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conversation back to the facts.
    “Your best friend is the only person who’s read your books?” I ask.
    “Betty’s the only one who knows about my writing, period. Or did. I guess you know now. But not even my parents know.”
    “For real?”
    I can’t relate to that at all . It was only until recently that my parents didn’t know everything about me, unfortunately. I think I’ll keep that information to myself.
    In response to my shock, Frankie asks, “Do your parents know about your hobbies?”
    “My parents are psychiatrists. They helped me choose my hobbies when I was a kid, based on complex profiling and personality algorithms.” I punctuate that with a laugh and turn it back around on her before she has a chance to think about how messed-up it is. “Man, I feel bad that I know something about you that your parents don’t even know…”
    “Well, don’t. Why would they even need to know? I’m not sure they’d be interested, anyway.” The way she says it brings the conversation to an abrupt halt. She smiles tightly. “That’s not a first-date conversation, anyway. Let’s save something to talk about on our second date.”
    Hmmm… Do I want a second date? Ah, what the hell else do I have to do?
    I grin across the table at her. “Deal.”

 
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter Four
    Pastel-colored balloons tied to the mailbox by the street sway in the cold November wind. Wedding-themed paraphernalia dots the snow-dusted front lawn and lines the cleared and salted concrete walkway. Even if I’d forgotten in the past three years where my former future in-laws lived, there would be no mistaking which house on the block is hosting the engagement party of the year.
    Heidi’s parents, Walter and Mary Jo, know how to do this, having married off two other daughters already. Not to mention, this isn’t Heidi’s first engagement party. Let’s not forget that. Yeah. This may be a tad more awkward than I even imagined. And I imagined “awkward” on the scale of chirping crickets, fake laughter, sweaty armpits, and the kind of drinking that usually ends badly.
    As my Prius glides to a stop and I jam it into park next to the curb, a voice as real as the one on the radio says to me, It’s not too late to drive away. Nobody’s seen you yet. Pull a U-turn, and—
    “Nate!”
    My brother bursts through the front door and tiptoes through the yard ornaments and muddy snow to get to the salt-stained sidewalk. Goofy grin on his face, he peers through the passenger window and shouts, “C’mon! What’re you doing, sitting out here? We’re waiting for you!”
    I alight from my car. “Hey,” I say, failing to achieve the level of “I’m-cool-with-this” enthusiasm I was aiming for but figuring he has enough energy for both of us.
    “I’m so glad you came, man. I was starting to think you weren’t going to.” He meets me at the front of the car and grabs my arm, as if making sure I’m not going to bolt.
    I run my hand through my hair. “Uh, yeah. I, uh, overslept.”
    I was in bed, with the covers over my head, until less than an hour ago, so it’s almost the truth. Close enough for today, anyway.
    He pretends to believe me. “Well, come on in. The party’s in full swing. Plus, the game’s about to start. We need to get all the crappy speeches out of the way so we can turn on the TV.”
    My brain almost doesn’t know which part of his statement to hate the most. “The party’s in full swing” means several of our relatives are already loudly drunk; “the game’s about to start” refers to the Packers game I’m going to have to get drunk to pretend to care about; and “all the crappy speeches” may refer to something I’m supposed to take part in, but I don’t have anything prepared, and there’s no way I can wing something gracious and coherent.
    I decide to focus on the most alarming thing: “Speeches? Am I expected to say something?”
    While dragging me into the house, he laughs, but he