Spicy Pickle (Fake Engagement)

by J J Knight

  “There’s beer in the fridge,” I call. I refresh the link to see if it will open. Meanwhile, two texts come through from my brother Jason.

  What fresh hell is this?

  Dad is gonna freak.

  God. Why can they see this, and I can’t?

  Sebastian returns with two open bottles. He holds one out to me. “Looks like you’re gonna need this.”

  I take it and head to the corner desk for my laptop. “I think the zombies might have to wait.” Sebastian’s a good friend, so he won’t care. “Feel free to start on the pizza.”

  “I had no intention of waiting.” He plunks down into a seat in front of the box.

  I type my name in a search box and a whole host of links line up. Most of them are from when the footage leaked, so I switch to the news tab. And immediately groan.

  “What’s up?” Sebastian mumbles around his bite of pizza.

  I read him the headlines.

  “Prominent TV host accuses chefs of malicious prank. Milton Creed lashes out at chefs who tricked him. America’s Spiciest Chef host promises retribution for pickle prank.”

  “Oh, shit,” Sebastian says.

  “Shit is right.” I click on the first link.

  Prominent TV host Milton Creed has accused two guests on his popular cooking show of a horrifying prank. In the shaky cell phone recording, Creed is shown in clear distress after tasting a pickle recipe by Boulder Colorado deli owner Anthony Pickle.

  I let out a long gust of air. Yeah, he’s totally blaming us.

  The article goes on to talk about the pickle challenge and has quotes by members of Milton’s crew backing up the accusations that Magnolia and I pulled a stunt to embarrass him.

  I click through to other articles, but they are the same.

  “This is bad. Really bad. Why did nobody call to ask our side of the story?”

  Sebastian slides another slice of pizza out of the box. “It’s not like they have your cell. They’re probably calling the deli.”

  The deli. Boulder Pickle closes early on Saturdays, because we discovered that no one wants sandwiches past about seven-thirty on a weekend. The crew is still there closing up, though. “I’m sorry, I need to call over there,” I tell Sebastian.

  He waves me away. “Just don’t expect this pizza to be completely intact when you’re done.”

  “Have at it.”

  I pace the living room as I dial my manager’s cell. The deli phones will have switched to closed mode, so they won’t even ring at this hour.

  Marie picks up. “Everything okay, Anthony?”

  “Have we had calls from reporters on the deli line?”

  “I haven’t checked. But you know, Angelina did say that she got a few weird calls toward the end of the day, but nobody left a name or number.”

  “Can you check the voicemail?”

  “Sure. Is this about the show again?”

  “Yeah, Milton Creed finally spoke up about the footage.”

  “Oh, dear. You want to stay on the line, or should I text you anything I get?”

  “Just text me. I need to deal with family. Thank you.”

  While I wait to hear back from Marie, I quickly text both my brothers, my dad, and Charity. Charity asks if I want to take a call, but I say not yet. I want to talk to Magnolia first.

  Charity advises me not to be too open with the other deli owner, in case I’m being recorded, or my text could be screenshot.

  Would Magnolia do that?

  I dial the number Magnolia put in my phone when I visited her last week. It rings several times, then switches to voice mail.

  I leave a message. “This is Anthony. I’m assuming you’ve seen all the press Milton is stirring up accusing us of pulling a prank on him. Just checking to see if you wanted to join forces on this one. Let me know.”

  I sink into the sofa. What a mess.

  Text messages start to come in from Marie.

  “The voicemail is hopping. Two bloggers from some cooking sites. A local news reporter. And a scheduler from Mornings with Eileen.”

  I sit up at that. Mornings with Eileen is one of the highest-rated talk shows in the world. It’s up there with Oprah.

  I ring Marie back. “What did Eileen’s people say?”

  “That they want you on the show. To call back.”

  “What’s the number?”

  She gives me the digits.

  Holy crap, this is big.

