Page 19 of Clinically Awkward

“It is now. I’m reclaiming it.”

We reached my car, and I unlocked the doors with more enthusiasm than I should probably admit. Vivian slid into the passenger seat, and I walked around to the driver’s side. My brain screamed: Terrible idea alert. Going to a comedy club with Vivian Darcy. Alone. On a Saturday night. While she was clearly still simmering about the boyfriend, and I was...well, whatever I was about Vivian.

Professional boundaries? Obliterated. Careful plans? Shredded. Disaster? Practically booked its ticket.

Still, I couldn’t help feeling this was, objectively, the highlight of my week.

I started the car.

“So,” Vivian said, buckling her seatbelt. “Just how bad is this place? Open mic bad or ‘actual professionals’ bad?”

“Somewhere in the middle. The reviews said ‘surprisingly competent.’”

“Not exactly a glowing recommendation.”

“Hey, it’s better than ‘surprisingly incompetent.’”

“Low bar, Quinton.”

“Working with what I’ve got. The other options were ‘aggressively mediocre’ and ‘we’ve seen worse.’”

“And you picked this place because...?”

“It’s new. And the name made me laugh.”

“Laugh Riot?”

“Could be comedy gold or a prison riot. Here’s hoping for the former.”

“What if it’s the latter?”

“We flee. Fast. Maybe through a window.”

Vivian actually snorted. “You’ve really thought this through.”

“Planning: my best quality.”

“I thought it was avoiding marriage proposals.”

“Different category. That’s survival instinct.”

“You organize your qualities?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“No, Quinton. They don’t.”

“That explains my social life.”

Vivian laughed, the sound surprisingly bright. For a moment, I wanted to blame my chest tightening on the seatbelt, not on how it felt to make her laugh. Not on how she was here, in my car, letting me distract her from a life raft of bad decisions. Not on the fact that, whatever we called this, it was dangerously close to something else.

Nope. Not thinking about that.

Vivian glanced at me, eyebrows raised. “You okay? You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“I’m good,” I said, rallying my nerves. “Ready to laugh at other people’s misery.”

“That’s the spirit.”