I start to laugh and Dylan narrows her eyes. “I bet I can make you a hundred times more uncomfortable than you could ever make me,” she says.
I shake my head. “I know you too well,” I say. “Nothing you do can surprise me.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Is that a dare?” she asks.
“Sure,” I say.
She wipes her fingers slowly across her napkin. She dabs the corners of her mouth clean and I start to regret my words.
She scoots out of the booth and stands up. She straightens her t-shirt over her jean shorts. She walks into the center of the narrow isle, between our booth and the line of tables, turns to me, and clears her throat.
Oh, no.
“HAPPY BIRHTDAY TO YOU,” she belts out in low vibrato, like a baritone opera singer. She’s not trying to sound good, she’s going for loud. Embarrassingly, nauseatingly loud. Her voice echoes off of the walls. She sounds exactly like Chevy Chase singing Joy to the World in the movie Christmas Vacation. I can feel every pint of blood in my body rush to my face.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU,” she continues. Every conversation in the restaurant has ceased and every pair of eyes is on me. I swear even the deer heads look alarmed. I cross my arms over my chest and stare at Dylan. Her eyes are beaming down at me.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DEAR, SHELDON.”
I glare up at her. Of course she has to give me a lame ass name. The cooks are out of the kitchen, staring and smiling. I feel myself sinking into the booth seat. I contemplate hiding underneath the table.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU.” Dylan rings out the final line with an exaggerated vibrato and a sweeping arm motion that ends with a deep bow. The restaurant rips into applause and laughter. Dylan turns and waves to the patrons before she sits down. She calmly picks up her fork and helps herself to my muffin.
She’s quiet and I wonder if she ripped a vocal chord with her little dramatic performance. I almost wish she did.
“We had an Olympic-style truth or dare competition in my neighborhood every summer when I was growing up,” Dylan tells me. She points both of her thumbs at her chest. “Eight year, gold medal winner,” she says. “Dare with care.”
I set both of my hands on the table. “I promise I will never say the m-word for as long as I live,” I tell her. “Just, please, swear on your mother’s life that you will never sing like that again.”
“Was it that terrible?” she asks.
“The worst thing I’ve ever heard,” I say.
She smiles like I paid her a compliment.
“Okay, truce,” she says. “Pinkie swear.” She holds out her hand but I shake my head.
“Thumb swear,” I say.
“What?”
“It’s much more sincere than a pinkie swear,” I tell her.
She sticks her thumb out and I wrap my thumb around hers and squeeze. My hand starts to tingle from the connection and I drop her thumb with annoyance and glare at my hand. Apparently even her thumb turns me on. God, can you cut me a break, here?
“Amanda coined that swear,” I say. “She owns the patent, so you can’t use it unless you’re family.” I drink my coffee and Dylan sucks down half of her lemonade.
“Happy Birthday, Sheldon,” an older woman says to me as she passes our booth. I politely nod in response.
“You don’t wear baseball caps anymore,” Dylan notes.
“I shaved my hair,” I say. “It doesn’t get in my eyes.”
She smiles. She knows me better than that.
“That’s not why you wore hats,” she says. “You’re letting more in.”
“Maybe,” I admit.
“You’ve changed a little bit,” she says.
Our waitress brings our food and informs us a customer paid for our bill. She offers me more coffee, but I shake my head.
“Have a great day, Sheldon,” she tells me and pats me on the shoulder. When she walks away I roll my eyes at Dylan.
“Sheldon?” I ask her. “Really? The singing wasn’t bad enough?”
“Hey, we just stretched our travel budget,” Dylan points out, as if I should thank her.
“I get the feeling freebies are common for you.”
She lifts her hands. “Life loves improv,” she informs me. “The more dares you’re willing to take on, the better.”
I back pedal to her earlier comment. “So, how have I changed?” I ask her.
She sits back in the booth and studies me. “I can’t quite place it. There are the obvious physical changes. Beer gut. Double chin. Receding hair line.”
I laugh with amusement and it makes her smile.
“You’re more relaxed,” she says. “Maybe even happy?”