“After what?”
“Once the team breaks your contract because of me. What happens then?”
I don’t know what I’m expecting. Arthur doesn’t respond right away, a newfound character trait I’m unsure of how to parse. He only looks at me, his jaw tight with all the words he isn’t saying. When he does decide to reply, his voice is soft and slightly hollow. “I’ll go to Italy. What about you?”
My heart thuds like it’s been dropped from the top of a building. “Right, sorry. Italy. I remember that now. I just got confused with all the different countries and—Italy seems like a fun place!” I’m word-vomiting, punched through the gut for nebulous reasons. Bad reasons. Fuck. “Ready to go back and find everyone else?”
For my adult life, I’ve worked to be the best documentarian I can be, asking questions that make people think before they speak.But I don’t like it when Arthur isn’t firing back at me. When he’s calculating how to respond, choosing which version of himself that I get.
After a long moment, his mouth ticks back up and I hate it—when he smiles like that, I get the lies. “Sure. Let’s go.”
Chapter Fifteen
It’s crowded. And warm. And there are so many more disco balls in the giant dark club room at the back of the ruin bar, spinning like stars. Without any overhead lighting, only bits and pieces of the space are lit up by the thousands of disco-ball reflections at any given moment. Strangers, a bar, someone who looks like Max but isn’t, a booth, someone in a bedazzled suit, Arthur holding my elbow as we sidestep toward a table in a less populated corner. Evidently, it’s David Bowie Night, which means the music flips between electronic remixes and karaoke, which means it’s so loud. But I’m a little drunk and a little emotionally distraught and I keep thinking about Italy, clocks, time running out, let go, have fun. I can have fun. I am having fun!
“I didn’t know David Bowie was popular in Hungary,” I say, like a person having fun would.
“What?” Arthur shouts.
“I said, I didn’t know that—”
Just as we grab the booth, a boy in a feathered Brian Eno getup begins to croon a deeply soulful rendition of “Be My Wife,” and it’s fine, really; I have to be grateful he picked a song with lyrics and without car crashes.
Arthur studies me. His beer is already half empty. Again. “Are you drunk?”
“Almost. Why?”
“Because you’re smiling while someone’s singing karaoke.”
“Watch your mouth. I like karaoke.”
“Youlikekaraoke?”
“I like watching other people do karaoke.”
The way he chuckles and shakes his head gets his point across, despite our karaoke star belting loudly enough to drown him out. I watch as he pulls out his phone, types for a few seconds, then sends it off.
My phone vibrates in my pants pocket.
Shooting him a suspicious glance, I pull it out to read his message.
As your boyfriend, I can learn to like karaoke. My rendition of Whole of the Moon always got rave reviews.
The wine spritzers gone by bubble beneath my skin. Not reacting to this—Arthur implying that we’ll go to karaoke more than this one time—doesn’t leave me with many facial-expression options. I go with a small smile but keep my eyes on my phone, so he doesn’t notice the weird pang that’s weirdly panging through me.
I like any social setting where you’re fed lyrics instead of having to talk. Also, my mom does the weirdest Beatles covers. She harmonizes with herself.
I peek up. He’s grinning at his phone.
She must be where you get your panache from.
Haha I’m adopted, but yeah. She’s a badass. She met my dad while she was hiking the Appalachian Trail by herself. His water bottle had rolled off a cliff and she probably saved his life.
This is how I like to spring the childhood topic with new people: a little truth, a lot of distractions. Arthur’s smile dips, and he quickly tap-tap-tap-taps.
I didn’t know. I’m sorry.
I squint at the screen, wishing I could pop this text bubble out of existence.
