I was shitting bricks. Why was I cursed with the most ridiculous ideas? What made me think this would work? I had been face-timing Quinn all morning with the hope that she'd be able to convince me that this wouldn't blow over in my face.

       My room was a mess, clothes thrown everywhere. We had gone through all my closet, bubbly voice on my phone judging every fit. We couldn't agree on an outfit. Quinn's suggestions were too... date-y? And every outfit I suggested was torn to shreds by the blue haired woman.

       What was I even supposed to wear to this? What kind of outfit did one wear to a fake date/ family supper? It was just the six of us; we usually didn't wear anything fancy for small birthday suppers. Except my mother of course. Her clothes were always ironed to perfection, no matter the occasion. Zaina would expect me to dress to impress. But I didn't want to give Oliver the wrong impression. Not that I saw any reason he would be interested, but in the chance, he was, I didn't want this to appear to him as anything other than a cover story.

      "This isn't actually a date," I reminded Quinn.

      "But your mother thinks it is. I'm just looking out for you. Wear the white dress."

      I crinkled my nose at the mentioned dress. "That's too much. It's just supper with my family."

      "Your mom will expect you to want to impress him."

      "If we're already dating." I air quoted the word dating. "Where's the need to impress him? As my fake boyfriend he should appreciate me in all my natural glory."

      Quinn rolled her eyes.

      "I'm wearing the jeans," I told her. It's what I would usually wear. The only person disappointed by my clothing choice would be my mother. And when was she ever not disappointed in me?

     Only seconds after I finally dressed myself, the doorbell rang. Like a deer caught in headlights, I froze.

     "It's 4:24." Quinn chuckled at my reaction.

      I glanced down at my watch to confirm. How was it already 4:30? That settled the makeup debate. I hadn't even started supper yet.

      Kicking clothes in the closet, I ran for my phone, picking up the device displaying a grinning Quinn.

     "Don't look so excited," I said. "We said friendship."

     "I'm always bubbly."

     "Not this bubbly."

     "Eva just flashed me is all."

     I narrowed my eyes. I knew her too well. Her expectations for this were sky high. And here returns the crushing pressure.

     "Guilty," Eva's voice rang out.

      In the odd chance they weren't lying, I hung up. I would send my thanks later. Right now, I had a fake boyfriend to meet.

      Oliver greeted me with a potato salad, standing on my doorstep with a mischievous smirk. Sharing my height, he had pushed his sandy colored, windswept locks to one side, complimenting his long face. With a mother pleasing smile, I was happy to find him dressed appropriately. Not too fancy, but just fancy enough for meeting the parents. Or parent in my case. He wore white loafers with a plain pair of jeans and a white collared shirt. A dime sized birthmark on the skin just above his sparkling hazel eyes, he held out his hand. "Nice to officially meet you," he said as I shook his extended hand. "Arty here, ready to offer you, my services."

      Shoulders relaxing, immediately at ease, I let him in. "Welcome, Arty."

      We set the potato salad on the dining room table. At least there was something to eat now.

     "I didn't know what to make," he shrugged. "But I figured this would go with anything."

      I smiled appreciatingly. "You didn't have to bring anything... But I'm glad you did. Because right now the salad is all we have."

      He studied me curiously.

     "I've yet to start cooking," I grimaced, leading him to the kitchen. We would have to discuss everything Arty as we worked. We had 35 minutes until my mother's arrival. "I've been face-timing Quinn all day and you know how she gets."

      He nodded and by the distant look in his eyes, I knew that he had once been the victim of Quinn's golden retriever, tireless excitement. Probably recently too. The likeliness of Quinn pestering him about her hopefulness on our compatibility was a thought I didn't wish to dwell on.

     "You poor soul," Oliver said. "I saw Mark after the chat he had with Quinn when she found the engagement ring. He was drained. I couldn't get him off the couch all night. He couldn't even lift his head to watch TV, he just stared at the wall... Should I get you some water? Let you replenish?"

