Page 31 of The Best Shot

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And that satisfies you?”

Hale smiled. “Depends on the day.”

Her mouth tightened.

Finally, she set down her wine, checked her phone. “I should get going. Early class.”

“Of course,” Ava said.

Dr. Kimball stood. “It was interesting talking with you, Hale, but I suspect we may have different ideas of compatibility.”

“Can’t imagine many folks around here are into Spivak or Fanon,” Hale said mildly. “But good luck with that.”

Her brow lifted. “You’re familiar with the field?”

He tugged at his ear. “Me? No, ma’am.”

“But you know Spivak.”

“That’s just from poking around online. I get curious, is all.”

I snorted.

Her eyes flicked to me, suspicion sharpening. She knew she was being mocked, but not how.

“Have a good evening, doc,” Hale said.

She gave Ava a tight nod that clearly said you’ve wasted my time, shot me one last assessing look, and left.

“You in trouble,” I sing-songed at Ava.

“Think she’ll give her detention?” Hale asked, grinning.

Ava looked between us. “Both of you. What the fuck?”

“What?” I asked.

“You crashed my setup.”

Hale picked up his drink. “You sat me next to a woman who said, unironically, that biographies were the closest she’d allow herself to fiction. Yasmine showing up was an act of mercy.”

“She was—” Ava stopped, pressed her lips together. “Fine. It wasn’t the best match.”

“No shit,” Hale said.

“I need to go after her.” She pointed at him. “But we’re talking about this later.”

“Looking forward to it.”

She left.

The bar noise rushed back in. I ate another fry.

“So,” I said. “Guess you’re not into postcolonial literature or whatever.”

Hale smiled. “I liked the field. Still read in it when I get the chance.” He turned his glass a slow half circle on the table. “Achebe. Ngũgĩ. Fanon’s better in French, but I ain’t fluent enough to argue with it.”