The Love Project, page 8
rival newspaper, trashing Henrietta’s advice in a way that
never mentioned the column by name, but clearly was aimed
straight at it. And Dad never said one damn word in Mom’s
defense.”
“Wait, your mom’s nemesis has the same name?”
Joni nodded, still scanning her phone for more details that
might provide clues of how Evil Clara intended to tear them
down this time.
“And your father dated her, too? Two Claras?”
The unexpected mirth in Hope’s tone was enough to tear
Joni away from her phone long enough to make eye contact.
“So?”
“I mean, talk about having a type.”
Yikes. Hope was right, and Joni realized the similarity
between her and her father was a little too on the nose with
this one. Now was definitely not the time to mention Hope’s
doppelgänger, Esperanza.
“I don’t know what it is about Clara,” Joni said instead,
“but despite having all the academic success my mom lacks,
it’s like she can’t help herself. She’s obsessed with anything
my mother does. I have a bad feeling about her being in the
spotlight at the same time our series debuts. It can’t be a
coincidence.”
Understanding dawned in Hope’s eyes. “This is going to
devastate your mom, isn’t it? What do we do?”
“We outshine her. We punch up our content and hit the
ground running, creating such a buzz for our show that no one
pays the slightest attention to anything else.”
Hope answered with a determined nod. “I’m down for
that.”
The phone rang, and this time the call was from Joni’s
mother. As soon as she said hello, she heard her mom’s frantic
voice speaking over what might have been traffic noise.
“She’s back. Evil Clara.”
“I know, Mom. Hope and I are working on a plan.” Joni
gripped the phone tighter. “When we’re done with her, we’re
going to grind Clara Jackson into dust and trample her under
our feet. This means war!”
Joni hung up to find Hope staring at her, eyes wide,
looking as if the phone call had been a full moon, and she’d
witnessed Joni transform into a scary werewolf. Joni
swallowed. “Too much?
“I never dreamed I’d be saying this to one of the writers of
Help me Henrietta, but I think we need to work on your people
skills.” Hope shook her head, chuckling. “But, yeah. I’m still
down for it. I would never let anyone hurt Henrietta. Let’s
trample Clara Jackson to smithereens.”
C H A P T E R S I X
THEY STOOD IN THE PARKING LOT OF AN UNINSPIRING STRIP
mall, where an optometrist, a podiatrist, and a dentist shared
space with one improbably located sports bar. That
establishment was the reason they were there, specifically the
Friday night speed dating being advertised on a banner outside
the door. Hope’s stomach swirled as if she was about to puke.
The dentist’s office window also displayed a banner,
offering a discount on laser whitening treatments. Twenty
percent off. Hope wondered what the chances were of talking
Joni into a change of plans. Oral hygiene was important, and
that was a great deal.
“Are you okay?” Joni’s eyes flooded with concern.
Hope shook her head. “I’ve never done anything like this.
I’m going to fail.”
“Relax. You won’t fail.”
When Joni had vowed to punch up the series and hit the
ground running, Hope hadn’t realized what she was in for.
Self-esteem boosting exercises were out, replaced by a string
of public events designed to engage viewers in the real-world
process of Hope finding a date. Less talk, more action, Joni
had said. More chance for utter humiliation was all Hope
could see.
Kim had explained the concept of speed dating, and the
scientific evidence behind it—how the human brain is wired to
make split-second decisions, and how what people say they
want doesn’t line up with subconscious preferences—in a
segment they’d recorded earlier in the day. Hope remained
unconvinced. “There’s no way I can learn enough about a
person in ten minutes to fall in love.”
“Three minutes, and it’s going to be fun.”
Even more acid flooded Hope’s gut. If she threw up, could
she go home? “Have you ever attended a speed dating event?”
“Well, no,” Joni admitted.
“Then you can’t know it’s fun. And what did you mean by
three minutes? I’m sure Kim said ten.”
“There’s a range, and Spring likes to keep things hopping,
like her name. Besides, everyone can manage to make small
talk for three minutes.”
“I can’t.” Hope wasn’t being obstinate. She’d tried and
failed her entire adult life. “You have to help me. What kind of
questions should I ask?”
“Easy breezy types, but ones that reveal certain qualities.”
“Specifics, Joni.” Hope’s panic kicked into a higher gear.
“Talk to me like I’m a baby. Spoon feed me.”
Joni’s eyes widened as if she’d caught on Hope was
serious. “Okay, let’s start with a basic one. Like, are you
single?”
Had she heard that correctly? “Uh, why would someone
who’s already in a relationship attend a speed dating event?”
“Not all relationships are exclusive. And some people are
assholes.”
