by Anthology
“No,” she says.
“What? It’s just brunch, right?”
Her grip tightens on my arm. “You’re not invited.”
“Why not? I love brunch.”
“Yeah? You’re a big brunch guy?”
“The biggest.”
“What’s your favorite brunch spot?”
That’s a problem because…there are brunch spots? “The diner.” It becomes a question four seconds after it comes out.
I get another signature Myra Myra headshake.
“What’s your last name? I’m tired of calling you Myra Myra.”
“Why the hell are you calling me Myra Myra?”
“Because I don’t know your last name.”
“My last name isn’t important.”
“It is to me.”
“You’re drunk.”
“That’s your fault. You and this damn list.” I shake it for emphasis, then realize it’s just a napkin. I don’t actually have the list. Myra has it in her snooty portfolio thing. “Who’s next?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea right now.”
“Why? I’m on fire.”
“Oh yeah? Probably not the kind of fire you’re thinking.”
“Come on. Who’s next?”
“You’re sure? We don’t have to keep doing this.”
“I’m not giving up now.”
“Okay, fine, but we’re going to take a break for a bit. Here, drink some water.”
I glare at her but start swallowing liquid that doesn’t burn when it goes down.
“Dogs or cats?” she asks while I try to figure out how they manufacture such skinny glasses. Better question: why?
“What?”
“Do you prefer dogs or cats?”
“In what context?”
She stares at me. “What kind of question is that?”
I grunt and pull her down on a bench. I can’t stand and explain something so complex at the same time. “Don’t get mad. That’s an impossible question to answer in the current format. How are these theoretical cats or dogs relevant to my life?”
“Huh? I don’t know. It’s a cat. Or a dog. How is this complicated?”
I sigh. “Okay, look. Here’s the problem. ‘Do I prefer cats or dogs’ is way too broad. To visit at a friend’s house: dogs. To babysit: cats. To own: neither. I’m never home, it wouldn’t be fair to the animal. To watch on TV: depends. Cats are freaking hilarious when they have sarcastic voiceovers. Dogs do better flips and shit. To see walking on a leash around the neighborhood: cats, because come on. How funny is that? To watch a sick kid get a pet: dog.”
“Okay, geez. I get it. Do you make everything this complicated?”
“Depends.”
She cuts me off with a hand to my lips. “Enough. Don’t answer that.” I grin beneath her fingers, and she pulls away. Blushing? I don’t trust any of my perceptions right now.
“Fine. New question. There are no living creatures in your house. What do you save when it catches fire?”
Crap. I’m bad enough at these sober. “How big is the fire? Where did it originate?”
“Ugh. Just answer the question, Nate. It’s huge. A massive inferno started by an arsonist who made sure it was equally spread everywhere at the same time.”
“Damn. I’m not going back in there.”
I think she might actually punch me. “You know what I mean! It’s hypothetical. You have time to get one thing out, what do you go after?”
I shrug. “I’m serious. There is no material possession so important to me that I’d run into a burning building to save it. I keep all my files backed up offsite and I don’t really have childhood shit and all that. I couldn’t care less about TVs and expensive watches.” I lean back. “Yeah, so I’d probably spend the time running next door to make sure my neighbors all get out instead.”
“You’re serious.”
“What were you expecting? We already covered the fact that I don’t have a pet or yacht to save.”
She grins and…headshake. I’m exasperating and she loves it.
“Fine, smartass. Let’s see what you do with Dr. Roger Paxton.”
Chapter Eight
Dr. Roger Paxton
Dr. Roger Paxton writes books. Not just books, treatises. Not just treatises but treatises. He also loves to talk about his treatises. His last book sold forty-five copies the first week. If I had to guess, that would cover all the people in the world interested in the migration patterns of subterranean arthropods. He didn’t mention how many he sold in the eight months since.
I can’t speak for a sober discussion, but drunk, arthropods are freaking amazing. They eat shit in the ground you would not believe. Dig holes, regurgitate stuff. Migrate the crap out of subterranea. I ask a hundred questions, most of which result in Myra grumbling behind my back, but I ignore her because dude, Noctuidae? Are moths. I know stuff, and Roger Paxton thinks I could have a real future in Arthropodical(?) research if I’m so inclined. I’m on his mailing list for the sequel he’s working on with Dr. Susan Horner about arthropod mating habits. I don’t even laugh when his eyes bulge out from his excitement over arthropod gonads. Gonads rock. Roger and I totally get each other.
“What do you do for fun?” I ask once we’ve exhausted all arthropod topics appropriate for polite conversation. I fully expect him to answer with something sciencey like rocket building or baking soda volcano making. But nope. My boy Roger is a Level 8 snowboarder. That’s when I learn way more about slope angles, cloud temperature, and kinetic energy than I ever thought to consider when renewing my season pass to Great Pine Mountain. After he finishes his bug sex book we are totally hitting the slopes together.
Roger doesn’t drink bourbon.
Roger isn’t married to a Vanderjoust.
Roger doesn’t cry on strangers’ shoulders or strip them while dancing like a deranged butterfly.
Roger might be my new best friend.
