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Oh, God, she thought, burying her face in her hands.This conversation feels like I’m trying to start a fire by rubbing two sticks together.
Becca fell back on one of her old conversation starter party tricks. Look at the person you’re talking to, and pick out something about their appearance to talk about or ask a question about.
So there was Griz. Big. Tall. Giant beard. Should she talk about the beard? What was there to discuss in the world of beards?
Then there was his shirt, which looked like every other shirt she’d seen him wear.
“You wear a lot of flannel,” she said, the wine making her think out loud.
“Yeah,” he said.
“See,” Becca said, “you can expand on that, Griz. Not just give a one word answer.”
“But I do wear a lot of flannel.”
“I mean, you could use it as a springboard to explain why you like flannel so much, or something like that. So the conversation keeps going, you know?”
Griz thought about that for a second or two. “Feels good.”
“That's it?” Becca said. “Feels good?”
“Yeah.”
Becca felt like she wanted to put her forehead through the most convenient plate glass window. If hiding on the run was going to be like this, she’d rather that Death’s Head find her and shoot her in the face immediately.
“Don't you ever want to say more words?” she said.
“Like what?”
“I don't know,” she said. “Anything. What are you thinking about? Right now?”
“Flannel,” he said.
Becca stared at him. “You're thinking about flannel?”
“You just asked me about flannel, so I'm thinking about flannel.”
“Something else, Griz. Tell me about yourself.”
“Like what?” he said.
“I don’t know,” she said. “What about your motorcycle club thing? How does someone become a biker guy, anyway?”
“My dad was in it,” he said. “Ever since I was a kid, we were always at the club, doing club stuff. Me and Wyatt.”
“Your dad adopted him? Wyatt?”
“Yeah,” Griz said. “It’s all either one of us ever wanted. To be in the club.”
“Didn’t you ever want anything else for yourself?” she said.
“Like what?” he said.
“I don’t know. To have a regular life.”
“Like yours?”
“Yeah,” Becca said. “I guess.”
