops all the fingers on his right hand and then his left. “I’m close with all the guys on the team. It’s hard not to be. But I guess I’d have to say Patrick Thomas.”
I bite down on my lip and give myself five seconds to come up with something to say. One . . . two . . . three . . .
“You cringed,” he says.
“What? No, I didn’t.”
He laughs. “Yeah. You did. It’s fine, really.”
My shoulders slump. “Okay.” I shift around in the seat to get a better look at him. “It’s just that he’s such a—”
“Dick.”
“Yes. Exactly. And you’re not.”
“I’ve known him forever. Sometimes I still think of him as that same kid from when we were really little, and then I remember that he always was a dick.”
I get what he’s saying. When you’ve known someone for so long, you don’t see the same things in them that everyone else does. But then when you’re friends because of who you were and not who you are, it’s hard not to find the common thread that stitches you together. Still, I guess it’s not my job to police his social life. “Okay, I can buy that.”
He shrugs and then drums his fingers on the table. “Uh . . . so, what’s your favorite holiday?”
“Fourth of July, I guess?”
He wipes the sweat from his forehead using a napkin. “I’m a Halloween kind of guy.”
The waitress swoops in and places a bowl of egg drop soup down in front of each of us.