After our second shot of…alcohol…he thinks I’m pretty spectacular too. I didn’t know it was possible to hear eye-rolls until Myra’s reaction to our epic man-hug solidifying our bond. The dude is jacked for a professor of entomology. Just sayin’. He thinks I’m in good form for a desk jockey too, so we totally got this. We’ll probably be workout buddies after, or before, our date on the mountain. We both agree to no cuddling by the fire in the lodge, however. God, we’re hilarious, Roger and me.
Myra literally drags me away mid-contact info exchange, and I shoot her a sharp glare.
“What are you doing?”
“Saving you.”
“From what? Roger is fantastic.”
“You’re a nice guy, Nate. You’re sweet, engaging, and attentive to people. You have no sincere interest in insects. Tomorrow you will look at your calendar and dread your romantic getaway with Dr. Paxton.”
“But…”
She gives me a firm headshake. “No. Trust me on this. Buy his book. Read his book. If you are still fascinated by all things arthropod, call him up for coffee to discuss spiders and termites until you’re hoarse. But no holding hands on the mountain until then.”
“Noctuidae.”
“Yeah, I’m not as impressed by that.”
“They’re moths.”
“I got that.”
“They’re commonly gray to brown.”
“I don’t care.”
“They eat rotting plants and stuff.”
“Nate, I really don’t care.”
“You should care. Moths have a huge impact on our ecosystem.”
“Nate?”
“Shut up?”
“Please. Let’s focus on Billy Chinlow instead.”
Her smile, though? She so wants my gonads.
Chapter Nine
Bernadette
Nope, no Billy Chinlow because our journey is interrupted by a hurricane of an older woman. Her gray hair looks like it hasn’t moved since 1984 and I have to struggle not to gag at the scent of hairspray when she en
gulfs me in an awkward, completely inappropriate embrace.
“Bernadette. What are you doing here?” Myra asks, kind of polite?
Bernadette is all cheek pecks and boob flaunting in response. “You know I never miss these receptions. Carver may be my ex, but I didn’t divorce him because he didn’t know how to throw a party.”
Myra nods and it’s the most uncomfortable I’ve ever seen her. Which says a lot considering I’ve known her for four hours.
“Who’s this handsome devil? New boy toy, Myra?”
Oh my god. I’m a boy toy!
“Yes. His name is Nate,” she lies, shocking the snarky response on my tongue. I stare at her through my blurred vision because I must be drunk if she’s telling this tremendous coif of hair that we’re together.
“Really? Well, lucky girl. He’s just delicious, isn’t he?”
Bernie’s eyes, I’m calling her Bernie, are glued on me now, saturated with the kind of interest I just got from Morelia. Not as excited about it this time.
“We’re in love,” I add, drawing a severe glance from my girlfriend. I like this game and shoot my arm around her shoulders for good measure. She stiffens but accepts my gesture.
“That’s so nice for you, sweetheart,” Bernadette tells me. I have no idea if she’s buying any of this. I’m not even sure I understand why we’re lying. I just know alcohol is awesome and so is my imagination.
“We should get going. It was good to see you, Bernadette,” Myra says, always sucking the fun out of funny. I made that up, I think?
“Of course, dear.” The woman’s eyes are still undressing me in a dozen different ways. I thought Wilfred was creepy. “If you’re ever ready for a real challenge.” She doesn’t finish so I guess I’m supposed to assume she’s the challenge. Not much of a challenge.
I give her a finger gun anyway because we already know I can’t pull off the sly wink. Damn, that was the perfect opportunity for the two-finger nod, but we’re too far away now to try for that. Geez, Myra has us practically sprinting across the venue.
“That woman is insufferable,” she mutters once we’re out of earshot. “Sorry about that.”
She still hasn’t let go of my arm, and I feel no obligation to point that out.
“Nice finger shooting, by the way.”
I smirk. “Wasn’t sure what the protocol is for being hit on by McAllister’s exes.”
“Well, with that one, you never know. I have no clue why she’s even here.”
“Because she didn’t divorce Carver due to his lack of partying skills.”
She snickers. “Are you sobering up? That was almost funny.”
“I wish. Oh, and thanks.”
“For what.”
“You were rescuing me from her, weren’t you?”
She waves her hand. “She’s harmless, but yeah, she would have shadowed you the rest of the night trying to convince you that her gymnastics lessons fifty years ago are going to make her an excellent partner now.”
“Gymnastics, huh?” I say, glancing back.
Myra smacks my arm, and I toss a grin.
“Anyway, sorry again. You shouldn’t have had to endure that. Completely inappropriate and she’s not on the list.”
“She should be,” I say just to get that patented eye roll.
It works but they come with smiles now too. Her eyes don’t return to business mode right away, however. Instead, she studies me, her gaze piercing through my bullshit, searching for something. She’s close too. Close enough that I can smell her perfume or whatever it is that’s messing with my brain chemistry. Close enough that her fingers casually tug the open buttons of my shirt.
“Another question. After everything that’s happened tonight, what’s the one thing you would do or say right now to shock me?”
That’s easy. “Kiss you.”
She freezes. Yes, I’ve stunned the ice queen Myra Myra.