  I call Charity. “Mornings with Eileen called.”

  I think she’ll give a little whoop or something, but her voice has the same calm quality when she says, “Excellent. You’ll have the opportunity to get your side of the story out.”

  “So, you think I should do it?”

  “Given the velocity of this news story putting you in a negative light, I think you have no choice. Did they invite Magnolia?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Find out. Then we can prep you alone or the two of you together.”

  I picture Magnolia stomping out to her car after our last interaction. “Is that a good idea?”

  “You two are hostile?”

  “Maybe a little.”

  “Hmm. Well, let’s see if she’s even in play. I work for you, Mr. Pickle. But if she’s going on, it’s far better for you two to have a united front than to bicker with each other.”

  She’s right about that.

  “You want me to contact her?” Charity asks.

  “No,” I say quickly, probably too quickly. “I already left her a message.”

  “Keep me posted. I’m on twenty-four-hour retainer for your family.”

  Damn. “Thanks.”

  Sebastian drops onto the sofa next to me. “Your life is crazy, Pickle. What now?”

  “I left a message for Magnolia, but I really need to get in touch with her.”

  “That hottie blonde?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You gonna go see her again?”

  “I don’t know. We didn’t end well last time.”

  Sebastian picks up his game controller. “I’ll be here killing shit until you’re ready to jump in.”

  “Let me text her and I’ll hop on.” There’s not much else I can do.

  Instead of calling again, I quickly tap out a message. I’m going on Mornings with Eileen. You in?

  And to ease the anxiety of waiting, I start killing zombies.

  8

  Magnolia

  I’m completely surprised when I come home after closing down the Tasty Pepper on Saturday night and find my extrovert sister sitting on the sofa in sweatpants, eating ice cream straight from the carton.

  I flop down next to her. “Did your date cancel? Is Tinder down? Have all possible avenues for getting a date tonight been obliterated?”

  She shoves the spoon in the empty carton and dips her chin, giving me an unblinking stare that would unnerve the hell out of me when we were young.

  I hold up my hand to block her gaze. “Stop with the eyeball voodoo. What’s going on?”

  She shrugs. “Wasn’t into it tonight. Thought I’d catch up on some sappy Hallmark movies.”

  “You know they all have the exact same plot, right? A woman goes back to her hometown, meets some single guy, then they fall in love while saving her cupcake shop. The end.”

  Havannah smiles. “I know. That’s why love them so much.”

  She has a point.

  But to be honest, they make me sad. Dating is nothing like a Hallmark movie. I know, because I’ve tried it. Many, many times. Even though I am the epitome of a girl with a home-spun business in need of a perfect man, I don’t appeal to a guy for more than three dates. They ghost.

  I’ve read self-help books. I’ve endured many lectures from my sister.

  Something about me doesn’t inspire them to pursue a relationship.

  This does not mean I’m a virgin at twenty-five. I am not. I’ve tried initiating a relationship in every way. Kissing. No kissing. Banging. No banging. Start
slow. Burn fast.

  My timing is somehow always off.

  So, reader, it’s definitely me.

  “Watch the movie with me?” Havannah asks.

  There’s a tone to her voice that concerns me. Havannah is the bubbliest person I’ve ever met. She’s always happy. Well, except for the hours of six to eight a.m., or later if she hasn’t had coffee. Then, she’s a shrew.

  But otherwise, she’s like a life coach, a cheerleader. She always sees the bright side of things. The glass half-full. Silver lining in the cloud.

  I’m the practical one. I look for solutions, not saviors. Structure, not spontaneity.

  But today, something is up with her.

  “You’ve twisted my arm.” I peer into her carton. “Even though you ate all the ice cream.”

  “No worries. There are four more in the freezer.”

  I jump up. “Really?”

  “I stocked up. Bring me another one when you come back, please.”

  I check out the freezer. Sure enough, four more pints are shoved in there.

  “Cherry or Chunky Monkey?” I call out.

