Page 20 of Clinically Awkward

“It’s the only spirit I’ve got. Everything else died when Fitz told me about the twins.”

“Don’t tell me.”

“I won’t. Some things are best left unsaid.”

I pulled out of the parking lot, and headed toward downtown, determined not to think about the fact that this—right here, right now—was exactly what I wanted. And exactly what I probably shouldn’t have.

Because going to a comedy club with Vivian Darcy as “just friends” was like trying to defuse a bomb while blindfolded. Technically possible. Extremely inadvisable. Likely to end in disaster—possibly with nachos as collateral damage.

CHAPTER FIVE

Vivian

This was a terrible idea.

I knew it the moment I said yes, and the feeling only intensified as we parked outside Laugh Riot. The place looked less like a comedy club and more like a repurposed warehouse that had given up hope sometime in the early 2000s. As we approached, the faint smell of stale popcorn mingled with old beer drifted out, and the flickering neon sign overhead buzzed like an angry hornet. Laughter leaked through the grimy door, blending with the muffled thump of a microphone being tested. Despite my reservations, I agreed because Quinton had been insistent—and maybe, just maybe, I needed a distraction.

“You okay?” Quinton asked, shooting me a look as we neared the entrance. “You look like you’re about to bolt.”

“I’m assessing whether this place is a fire hazard,” I said, eyeing the emergency exit sign that looked like it hadn’t worked since the Clinton administration.

He glanced at the building, then at me, then back again. “You think Laugh Riot is going to burn down?”

“I think it’s one health code violation away from being condemned,” I replied, suppressing a smile.

“That’s fair,” he admitted. “But the reviews said the comedians were good.”

“The reviews said, ‘surprisingly competent,’ which is not exactly a ringing endorsement,” I retorted, my tone matching his lighthearted banter.

He grinned and held the door open, the laughter and clinking glasses from inside spilling out. “Come on, Viv. Live a little.”

I stepped through the door and was instantly assaulted by a sensory symphony: the sticky squelch of my shoes against the grimy carpet, the tang of stale beer mixed with something I could only describe as “comedy club musk,” and the flickering dim light overhead that cast everyone in shades of jaundice. The tables looked like they hadn’t been wiped since the last time someone actually laughed here, and my hand stuck to the surface when I brushed against it. The ambient soundtrack was a medley of muffled laughter, clattering glasses, the distant hum of an ancient air conditioner struggling for relevance, and the occasional pop from the sound system—a sound so distinct it belonged in its own genre. It was the sensory equivalent of a divorced dad’s apartment, but with more neon and less dignity.

Quinton gestured toward an empty table near the middle, its sticky surface glistening under the erratic glow of the overhead lights. “That work for you?” he asked, sounding oddly earnest amid the chaos.

I blinked, adjusting to the blur of swirling colors and noise. “You’re asking my seating preference? In a place where the only thing separating us from hepatitis is a thin layer of denial?”

“Yeah. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.” His voice was soft, almost lost beneath the laughter and the air conditioner’s drone. For a second, I caught something in his expression—a flicker of nervousness, maybe a desperate hope that tonight wouldn’t crash and burn. Was Quinton worried about my comfort, or was he just hoping this night would be the one thing that went right?

“Quinton, we’re in a building that smells like a divorced dad’s dreams and looks like they died here. Comfort is not on the table—literally, since I’m pretty sure that sticky stuff is a biohazard.”

“Okay, but within the parameters of divorced dad smell and questionable stains, do you have a seating preference?”

I looked at him, really looked, and saw the way his hands fidgeted at the table’s edge, his gaze darting from me to the stage and back. For someone who walked bravely into places with broken neon and bad Yelp reviews, he was remarkably invested in my well-being. Maybe he was nervous. Maybe he just wanted tonight to be a win for both of us.

“Middle is fine,” I said, picking the spot that looked least likely to ruin my clothing.

He pulled out my chair—its vinyl seat tacky to the touch and making a sound like wet sneakers against gym floor.

I stared at him, eyebrows raised. “What are you doing? Trying to impress me with furniture etiquette? Because unless you brought disinfectant wipes, it’s a lost cause.”

“Pulling out your chair?”

“Why? Is this a secret audition for a gentleman’s club, or are you just prepping for the next health inspection?”

“Because that’s what you do?” His answer was more question than statement, and I noticed his nervous smile linger a moment longer than usual.

“This isn’t a date.”