Joni laughed, but Hope didn’t see the humor. Why would
she want to throw herself into a den of assholes? That sounded
like the ninth circle of hell. Small talk with jerks.
“Relax. Spring is a huge fan of the column, and she’s pre-
screened every attendee tonight since they had to sign a waiver
allowing us to film. Tonight’s event should be relatively
asshole-free.” Joni held her phone up. “Speaking of, it’s game
time.”
The inside of the sports bar was filled to the brim with
pennants, photos, and every other type of sports paraphernalia
imaginable, representing each professional and college team in
Massachusetts. The air was laden with the hoppy aroma of
beer mixed with the unmistakable scent of fried snack foods.
Basically, the last things on earth you want to smell when your
stomach has turned itself inside out.
“I forgot to ask, but do you like sports?” Her voice was
calm, but Hope detected concern in Joni’s eyes. No wonder. In
a place like this, a non-sports fan would get eaten alive.
“I watch the Pats with my dad.” Hope squeaked like a
terrified mouse.
“Great. You like football. Try sticking to sports questions.”
“Sports. Right.” Bile rose in Hope’s throat, cutting off any
additional words.
“Take a deep breath, and have fun.”
Almost as soon as Joni said this, the shrill blast of a
referee’s whistle hit Hope’s nerves with a jolt. A woman stood
on a chair and spoke with a voice that carried despite the noise
from multiple television screens. A group of several dozen
men and a similar number of women drew closer. A nudge to
her back from Joni catapulted Hope into their midst.
“Welcome,” the woman with the whistle said. “I’m Spring,
your host and moderator tonight. If you don’t have a name tag
yet, there are labels and markers on the back table. Put your
name on the label and stick it to your shirts. Just the shirts,
fellas.”
Tittering laughter from the crowd clued Hope in that
Spring had told a joke, but the punchline had flown right past
Hope. Where else would you put a name tag, if not on your
shirt? It was hot and humid, so no one wore a coat.
When the crowd settled down, Spring continued. “The
rules are simple. Each date will last three minutes, so be
speedy. That’s why we call it speed dating. Do not exchange
contact details during this time. Instead, when I blow the
whistle, find your date’s name on the sheet I will hand out and
mark either yes or no. Remember, for it to be a match, you
must both mark yes. When you leave after the happy hour
tonight, I’ll hand you an envelope with the contact details of
any matches.”
“Excuse me,” a woman called out from the crowd. She had
blonde hair pulled into a bun and thick glasses that made her
look like the stereotype of a librarian come to life. “How many
matches should we expect?”
“We’ve got a big group tonight, so I’d say at least three,
but possibly more,” Spring assured her. “Oh, and before I
forget, you’ll get a coupon for free buffalo wings with the
purchase of two entrees. Fellas, that means the planning for a
second date’s already done for you. Full disclosure, my
husband and I own this joint, and so you believe that true love
can happen, we met at a speed dating night like this one five
years ago.”
There was laughter with the occasional whoop whoop. Not
to be impolite, Hope contributed a silent golf clap to the
ruckus. Soon, she was ushered to a table for two by a man who
was either Spring’s aforementioned husband or someone who
really enjoyed speed dating and had decided to help out. He
explained that ladies would remain at the table all night while
the men would move from table to table at each sound of the
whistle. Hope gave a weak smile, sure that the shock of
hearing Spring blow on that blasted thing every three minutes
for the rest of the night would kill her.
As if to test this theory, Spring lifted the whistle to her lips,
pausing to grin as if she was about to grant every lonely heart
their fondest wish for love, then blew. “Let’s date!”
As Hope’s ears rang, a man in a Red Sox T-shirt sat
opposite her.
“Hi,” he said nervously. “Would you like to ask the first
question?”
“I would, but I can’t.” Hope tensed as she waited for her
joke to land.
The man’s face wrinkled with confusion.
“Sorry, I was kidding. By asking me that question, you
actually had already asked the first—never mind. Okay, here
goes.” Her eyes landed on the Red Sox logo, and Joni’s advice
to talk sports echoed in her mind. Sports could tell you a lot
about a person. “If you could only cheer for the Yankees,
would you ever go to Fenway again?”
Hope sat back, proud of herself for finding a way to take a
sports question and use it to delve deeper into her date’s
psyche. No doubt this one could keep them going all night.
But the man’s expression darkened, and he leaned closer to
her, hands splayed on the table for support.
“What the fuck kind of question is that?” he barked in a
thick Boston accent. “Are you a Yankees fan?”