  “Chunky Monkey, please!”

  I take cherry for myself, grab a spoon, and head back to the living room. Havannah has already queued up a snowy Christmas Hallmark movie. The holidays are a couple of months away, but the weather fits.

  I snuggle in next to her and steal half of her blanket. “We haven’t done this in forever.”

  “I know. It’ll be good.”

  My phone buzzes. It’s an actual phone call. I dig it out from my purse.

  I don’t recognize the number. Whatever. I send it to voice mail.

  We eat and watch in silence right up to the point, which happens in every Hallmark movie, where the woman gets a little something on her cheek, dirt or frosting or cake batter. You know the scene. The hero wipes it off for her, and they share the meaningful look.

  Havannah picks up the remote and presses pause. “Look at that,” she says. “That’s the moment that gets you.”

  “It’s the pivotal scene in every Hallmark movie.”

  “No. I mean in real life. That’s the look that gets you in trouble.” Her voice breaks.

  Whoa. This isn’t Havannah at all. She’s the swooning kind when she watches movies like this.

  I set my ice cream down. “What’s wrong, H? I haven’t seen you like this since your high school boyfriend left for Oxford.”

  She sniffs. “Don’t remind me. I’m hormonal enough as it is.”

  Oh. I get it. Why she’s weepy and why she’s home. “Having one of those cycles that are extra emotional?”

  “If only,” she breathes.

  I start to get a terrible suspicion. She was sick the morning of my show, but better later. She’s been reducing her hours at the deli, which isn’t normal. She likes to be the person who greets customers when they come in.

  And so much ice cream. So much. Normally, Havannah is on a perpetual diet.

  I don’t want to say what I’m thinking, though. If I’m wrong, she will never let me live it down.

  “You going to tell me what’s up?”

  Havannah stares into her ice cream container. She hasn’t eaten much of the second one. “You’re bound to figure it out. Promise you won’t tell our parents?”

  Uh oh. “Please tell me it’s not what I’m thinking.”

  Her watery eyes meet mine. “I only found out a week ago. I was late, so I took a test.”

  Holy crap, it’s true. “Who’s the father?”

  At that question, she’s suddenly animated, pushing back the blanket. She sets the ice cream down so forcefully that it almost topples. I lunge forward to catch it.

  She paces the room. “That’s the problem.”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t know.”

  Havannah smooths her perfect hair away from her face. “I’ve been reading all over the Internet, trying to narrow down exactly when it happened. Eggs. Sperm. Ovulation. I’m hoping that when I see the doctor, they can tell me the date of conception so I can figure it out.”

  Oh, my. “How many contenders are there?”

  “Only two, I think. Possibly three.”

  “Havannah! That’s a lot, even for you!”

  “I should never have watched all three Fifty Shades movies in a row!” she cries. “It did something weird to me. I just had to go find someone willing. Let me tell you, if you get on Blendr, you can find people fast.”

  “Do you know their actual names?”

  She walks in circles around a chair, her face all pink with emotion. “Kind of.”

  “That means no.”

  “I can probably find them.”

  Now I’m the one off the sofa. “How are you going to find them if all you have is some username?”

  “I’m not a complete idiot, Mags.” Her perfectly arched eyebrows angle toward her nose, the angriest expression she possesses. It’s still stupidly cute.

  “And what does that mean?”

  “It means I pay attention to their credit cards. I write down their names.”

  I relax a little. “So, you do know their names.”

  “Well, I know first names.” She bites her lip. “Two of them paid for dinner with cash.”

  I’m about to say something, but she holds up her hand to stop me. “I met one of them at a hotel, and I can probably find a way to get the front desk to give me information. I’ll have to be crafty.”

  I sink back down on a chair. “Oh, Havannah. What are you going to do?”

  “I guess I’m going to have a baby. I know I don’t have to, but…I am. I will.”

  “You have a job. A supportive family.”

