“You are not trying to set me up.” Less of a question, more of a stern reminder.

“God no. I’m just offering you an evening of men with accents.”

And here I’d thought my best chance of going international tonight was a lawn full of lesbians salsaing to a karaoke rendition of “Livin’ La Vida Loca.”

“I think I’ll pass, but you get points for a good, solid effort.”

“Ah, come on, Nic—don’t pass. You can’t expect to earn a Weird shirt by missing eight consecutive years of South by Southwest.”

“Why not? In this particular instance, I’m the epitome of weird.” My eyes skimmed over the journal and quickly darted away. “Who else would choose questionable backyard karaoke over a legitimate Scottish band?”

“You’re going next door?” Cue massive sigh.

“Of course. I’ve got cupcakes baking as we speak.”

“Never mind that you need an intervention more than you need another cupcake.” I started to react, but it quickly became clear that this was just his starter jab. “You’re. Not. A. Lesbian. Nic. And you wouldn’t karaoke for a hundred bucks.” That was true. Sad, but true. “So what in the hell are you doing over there every Friday night?” And then he lapsed into absurdity: “Are they brainwashing you? Luring you into some sort of sexual cult? Should I come over?”

I rolled my eyes and responded accordingly. “Don’t worry—it’s nothing I can’t handle. Just a little girl-on-girl action.”

After a couple beats of uncharacteristic silence, Gabe eventually surfaced. “Okay, I’m getting a sarcastic vibe here, and it’s throwing me off.”

“Wishful thinking doesn’t make it so, Gabe. Remember that.”

“Damn. I thought not. So how exactly do the weekly lesbian potlucks fit in with the Nic James Life Plan?”