1. Late September-Savannah

"Mr. Pickles doesn't like peas or brushing his teeth," the child in front of me says, his hands on his hips and clutching the stuffed rabbit he's dropping into my care.

It was my idea to implement a stuffed animal sleepover story time at my new job as the Evergreen Hills Library youth coordinator. Children bring a stuffed animal to the library, kiss it goodnight, and leave it here for the evening. When they pick it up in the morning, we'll have donuts, share pictures about crazy things the stuffed friends got up to in the night, and read a story about sleepovers. The program's done well in other towns, and I thought I'd try it here.

I smile at the child and peruse my clipboard, searching for the last male child to drop off their friend. "You must be Brody," I say. He nods and hands me the rabbit with a dubious look. "He'll be fine. I promise." I look at the rabbit with its torn whiskers and one chipped plastic eye and flick one of the bent whiskers. "In fact, he looks like a leader. I bet he'll make some great friends."

Brody stares at me for a few seconds until his mother, a woman in leggings and an off-the-shoulder sweatshirt, drags him away, his eyes never leaving Mr. Pickles.

I wave until he's through the sliding entrance doors before gently placing Mr. Pickles on the book cart and pushing it into the back room.

"I thought you dealt in books instead of stuffies, Savannah," my mother's voice chimes from across the checkout counter.

Sighing, I turn to face her, lamenting that my mother feels it necessary to visit me at work every day on her lunch hour. "Hello, Heather."

My mother, a woman of only forty-five with flawless skin and a more chiseled abdominal section than I'll ever have, insists on visiting me to check on my social life. She also insists I call her by her first name when we're in public in the attempt to not let everyone know that she's old enough to have an adult daughter. Fat chance of that. We live in a small town, and everyone knows every resident and their entire family.

I know what questions she'll ask before they leave her mouth, and I paste on a fake smile before trudging to the counter to get it over with.

"Are you going out with anyone tonight, sweetheart?" she asks, pushing a hunk of dark hair that fell out of my ponytail back from my face. "If so, you should wear your hair down."

"I'm going home after work. I have to get up early to take pictures of stuffed animals doing shenanigans, and I want to watch the next episode of The Rings of Power. I'm not worried about my hair."

She closes her eyes, shaking her head like she can't believe she was gifted with such a socially inept child like myself. "Savannah, you're twenty-three. You should be out at bars, picking up men, and taking them home to have filthy sex."

I grimace and look around for my elderly coworker, Marjorie. She's at a desk behind me and eating a roast beef sandwich. She watches my conversation with wide eyes behind her soda bottle glasses, viewing us like we're a riveting television show.

I chuckle at Marjorie and wave before pointing at Mom. "She's kidding. No filthy sex here," I laugh.

"Well, you'd have filthy sex if you ever left your house," Mom says, tightening her messy bun at the top of her head. She must have just come from her daily yoga class. "No man is going to knock on your door for directions and then fall into your crotch. You need to get laid, honey. At your age, no sex means your skin will age faster. You don't want wrinkles, do you?" she asks, reaching her perfectly manicured hand toward my cheek.

I bat her hand away and shake my head. "Heather, I'm at work! Can we talk about my lack of sex life later?"

"I'm glad you mentioned that dear. What are you doing the weekend after next?"

"Well, another episode of The Rings of Power will drop, I'll probably order Chinese, and…"

Mom blows out a raspberry and rolls her eyes. "Lord, Savannah, you'll piss away your youth. Before long, you'll be thirty and have none of the experience of your peers."

"I've never had the same experience as my peers," I whisper, getting closer to her over the counter. "I know you think I should be some kind of social butterfly, but I'm happy. Why can't you accept that I'm content finishing my library science master's degree and working in a library? Is that some kind of terrible life sentence I've chosen for myself?"

"I'm not talking about your career. Lord knows I've accepted you want one," she says, her head tilted to the side. She bats her fake eyelashes she has touched up every few weeks and folds her hands on the counter.

My mother has never worked. She married my father, a local professor, when she was in community college. It was a scandalous relationship, and they had me a year later. Unfortunately, Dad died ten years ago. At first, Mom was worried about having to actually get a job without having any functional job skills. Then, we found an insurance policy, an inheritance he got from his parents, and his retirement accounts that weren't chicken feed. All of it combined to mean Mom is set for the rest of her life as long as she doesn't buy vacation yachts and piss it all away. Mom has been enjoying her time at yoga classes, tennis matches at the local country club, and singles' bars ever since.

"At least go out and make friends," she says.

"I have friends. I play golf with Melissa and her dad once a month."

"For fuck's sake," my mom mutters.

"Heather, you're in a library," I warn. "What did you want to ask about next weekend? I need to get back to work."

"Ah," she says, holding up a finger and reaching into the large purse across her shoulder. She sets lipstick tubes and empty Evian bottles on the counter before bringing a folded piece of paper out of the bag. "There's an event I want to take you to."

The hair on my neck stands up. "What kind of event?"

"The kind where you can meet a nice boy, and you don't even have to worry about a relationship. I saw it and knew it would be perfect for your situation."

"What's my situation?"