  She whirls around to face me. “You think so? Are Mom and Dad going to freak? What about Grandmama?”

  I don’t know. My expression must concern Havannah, because she kneels in front of me. “Do any of them ever say anything about me? Things like I’m too loose? That I date too much?”

  I shake my head. “You know our family. They’re not ones to say negative things about either of us. Even if they are thinking it.”

  Her eyes plead with mine. “Do you think they’re thinking it?”

  “Of course not. I know you’re a wild one. But you’ve done plenty of long relationships. It’s just in between you get a little crazy.”

  Havannah stands back up. “If only I hadn’t broken up with Brad. This would have happened with him. We could have gotten married. He wanted to do that.”

  “But you didn’t, remember? He was too boring for you. You weren’t ready to settle down.”

  Havannah raises her hands to the ceiling. “And look where it got me!”

  “Would he take you back? Would he be willing to resume even if you’re pregnant?”

  “With someone else’s kid? I don’t think so.” She sinks onto the sofa. “Besides, he’s dating someone else now. I don’t want to bust them up.”

  “So, what happened exactly? Aren’t you on the pill or something?”

  She buries her head in the cushion for a moment, then finally turns her face out. “I was. But I wanted to switch. So, while was dating Brad, I got off, and we were using condoms. It was only supposed to be until I started the new thing.”

  “So you were using condoms with these guys.”

  “I was. But apparently eighty percent effective really does mean only eighty percent effective. That’s one in five, Magnolia. I had a one in five chance of getting pregnant.” She hides her face again. She looks a mess, her sweatpants all askew, her hair snarled.

  “Okay,” I say. “I’ll help you find these guys.”

  Her voice is muffled as she says, “Once I see the doctor I can narrow it down. Two were on different weekends, and one was mid-week. Hopefully, they are far enough apart to know without DNA testing them all.”

  “That sounds good. I’ll help you once we get there.”

  She lifts her head from the cushion, and her crazy tangle of hair reminds me of when we were you
ng, dashing all over the playground. We’ve always been close, even when I am standing in her shadow.

  “I need a plan,” she says. “I don’t want to go to whoever-he-is begging to be supported or whatever.” She looks around the apartment. “I’m gonna need to support myself and a baby. We’ll need something bigger, or I’ll have to get my own place. We’re not pulling enough money to do that.”

  I know what she means. I personally take out the minimum I can from the deli to cover the apartment. We’re paying off college loans while supporting three households off profits. It’s a lot to ask of one deli.

  “Have you thought more about opening a second branch?” she asks. “Maybe you and I could run that one. That way the original one can support Mom and Dad and Grandmama, and then we can take on the risk of the new one.”

  “I have,” I say. “Part of the reason I did that stupid show was to get more interest in us so we could open a branch that appeals to younger people.”

  She perks up immediately. “So you think we can do it? Is it a matter of getting a loan? Can we use the original deli as collateral?”

  “Probably.”

  It’s a big risk. We would have to get our parents on board. It’s their risk, too. But I don’t say that right now. She needs this moment.

  Thank goodness that terrible Milton Creed problem is behind us. Even if my plan hadn’t helped our business, at least I hadn’t hurt it.

  Havannah rolls off the sofa and comes over to wrap her arms around my shoulders. “I know this is gonna work, Mags. It has to. I need to be on my own, stronger than I was before.” Tears fill her eyes.

  Her crying always makes me cry, too. “I’ll help you,” I say. “I’m happy to live with you and the baby. We will need those extra savings to get by until the new restaurant takes off.”

  She nods against my shoulder “I think I’m really tired.” She kisses my cheek. “We’ll talk more about it in the morning. And maybe come up with a plan on how to tell Mom and Dad.”

  I squeeze her arm. “Absolutely. I’m here.”

  “I’m so grateful,” she says. “And for the record, I take back every single thing I ever said about not wanting a baby sister. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”