     "No time to hydrate," I said. I was used to, quite enjoyed actually, Quinn's energetic spews. "We have 30 minutes to cook as much as possible."

     "Aren't all the guests coming at 6? I'm always down for a challenge, but can't your mom help?"

     "If we want to enjoy supper, no."

      Oliver laughed. "Understood."

     "We should hide the salt," I said suddenly, forgetting what I was doing to retrieve the salt. Making move to hide the saltshaker in the cupboard, I thought better of it. She'd look for it. Taking a plastic Tupper ware, I dumped ¾ of the saltshaker's contents into it. I hid the container but returned the saltshaker to the oven. That amount of salt should satisfy her, without completely ruining any future meals.

     "Would she really use that much?"

     "I have no doubt."

     Oliver looked appalled. "As a chef that is the worst thing I've ever heard."

     "You're a chef?"

     Oliver nodded. "Arty loves math, but I love food and art."

     My lips twitched into a smile. "And you brought a potato salad?"

     "A very good potato salad," he huffed.

     "I don't doubt it."

     "I didn't want to show off."

     I smiled. He was humble. I liked that.

     "But..." he started, surveying the kitchen as if in preparation. "I can show off now."

     "Please do," I pleaded. "I give you full reigns. I can be your assistant. Show me your ways."

     "You think you can handle that?"

     "I'm no chef, but I like to think I'm a pretty good cook."

     "Yeah?" He cocked his head in challenge.

    "Yeah." I mimicked the tilt of his head.

     "We shall see." He smirked. "What are we making?"

     "Whatever you suggest."

      He rolled up his sleeves. "Any diet or allergies I need to know about?"

     "Nope. No limits. Just has to be made with something I already have."

     With a determined nod, he headed for the fridge.

     We decided on chicken Tikka Masala. I had no idea what that was, but the conviction in which Oliver voiced the idea made me agree immediately. Oliver's experience in the kitchen was made evident. Giving me simple tasks like gathering the pans and mincing the garlic, he hardly needed my help. Within a half hour most of the meal was prepared, ready to be placed in the oven.

      Oliver was setting the timer, confidently working my oven, when I heard the crushing sound of tires spinning against my gravel road. Usual level of alertness related to my mother settling in, it was only when I spotted the box of dishes that I froze.

      "Crap!" I grumbled. I forgot to replace my usual plates and bowls with her plain set. Lord knows my mother would have quite the opinion on my choice of animal print dishes.

      "Your mother?" Oliver guessed.

      "Lock the front door," I urged.

      Hazel eyes blew wide. "Not your mother?"

      "It's definitely my mother." I was already heading for the side door. "You get the front door; I'll lock the others."

      Oliver was clearly beyond confused, but he shuffled towards the door, nonetheless. "Wasn't the whole point of this that I meet her?"

     "Yes, but we need to buy time to switch the dishes."

      Running back from my door, I started emptying my cupboards, switching out my plates with those beloved by my mother. Hearing the successful locking of the front door, I sighed with relief.

     "Don't let her see you through the living room, window!"

      I assumed the soft thud in the other room had been Oliver throwing himself on the ground. My fake boyfriend crawling through my kitchen doorway, I'd have laughed if I wasn't busy tossing dishes as fast as I could without breaking them.

     Out of mom's potential eyesight, Oliver stood and started with the bowl cupboard. He didn't even question it, just went along with my nonsense.

      He looked like he was going to question it when the knocking started. And then the doorbell rang. And then my phone rang. And then we heard her voice, trying to get our attention. Oliver was growing increasingly uneasy, increasingly tempted to let my mother in.

      "This seems like a bad start. A likely awful first impression on my part," he finally commented as I shoved the box of old dishes in the pantry and hid it behind a bag of potatoes.

      "Would have been worse if she saw the paw print dishes." Brushing off my pants from kneeling on the ground, I smiled casually at him. "Alright, ready to meet my mother?"

       Oliver blinked once. And then twice, before cracking a smile. "Absolutely." He grinned. "I suspect this will be the most entertaining supper I've had in ages."