Hope shrank into her seat. “I…”
“I hate the Yankees so much I won’t even step foot in New
York. If I had to go to Canada, I would drive all the way
around that city.” He traced the path in the air with his finger
as Hope tried to picture exactly how he thought he could get to
Canada from Boston by heading south. “That’s how much I
hate the Yankees.”
“But why wouldn’t you go north through Vermont?” Hope
pointed her finger upward for north. “Or New Hampshire.”
She ticked her finger to the right.
“Da fuck?” With that, he crossed his arms and refused to
say another word.
Every remaining second of the three minutes crawled by.
Hope found herself in the unexpected position of praying for
the whistle to blow.
Finally, it came.
Hope looked to Joni, who flashed a thumbs-up sign and an
encouraging smile, providing irrefutable proof that whatever
she’d been recording for the past three minutes, she must have
completely missed Hope’s first date. Hope’s assessment was
two thumbs down.
That’s okay, Hope told herself. The next one will be better.
Another man sat down in the chair recently vacated by Mr.
Fenway. He was wearing a cat T-shirt that read, “The snuggle
is real.”
Aww, how sweet. That had to be an encouraging sign,
right?
Considering the terrible reaction last time, Hope ditched
the sports talk and took a clue from her new companion’s shirt
to jump-start the conversation. “If you could only snuggle with
your soul mate, but not do anything else, would that be
enough?”
“You mean, like, no…” He formed a circle with the fingers
of one hand and poked the index finger of the other into it with
such vigorous enthusiasm that even the sometimes-slow Hope
was quickly clued in to his meaning. The man’s mouth
opened, closed, and then slightly opened as he cocked his head
to the side as if asking, “Are you saying you’re frigid or
something?”
Hope’s heart beat faster. She’d screwed up again. “No. I
was—your shirt.”
“I knew I shouldn’t have worn this,” he muttered.
She pointed to the pun. “It’s funny.”
“My mom got it for me for Christmas.”
Hope brightened up at the mention of family. That had to
be a good topic for small talk, right? “Are you close with your
mother?”
“I’m Irish.” He held his hands out to each side as if to say
that should settle the matter.
Hope bit her lip, unclear what being Irish had to do with
anything. “Is that a yes or no?”
His face reddened. “Are you trying to insult my mother?”
“No. Of course not.” Was she trapped in a bad dream? She
had to think fast. “Okay, new question. If your cat and your
mom are both tied to railroad tracks, and you only had time to
save one of them, which would you choose?”
The man’s face turned a deep eggplant, a vein bulging in
his forehead. “You’re a sick fuck, talking about hurting my
mother, you know that? Look, lady, I don’t even have a cat. I
hate cats. I only wore this shirt because chicks dig cats, and I
wanna get laid.”
With that, he jumped from his seat and stormed to the bar,
not even waiting for the whistle. Hope debated whether she
was expected to follow, but then she saw the bartender hand
Cat Man a Bud Light, and she realized she’d dodged a bullet.
When it came to beer, Hope had standards.
Thankfully, that thought gave her another line of
questioning that was absolutely foolproof. When the whistle
blew and the next man took his seat, Hope was ready.
“Do you like beer”—Hope glanced at the name tag on the
man’s shirt, remembering it was good manners to use a
person’s name when making conversation—“Brett?”
Instead of supplying a simple yes or no, the man’s eyes
narrowed. “You think you’re funny?”
Hope’s brain ached. What had she said wrong this time?
“Just because I look a little bit like that Supreme Court
guy. The one the libtards wanted to sink with bogus claims
from his frat boy days, and we have the same first name,
doesn’t mean I’m a prick.”
“I never said—”
He threw his hands up in the air. “You know what? I’m
done. I’m tired of you feminazis, always trying to make a
political point. I’ve got feelings, you know.”
Hope shut her eyes, wishing she could hide under the
table. “So, that’s a no on the beer, then?”
“That’s a no to you.” He jabbed his finger toward Hope.
“Hell yes.”
Hope shook her head, lost in a sea of yes and no. “I’m not
following this conversation at all.”
“I was only trying to do my buddy a favor, since they were
short a man.”
As if to make matters even worse, a new song crackled
over the bar’s sound system, drowning out half of what he
said. Hope cupped a hand to her ear, straining to make out
anything above the din. “Where’s a short man?”
“For such a hot chick, you’re a real piece of work.”
Tears stung the corners of Hope’s eyes. She’d heard that,
loud and clear. The sound of the whistle a few moments later
was the best sound of Hope’s life.
“Okay, daters,” Spring called. “We’re going to take a quick
break. Feel free to mingle.”
While all the other participants broke into couples and
small groups, effortlessly conversing, Hope dragged herself to
the bar like she was exiting a battlefield. She’d known it
would be bad, but what had happened tonight was beyond her
