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“We figured you wouldn’t remember her, so we told her you were suffering from amnesia.”
“Thanks, pal.” I clapped his shoulder.
He shook me off. “Instead of thanking me, stop feeding women bullshit stories. We’re tired of cleaning up your mess, Bates.”
What else was I supposed to tell them? The truth?
“You’re great, sweetheart, you really are, but due to a fucked-up childhood and deep-rooted abandonment issues, I would rather feast on my own leg for the next week or so than get attached to another human.”
After our drinks were served, and the bartender gave me apoor thingpout and told me she was always here if I needed to talk, Christian swiveled on his stool in my direction. “So when’s your new assignment starting?”
“You mean, when am I getting out of your place?” I tipped my beer in my mouth.
He swirled the amber liquid in his tumbler. “You speak Christian Miller fluently.”
This was my in to break the news to them.
“Actually, now that you mention it, it might take a minute or two before my next project.”
“Let me guess, you’re banned from most civilized places for impregnating the locals and causing overpopulation.” Arsène flipped his phone to check if his wife had texted him. He was so thoroughly whipped I was surprised she didn’t use his balls as a door knocker.
“That too. But mostly ...” I flopped back on my stool, opening my arms wide with a victorious grin. “I’m getting married.”
Christian sprayed his whiskey all over the bar.
Arsène’s quiet, skeptical glare dug its way under my skin as he watched me from behind his beer bottle.
“You do understand that part of telling a joke is making it funny,” Arsène drawled.
“It’s not a joke.” I shook my head. “I’m getting hitched.”
“Sorry, I’m not buying what you’re selling.” Christian had recovered, wiping his chin with napkins he’d retrieved from behind the bar. “You. Marriage. The fact that you put the two in the same sentence. You jumped the shark.”
“You not only jumped it, you’re not even in the same body of water as said shark.” Arsène raised his beer in agreement. “You lack the capacity to recognize a woman you hooked up with last month.Twice. You taking a stab at monogamy is probably going to kill the concept completely.”
“Sorry to disappoint, ladies, but I’m about to become a taken man.”
Taken hostage, more like.
“Are we gonna do this for a while?” Christian flagged the bartender for another round of drinks. “Because, as previously established, this joke isn’t funny. Be serious.”
“Iamserious.” I knocked back my entire drink. “What’s so hard about envisioning me getting married?”
“I find it easier envisioning you shitting in your own hand and clapping.” Arsène squinted at nothing in particular, as if watching a film of the situation in his head. “Frankly, you seem happier clapping on your own crap too.”
“Domesticating you is akin to herding a six-pack of Bud Light,” Christian explained, using an unfortunate analogy. “No woman in her right mind would marry you. Wait.” His face clouded. “Sheisin her right mind, yeah? Is she of age, fully mature, and doesn’t live in a closed psychiatric ward? New York State’s laws are pretty strict about that.”
Smiling cheerfully, I dug through my front pockets and produced two middle fingers, erecting them Christian’s way.
“Notice you haven’t answered my question.” Through his squint I could see him already calculating the bail they’d put on my ass if I got arrested.
“While it’s true I don’t have a lot of experience with relationships, my settling down isn’t more outrageous than you two getting hitched.” I peeled a sticker off the bar, quietly but thoroughly pissed. “If anything, I’ve never been mean or abusive to my partners.” I pinned Christian with a glare. “Nor have I everbulliedanyone.” My gaze shifted to Arsène. “I always try and say my goodbyes while inflicting minimum damage. Compared to both of you, I’m a gentle soul.”
“A gentle soul who keeps mason jars with his farts in a Brooklyn storage space from when we were in ninth grade.” Christian raised his new whiskey glass in a dropped-mic gesture.
“They’ll be worth a fortune one day.” I gave him a chiding scowl. “When future scientists will need to know shit about the twenty-first-century diet, who do you think they’ll turn to?”
“Good question.” Arsène pretended to mull this over. “Our generation is grossly undocumented. I wish they’d invent the internet already.”