I wasn’t joking though so I wait as she processes my confession. Her hand holds my shirt, considers the microscopic amount of air separating us.
Her fingers move then. To my jaw, my lips. They explore, total rebellion, and I let my eyes fuse with hers as she fights to pull herself back together.
“That’s not part of the process.” Her tone holds no conviction.
“It should be.”
She doesn’t kiss me. But she so wants to.
Chapter Ten
Billy Chinlow
Billy Chinlow looks familiar but I can’t place him. Unfortunately, he places me the second he sees us.
“You!”
I brace myself because clearly whatever this is, it’s happening.
“You’re the dill weed that knocked my phone out of my hand!” His beer sloshes over the glass as he swings an irate fist toward me.
Oh…right.
“Sorry, man. It was an accident, I swear.”
His eyes narrow and I’m not optimistic about this encounter. Drunken dill weed insults rarely portend a constructive conversation.
His girlfriend agrees with him. “Dingbat,” she mutters, leaving me in awe at how many D-tags there are. Dork, dick, dirt bag…
“Look, I said I was sorry. What else do you want me to do?”
“How about learn to walk?”
“Um.”
“Like in that direction.” His clever instructions point me toward the exit.
It’s good advice. Walk away, Nate. Just…
“Dude, relax. It’s not like I broke your foot.”
I can’t exactly say I asked for a black eye. I mean, a dude has to have one hell of a hair-trigger to punch a guy over something so trivial. No, my crime was ignoring my insanely good people-reader that knew that idiot was going to pop me if I didn’t disappear. The guy was so obvious even my drunk filter picked up the warning. Too bad Drunk Nate also sucks at heeding said warnings.
Myra flipped out. Well, as much as a woman like Myra flips out. She muttered a vicious curse and signaled security. For the record, she did so by raising two fingers and pointing them at the violent sausage still splattering beer all over the scene in his animated protest. I’m so going to point that out later. Maybe once my face stops throbbing.
After security, it was ice and a private alcove for recovery. No one can blame me for snagging another glass of something fizzy from the tray those servers carry around. I sucked that down, and am now holding a cloth of ice to my eye.
“I can’t believe he hit you,” Myra snaps for the fifth time.
“It doesn’t hurt.” But that’s only my third denial. It kind of did before the last dose of whatever I drank. So yeah, I may have been a bit of a wuss.
She grunts. “Only because you’re plastered. It’ll hurt like hell tomorrow.”
“We should dance.”
“We’re not dancing.”
“No, I’m serious.” This conversation is such a fantastic idea. I should say everything I’m thinking right as I’m thinking it. “We’re obviously crazy attracted to each other but you have to be all professional or whatever and can’t sleep with me. I understand how it works. So we should dance instead. Feel each other up, you know? Get it out of our system, reputations intact.”
Such an amazing speech.
Oh shit, she’s choking! I drop my ice so I can do some kind of life-saving maneuver. What’s that thing with the hollow pen in the throat? No, that doesn’t seem right. She swats me away.
“What are you doing?” she cries between fits of…oh. Laughter.
“I thought you were choking.”
“How was patting my head going to help me breathe?”
She’s still struggling for oxygen as she retrieves my ice and presses it back to my eye. I cover her hand and hold it firm.
“I don’t know, but you’re an amazing nurse.”
“Thanks for noticing. I’m actually certified in ice-cloth application.”
“Really?”
Her chuckle means I’ve now progressed to Gullible Drunk Nate. Damn, and she�
��s figured me out.
“Yep, I am. But only in business environments. This is the first time I’ve used my training.”
“Hilarious. Have I mentioned this is the weirdest interview ever?”
“You have. Okay, another question.”
“No, seriously?” I groan. It’s taking all of my brainpower to hang onto my ice. That’s when I realize I’m not. She’s holding it in place. My hands are tapping confused rhythms on the surface of the bench. God, I suck at being a person when I’m drunk.
“Seriously. You need another break anyway. If you’re not going to stop drinking at every phase, we’ll have to slow this down. Okay, so, in this scenario I stop by for dinner unannounced. What are you making for me?”
“You don’t know where I live.”
“In this setup I do.”
“Got it. So you’ve been over before? This is a regular thing?”
“Nate…”
“What? It’s a legitimate question.”
“No. It’s my first time. I looked up your address.”
“So you’re stalking me.”
“Ugh, no. Your friend gave it to me.”
“Hmm. So my friend obviously knows I like you and now knows you like me too, if you’re asking for my address.”
“You want another black eye?”
“I don’t see why these aren’t valid considerations.”
“Fine! No, I told your friend I needed to return something.”
“So you lied to get my address because you’re ashamed that you have feelings for me.”
I grin through my wince as the ice gains a much stronger presence against my eye.
“Admit it, Myra Myra. I’m growing on you.”
Her gaze opens up, and I love watching her mind work. Especially because mine is doing a shit job of that right now.
“New question. You’re about to be launched into space and can take one person with you. Who do you take? And don’t you dare say me.”
I smirk because I so would have. “A real astronaut. Shit is no joke in space.”
Eye roll. Please and thank you. “You are impossible to interview.”
