But I’m trying to be different, which means I need a weird question for her before she gets her coat on.
I’m gathering the courage to ask how many words there arefor rain boots in French when Sharon walks up, shouldering a designer bag that seems incongruous against her stretchy, low-key clothes. Although now that I look closer, I recognize the high-end tailoring I’ve seen in Marijke’s handmade knitwear. Huh.
“We’re going to the Kraken for beer, calamari, and baseless speculation about which celebrities would bedown”—Sharon clears her throat meaningfully—“with which kinds of sexy times. You coming?”
I’m tired after three hours of emoting. I’d intended to go home after The Great Rainboot Translation.
But Sharon has a point. Sexy baseless speculation played an important part in Stellar and me becoming besties. Well, also we hooked up that one time, which broke down the shyness barriers. But I can rainboot Béa as easily in the bar as I can here.
“You in, McHuge?” Sharon asks.
“Not tonight. Work to do. Gotta conserve my life-force. Liz? A minute, before you go.”
“I’ll be there in five, Sharon,” I say impulsively.
Once Sharon’s gone, McHuge turns to me. “I have to say, my astrologer did not see this situation coming. I take it you came to class to build up your confidence for the pitch competition.”
“I’m sorry, McHuge. I can try to transfer, if you’d rather.”
He shakes his big ginger head. “You’re welcome here, Liz. David’s in this section anyway; if both of you left, we wouldn’t have enough people. Besides, I learn stuff from my students all the time. You should be refusing to teach me, little bud.”
“Ha. Good one. And thanks, McHuge. I… like your class. A lot more than I thought I would.”
He rumbles appreciatively. “You did fantastic work today. One tip: let go. Let yourselfexistin the scene, reacting to what’s happening. Trust yourself; trust your co-players to take care of you. Let them knowyou.”
I draw back. That feels like a lot. It’s the opposite of why I got into this game, which was to learn tonotbe me.
McHuge pats my shoulder. “It’s just a scene, Liz. It doesn’t have to have such high stakes.”
Doesn’t it? “Yeah, sure. Thanks.”
After the evening chill, the warmth of the bar hits like a wall, damp and filled with aromas both delicious and dirty. The improv group is crammed into a corner booth, caught up in a story Béa’s telling.
“Up his shorts?!” Jason shouts.
“Well, not all the way up, but I knew something terrible was happening. Liz!”
Everyone cheers and raises their glasses. We’re not yet friends, but it feels like we will be, and I’m so damn grateful for this moment.
I haven’t gone out with friends since I left Tobin.
I miss him in a sudden rush. He brings out the best in everybody. Especially me. He’d take the wheel socially when I flamed out, so I could enjoy being in company without feeling I always had to sparkle. He’s adorable the rare times he lets himself get a little tipsy—handsy as hell, bugging me to slow dance to the sappy songs he’s bribed the DJ to play, framing my face with his hands as he comes in for smooches.
I sidle across the sticky maroon pleather next to Sharon instead of touching my lips where they’re tingling from the memory of last weekend.
“So what happened?” Jason prompts Béa.
She shrugs her elegant shoulders. “Stéphane and the squirrel agreed: he didn’t want her in his shorts; she didn’t want that either. But for a second there, he had the biggest… I don’t know the word in English.” She drapes her jacket over her arm, making the fabric twitch like it’s restraining an agonized boner, or a very confusedsquirrel. Our table erupts in scandalized screams of laughter. Sharon’s almost crying in her calamari; Jason’s Aperol spritz is now a spritz-take.
“Not too shabby, if you could mistake the squirrel for Stéphane’s… something else,” Sharon comments, when we’re able to catch our breath. “You’re not doing too badly either, Liz, judging by that guy you were talking to last time we were here. Who’s he?”
“He’s, uh.” What level of detail is correct for new, delicate friendships? “That’s my husband, Tobin.”
Sharon gives me a keen look. Too late, I remember my overshare at karaoke. Time to change the subject.
“So, Béa. How are you liking Grey Tusk?”
“Oh, I love it! We’re here for Stéphane’s job—his company wants to get established on the West Coast, so he is posted here for six months. My job cannot move—I work at the Montréal Museum of Art—so we thought, why not get married while I’m on leave? And next time we have to choose between his job and mine, he’ll step back.”
