“Wait. Mr. Wiffles is a she?” I ask.
Andrew makes a noise of disgust. “Don’t ask.”
I look at Terry. He shrugs.
“Terry has a transgendered dog,” Andrew intones, nodding slowly, like that explains everything.
“That is not funny!” Terry booms. The sound is like a shockwave that ripples through the restaurant. I think he messed up some hairdos and may have given three women orgasms.
“Then why does she have a male name?” I ask, assuming it’s a perfectly reasonable question to ask.
Terry glares at Andrew like it’s his fault Mr. Wiffles’ name doesn’t match the, er, parts.
“Mr. Wiffles was bred in Amish country,” he says with a sigh, as if the sentence were self-explanatory. A familiar sense of confusion rolls over me.
Talking to Terry is just a little too similar to talking to Marie sometimes.
“And...?” I ask, my voice rising as I draw out the word.
“And, apparently, the man who bred her had his young daughter name her. The daughter was too shy to look at the parts and just decided Mr. Wiffles was a he.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” I say.
Andrew gives Terry a look that only an impish little brother can shoot the oldest in a family. “Yeah. I know. We have all said that. Even Mr. Wiffles’ trainer.”
“I am not traumatizing my poor dog by changing her name now,” Terry hisses. Is he actually covering the dog’s ears so she can’t hear this? “It’s bad enough you stole her, but now you’re making her feel bad, and if her self-esteem is harmed, you’re in trouble.”
I’ve been on enough DoggieDate dates to realize that Terry’s behavior, though loony as hell in the general population, is actually well within the bounds of normal for the ultra dog-loving dating pool I’m in.
That said, Terry’s lips twitch on that final statement. I think some legs are being pulled.
Andrew’s jaw clenches. “You can have her now.”
“Why did you steal her?” Terry looks at me as if he’s noticing me for the first time. Which he is. “Oh. Hi, Amanda. Did you change your hair?”
I reach up and realize I’ve gone auburn. Yet another hair coloring shop, this one with temporary dye. “Yes.”
“You two having a business meeting?” I can tell from his tone that he has no idea Andrew and I have been...whatevering we’ve been doing for a while now. Hmm. Tuck that away for later.
“No. Date,” I say, trying to seem casual.
“You needed Mr. Wiffles for a date?” He gives Andrew a scandalized look, then holds up a palm the size of a catcher’s mitt. “Never mind. I don’t want to know. I just—”
Andrew frowns and interrupts Terry. “How in the hell did you know where to find me?”
Terry smirks. “You gave the trainer a fifty. I gave her a hundred. As you like to say all the time, money makes people talk.”
I watch them like I’ve been drop-shipped into Burma and don’t understand a thing.
“You bribed the person I bribed?” Andrew says with outrage.
“And I did it better, bro.” Terry tries to high-five Mr. Wiffles, but the dog just wags her tail and licks his hand.
“I’m firing that trainer,” Andrew mutters.
Terry bends down, his hand constantly petting Mr. Wiffles. “You can’t fire her. I’m the one who hired her.”
Andrew’s eyes narrow. Hah.
Out-alpha’d by a guy who is now kissing a female dog named Mr. Wiffles.
“I am taking Mr. Wiffles now,” Terry declares. He gives Andrew a look only a much-older brother can give. “You steal her again and I’ll tell Dad about your limo elimination plan.”
“You wouldn’t.”
Terry adjusts Mr. Wiffles’ bow. “Try me.” And with that, he’s off, happy dog in arms.
I take a long drink of my iced tea and say, “My last date pretended he had a dog he never had, but he didn’t resort to actual theft of a dog to go out with me.”
“I didn’t steal her. She’s part of the family.”
“I am honored that you’d go to such extremes just to spend time with me. But you don’t have to resort to canine crime.”
“Except when you’re dating other men.”
“Which you now know I’m not.”
“Right.”
The air between us is so thick with tension. We’re on shaky ground, and every move, each sigh, all the breaths and sips and looks add up to uncertainty. The stable, steady sense of togetherness that we had just begun to develop feels like an illusion, as if we created it for a specific need in the past and it floated off on the wind, gone to seed.
The waiter arrives. Andrew orders for us both and I let him. Not because of a power struggle or from a place of submission, but because what he orders sounds damn good. Water glasses filled, iced tea in hand, and a pitcher of sangria delivered and poured, we’re ready to talk sans Mr. Wiffles.
And, maybe, sans pretense.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the dates? How many did you go on?”
“I can’t talk about this.”
“Why not?”
“NDA. I sign NDAs for my work with Anterdec, and I sign them with other clients.”
His brow lowers. “You take your work very seriously.”
“I do.”
“It’s one of the many qualities I admire in you.”
“Thank you.”
“Though your mouth is your best feature.”
I nearly spray him with a mouthful of iced tea.