Although he’s the furthest thing from bad. He’s more the strong, silent type. Emphasis onsilent. I don’t know when we last had a conversation like this, flirty and knowing.
Except Tobin and I aren’t having this conversation. Lola and Ben are.
Our history comes back in a painful rush. Lola starts to pull out of my grasp.
Did you take enough time to heal from that?I turn my chair to look pointedly at his bad wrist.
He clocks my stare and stops leaning.
If the elephants don’t go through the ring of fire, I don’t get paid. I can handle work.
“You can. But at what price? You spend all of yourself out there, and pretend you’re fine when you get home, but you’re not. We stopped saving the best parts of ourselves for each other, Tobin.” My voice breaks everything: the silence, the trust, the whole scene.
Forget the best parts of him. I wonder whether I hadanyof him.
“Excuse me,” comes a whisper from above. “Perhaps you’re not aware of our quiet policy.”
On a delightful vintage book ladder perches Béa, one arm laden with antique volumes, wearing a name tag with the lettersB-E-Apictured in American Sign Language. She dips her chin a little: yes, she recognizes me; no, she won’t blow my cover.
Did she hear what I said? It’s like every cringeworthy part of my life is bleeding into every other part, making it all exponentially worse.
Sorry,I gesture, hand to heart, then point to my chest and wave:We’re going.
Lola wouldn’t ask Ben to leave. Lola would rely on herself.
I silence my phone. Shut it off. Shove it to the bottom of my bag as I make for the door.
“Hey!” Tobin bursts into the spring sunshine a second after I do. “Where are you going?”
“I think we’ve done enough,” I toss back at him. Is it the truth? Is it a lie? I don’t know anymore.
“But we haven’t picked the next scenario. We haven’t set a date for—”
“Pick whatever you want! Pick all the scenarios forever,” I shout at him, walking backward. “Text me the details! It doesn’t matter, okay?”
I can get Kris Kristofferson up to speed in seven days, and then I’ll cancel this cursed deal and file a restraining order against myself, so I can’t get within a hundred meters of this man.
I’m going on Goodreads and writing a one-star review for McHuge’s book. “Unrealistic. Did not finish.”
And then I’m going to wipe from my memory the way Tobin looks when he’s watching me walk away.
Chapter Nine
Scenarios can be funny, silly, outrageous—enjoy yourselves! But I don’t recommendtryingto make them funny. Avoid punch lines; they hurt the scene and the trust between players. When you reveal your deep emotional truth, that’s when you’ll get laughs that last a lifetime.
—The Second Chances Handbook
The Kraken is the kind of fishnet-draped bar you’ll find a hundred kilometers from the nearest ocean. It’s definitely not a Village bar, where drinks are marked up a couple hundred percent and the theme is either quiet extreme wealth, or loud extreme wealth.
My improv classmates and I are far from the touristy parts of Grey Tusk tonight. The buildings are low and unpretentious, hidden from the road by a thin, scrubby belt of brush and trees. There are no cobblestones or vintage-style streetlamps or upbeat piped-in music, and the window displays have pictures of manicure art and shawarma platters instead of frosted lettering and carbon-gray mannequins wearing great sweaters. The highway turnoff to this little retail strip doesn’t even have a traffic light.
The Kraken is striving to be the kind of over-the-top destination deemed “authentic” by travel websites. But on a Friday night in the shoulder season, they’re officially off the clock as far as trying is concerned. It’s karaoke night, according to a tired banner behind the stage, but nobody’s brave or reckless enough to sing under these conditions. A projector plays wavery background effects behind a microphone stand that lists sadly to one side. It’s offensively well lit. And quiet.
So quiet.
McHuge claps his giant paws. “Improv shows often end with music. It’s a crowd-pleaser. Performers need to get comfortable being uncomfortable, whether they’re singing or talking. So! We’re flowing our energy to karaoke,” he announces brightly. Everyone turns pale, even David.
“You won’t always get to pick the song, but they’re usually familiar.…” He considers. “Ish. So I’ll assign you a Top Forty hit.”
