Page 20 of Double Puck

“I’m not participating in this.”

The boardwalk curves around a row of pastel beach cottages, their balconies dripping with hot-pink flowers while sprinklers splash over tiny strips of green lawn.

“Interesting… Subject has a refusal to cooperate.” Beck raises an imaginary clipboard between us as a cyclist shoots around the corner without warning, bell chiming as he squeezes between us. “Concerning. Possible daddy issues.”

“My mother,” I say, cutting him a look. "She would be my emergency contact."

“Your mom is your emergency contact?”

“Well, yeah. She gave birth to me. It seems appropriate.”

“Does she live nearby?”

“Sort of.”

“How far away?”

“Los Angeles.”

Beck turns his head, staring at me over the rim of his sunglasses. “Your emergency contact lives how many hours drive from here?”

“There are airplanes.”

“If you get hit by a bus, is she supposed to catch the next flight and reverse it?”

“Well lucky I don’t plan on getting hit by a bus.”

“Nobody plans to get hit by a bus, Darcy." He says it while wiping the sweat from his forehead with his forearm. The movement pulls every muscle in his stomach tight. "That’s why buses remain such a popular mode of transport.”

I give him a flat look and push faster, but he stays beside me with irritating ease.

“Question two,” he continues. “Who has a spare key to your apartment?”

“The building manager.”

“That's not a person. That's a policy put in place to protect landlords.”

“He could open the door if I lost my key though, couldn't he?”

“Yeah, but he’s not going to water your plants or hide evidence. Question three… you get arrested, and you get one phone call. Who's picking up?"

"I'm not going to get arrested."

"Again, nobody plans to get arrested, Darcy. That's the entire business model of jail."

I hate that I almost laugh, so I kill it before it reaches my face.

"Question four. Who sends you the best memes? The ones that make you laugh the most?"

"No one. I was raised to believe memes are an inefficient use of one's time."

Beck stops dead. I make it another few steps before realising he is no longer beside me and turn around to find him standing in the centre of the boardwalk, hands planted on his hips, looking genuinely appalled.

"Take that back," he says, without taking his horrified gaze off me. "I sent Mason memes at two in the morning last night. He always responds. It's called connection."

"It's called so that's why you were late this morning?"

He stares at me for another long second, then jogs forward until he catches up.