"Your anti-social situation. You don't ever talk about wanting a relationship with a boy," she says, leaning closer to me and flicking her eyes to Marjorie. "Are you sure you like boys? It's OK if you don't. I'm a hip mom, and we can find you a nice lesbian who has a tongue ring and can…"

"Mom, I like boys!" I say through gritted teeth. "I just don't want a relationship right now. I'm young. I want to finish my education first. I just started the semester and don't have time for this shit. What's wrong with that?"

"You haven't had a boyfriend since Trent in ninth grade. Sure, there was that guy in college that took your virginity because you wanted to see what all the fuss was about, but that doesn't count as a boyfriend."

"Believe me, that Trent shit show was enough for a decade, and I have another year before the statute of limitations runs out on being pissed about that."

She flattens the paper in front of me, and I bend over to read it. "It's a cuffing season speed dating event. I took the liberty of signing up for both of us," she says. "It's over in Lemont, so you can meet some new men and not worry about running into someone from high school."

"How do you even know what cuffing season is? You're old."

Mom reddens and purses her lips. "You're only as old as you feel, and I feel twenty-eight. I'm going, and I know what cuffing season is."

"Explain it, then," I say, not really believing my late Generation X mother knows about cuffing season.

"It's when you really don't want a relationship but want companionship through the colder months and holidays. You start dating in October to hit the Halloween parties, go as plus ones to Thanksgiving and Christmas parties, cuddle up in January, celebrate Valentine's Day, and then break up the day after with a handshake and fond memories."

I stare at her a second. "Did you Google it or something?"

"Urban Dictionary."

I push away from the counter and grab two romance books from the return cart to scan them back into the system. "Leave me out of this. If you go, you'll go by yourself."

"Savannah, this is perfect for you. You can choose a cuffing season partner without having to worry about any strings after Valentine's Day. He won't interfere in finishing your degree next year. It'll be perfect to get you some dating experience, meet a new person, get out of the house, and maybe even," she leans over the counter and drops her voice, "have some nice sex."

"Please stop. Can you leave? I have to get some work done."

She straightens and pulls her shoulders back. "Savannah Smart, I'm not leaving this library counter until you agree to go to this speed dating event and give these men a try. I'll continue to stand here and lament your lack of sex life to every patron that comes to check out a book."

"Are you blackmailing me?"

"I sure am. Besides, I need someone to go with," she whines, her eyes pleading.

Mom's friends are all married women with teens and preteens, still in the stage where their lives are too busy with soccer games and keeping their husbands happy between PTO bake sales and work project meetings. She's popular with the local singles, but they're few and far between. Her good girlfriends don't get out much, other than one glass of wine or a fire pit in their driveway.

"I'm your daughter. Not your wing woman."

"Bullshit. You're both."

The system beeps with acceptance of the romance books, and I walk to the reshelving cart. "I've got to reshelve some books, but I still don't see what's in it for me if I go to this event."

"Besides meeting a man that can be your fake boyfriend for a few months?"

"Yes, I need something besides that," I say, crossing my arms.

Mom bites her lip and looks at the clock, probably thinking she's late for her weekly massage or something equally as pampering. "Fine, but the deal needs bigger stakes."

"Bigger stakes than me having an unwanted boyfriend for the next five months?"

"If we do this, we're doing it right."

"What's the deal?" I ask. "I also want to negotiate a few points."

Mom steps closer to me until I can smell her vanilla body wash and notice the small wrinkles starting around her eyes I would never dare mention. "You have to go to this event and find a man, any man that's passable, and spend the next five months as his cuffing season partner. The whole five months, Savannah! No breaking it off if he has a hole in his sock or something small after a month," she says. "If you do that, I will do two things."

"And what are those two things?" I ask. I'm suddenly very interested.

"One, I'll never bother you about a boyfriend again," she says, holding up her index finger. "Ever. Even if you're forty and surrounded by eight cats."

I squint. "I'm not sure I believe that, but what's the second thing?"

"I'll pay for the rest of your degree."

I step back and tilt my head to the side. My mother paid for my college degree but told me to pay for my advanced degree myself, wanting me to work for what I wanted and hoping to teach me a little about real life. The last year has been a struggle, paying rent for my apartment, my used car maintenance and gas, and paying tuition for my online degree. The idea of taking tuition off my plate is tempting, especially since I just filled out loan paperwork with a heavy heart and worry about the interest. My savings is toast, and my 2004 Honda will need a replacement sooner rather than later.

Five months of feigned romantic interest for a loan-free degree and no more love match shenanigans from Mom?

I exhale, irritated that my mother knows right where to put the dagger and twist. I clench the reshelving cart until my knuckles turn white, and I grit my teeth. "You're an evil, old hag that delights in making me miserable."

"Pish posh, Savannah," she says, waving her hand. "I want to see you happy. I'm just asking you to try. Try something new, and try working on being nice to a man. You don't even have to have sex. Just go to some parties or to movies or something," she says, shaking her chest in a shimmy motion. "For me."

I tap my foot and look at the wall behind my mother, not able to meet her eyes. The bulletin board featuring banned books stares back at me, and I work my lip. "It's only five months of hell for peace," I mumble. "I can do anything for five months, even put up with a man that probably has a He-Man toy collection, terrible skin, and bad breath."

Mom hooks her arm through mine and puts her other hand on the cart, helping me push the cart toward the adult fiction section. "You're beautiful. We'll find you the least repulsive man there. Be positive for once."

"I am positive," I say. "I'm positive this will be a miserable experience and that you're dooming me to hell for the next five months."