What Nora Knew by Linda Yellin

I consider seedless watermelon the single most marvelous invention in the history of man. Right after Post-its.
    “So, Cameron Duncan, if your Mike Bing’s good at love, he must be good at recognizing it.” I was using a knife and fork; at home I would have just picked up my watermelon rind and gnawed it. “If you were speaking on his behalf, how does Mike know when someone’s the one?”
    “A Magic 8 Ball comes in handy.”
    “Was that a serious answer?”
    “Was that a serious question?”
    “Maybe,” I said.
    “You should try salting that to bring out the taste,” Cameron said. “Watermelon’s really good that way.”
    “There’s taste here. I can taste it.” I continued eating sans salt.
    “I guess it’s a Midwest thing.” Cameron sat there watching me chew. I felt more comfortable when I was posing naked.
    I said, “This detective of yours must be pretty desirable if he can find a new girlfriend every book.”
    “He believes in love. He holds out for love. He’s a romantic.”
    “And he’s fictional.”
    “But not unrealistic.”
    I bit into a renegade seed in my seedless watermelon, doing my best to remove the little rascal while daintily covering my mouth. I didn’t think Pammie would appreciate my spitting it out onto her lawn. I asked, “So, do these Mike Bing girlfriends have anything in common? Other than they all end up dead.”
    “Yes. They all salt their watermelon.”
    “Too bad. I guess I’m not his type.”
    “He might not agree with that.”
    I was about to say something on the order of Ha! or roll my eyes and tell Cameron I hoped his prose was as smooth as he was, when he said, “You’ve got watermelon dripping.” He pointed toward my napkin. “May I?” I looked over at Russell. He was talking with Lindy Sue and eating a blini.
    “I can manage.” I wiped my face.
    “You missed a spot.”
    “Did not.”
    “Trust me.” Cameron leaned closer, took the napkin from me, and dabbed my chin lightly, almost tenderly, and only for a moment, but the weird thing is, after he moved hishand away I could still feel the pressure of his fingers against my skin. Warm. And confusing.
    He smiled at me, as if the two of us had shared a secret while surrounded by Pammie’s guests.
    What the hell was that little back-and-forth? my inner Molly wondered as Pammie was cupping her hands around her mouth shouting to get everyone’s attention. “Who wants to play touch football!”
    A rumble of interest rose up, probably enhanced by all the bottles of wine that had been consumed, except from Heike, who said, “You’re kidding, right? That’s a joke?”
    Russell was the surprising one. He abandoned his blini and said, “I love touch football! C’mon, everyone, it’ll be fun!”
    I had no idea he was such a fan. Then again, anyone who threw out their back could mean potential business.
    Pammie called down the table, “Bruce, sweetheart, do you want to be one captain and I’ll be the other?” and lunch was officially over. As everyone—even a reluctant Heike—pushed back their chairs and discussed choosing teams or whether they preferred volunteering for cheerleading duties, I mouthed the words no thanks to Russell.
    “Don’t you leave without me getting your autograph!” Blair said to Cameron as she raced off.
    “Or me,” Rachel said, turning to call out, “I want Bruce’s side!”
    “Have fun,” I said to Cameron.
    He remained seated. I remained seated. After a minute or two of our sitting in silence, I said, “Mike Bing’s not an athlete?”
    Cameron shook his head no.
    I asked him to pass some more watermelon.
    He picked a wedge off a platter and deposited it on my plate. All around us servers were removing plates and glasses and folding up chairs.
    “Do you really like Nicolas Cage?” I asked.
    Cameron smiled. At least he had the decency to look embarrassed.
    “Why’d you claim you did?”
    “I made a book sale.”
    “So you’ll say anything?”
    Cameron