“Again, less concerned about Mike than whomever you might’ve stumbled upon after him.” Hollis flails his right hand in the air. “That wide-eyed, trusting thing you have going on practically screams ‘Hey, come murder me and wear my skin!’ ”
I snort. “Do you always assume the worst of people?”
“Yes. Do you always assume the best?”
“Usually.”
“Faaantastic,” he says through clenched teeth. The word acts like punctuation, announcing that the conversation has come to an end as far as he’s concerned.
However, I don’t do well with silence. “So,” I say. “What kind of stuff do you write?”
Authors are practically bound by law to answer this question. “Nonfiction novels, mostly. My first book’s being published in November. It’s about a pyramid scheme that caused all sorts of scandal in a small town in Minnesota.”
“Nonfiction novels? So, like,In Cold Blood?”
He contemplates the comparison, then concedes, “This one has less murder and more casseroles, but basically yes.”
“Wow. Sounds great. I’ll have to preorder it.”
To my surprise, Hollis smiles. It’s the smallest smile I’ve seen on anyone ever, really only visible at the corners of his mouth, but it’s something. If he knows this is my go-to line for meeting authors that I perfected while dating Josh, he doesn’t seem willing to call me out on it.
“And you?” he asks. “What does Millicent Watts-Cohen do when she’s not fending off creeps or jumping into cars with randos?”
“I’ve been freelancing as a historical accuracy consultant for TV and film for the last few months. I did some research to help out a director friend while I was finishing up my master’s. She recommended me to others in the industry. There’s a lot more demand than I expected. Apparently, Hollywood people still think of me as one of them, and they like keeping everything in the family, so to speak.”
“Your master’s is in history then?”
“Yeah. I’ve always been interested in it. Plus, it felt necessary to somehow atone forPenelope’s sins. And there were a lot of them. I mean, there’s an Appomattox episode thatextremelydoes not hold up.” He doesn’t comment. “Did you watch the show?”
“My sister did.”
“But you didn’t?”
He raises one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “I caught bits and pieces of episodes here and there, but it wasn’t really my thing.”
It’s a relief that Hollis is probably not doing all of this for me because I’m ever so slightly famous or because he’s hoping to role-play some weird teenage sexual fantasy. I’m basically an E-listcelebrity, or maybe even F-list if it goes that low, but you’d be surprised how many people are only interested in knowing me because of that. Like Josh, it turns out.
Thinking about my ex makes me remember what Hollis said about him, about how Josh has been telling his friends—and frenemies, apparently—that we split because I’m too impossible, strange, needy. And that makes me get that sinking feeling that accompanies knowing there’s someone out there who doesn’t like me. It’s never fun, but it’s so much worse when it’s someone I assumed I would marry one day.
I reach for the stereo, hoping for a distraction. When I press the button to turn it on, a velvety voice fills the car, talking with sharp enunciation about the flight cancelation hullabaloo.
“What is this?”
“WAMU.”
I wrinkle my nose.
“What do you have against NPR?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I say. “It’s great. I have the utmost respect for public radio. But it’s a horrible soundtrack for a road trip.”
“I’m sorry I don’t have a perfectly curated playlist with which to caress your discerning ears.”
“That’s okay.” I pull my phone out of my backpack’s front pocket. “I’ve got us covered.” I dig around until I find my aux cord, and soon The Alan Parsons Project’s “Eye in the Sky” fills the car. My mouth opens to belt out the lyrics, but I’m not a talented singer—like, I’m actually objectively bad—and it’s probably too early to subject Hollis to that. Making someone’s ears bleed isn’t a great way to show your appreciation. So I restrain myself, settling for swaying in my seat. Of course, by the time we get tothe chorus, there’s some shimmying and eyes-closed head bobbing going on too.
“What’s going on over there?” Hollis asks. “Do you need to pee already?”
“I’m dancing.”
