The Wedding Crasher by Mia Sosa

I meant was, there’s no one-size-fits-all way of approaching career choices.
What works for one person won’t necessarily work for someone else. My
point unrelated to that is, if you’re committed to not lying about your
background, and one of your job prospects might take you out of the state,
we need to figure out how to explain that so it doesn’t raise a few eyebrows.
It’ll probably come up in conversation.”
I unclench my fists under the table. “Oh, okay. I see what you’re saying.
You may keep your balls, then. And yes, we can work on that too.”
“Great,” he says, his voice overly cheerful. “And thanks for letting me hold
on to my balls. I’ve grown attached to them over the years.”
“You’re welcome,” I say, winking at him.
Despite his stodgy appearance, Dean seems like a fun guy. I’m beginning
to think spending a few nights pretending to be his girlfriend won’t be a
hardship. “Okay, so the next thing isn’t a condition. It’s just something you
need to know about me: I don’t do anything in half measures. I’m either all in
or all out. If you want to do this, we’re going to have to put in the work. Real
stuff too. Names, poignant memories, idiosyncrasies, the whole nine yards.
I’m not showing up on several dates with you and embarrassing myself. I’d
never sign up for something like that.”
This bit of news seems to energize him. He rubs his hands together and
bounces his shoulders as if he’s dancing in his chair. The image doesn’t
compute, so I tilt my head in an attempt to put the world back on its proper
axis.
“That’s exactly what I wanted to hear,” he says, then reaches behind him,
pulling out a folder from his messenger bag. “It means you’ll take this
seriously, and that can only be a good thing.” He slides a file across the table.
“What’s this?” I ask as I peek inside and leaf through the contents.
“Think of it as a primer on me. For fun, I’m calling it the Dean Dossier.”
“I already have double D’s. I don’t need yours too.”
A dash of pink stains his cheeks. I should control my urge to throw him
off-kilter, but the man just handed me a five-page, single-spaced biography,
along with a clear envelope containing a mishmash of photographs from
various periods in his life. Can anyone really blame me for not curbing my
wiseass tendencies?
“I drafted a form for you too,” he continues. “Which I can send as soon as
you give me your email address. Just fill it out and return it to me when you
have a moment.”