Page 46 of Spiced!

That last one had come from somewhere I didn’t love. It had arrived in the same voice I used for “the owner should really brush this dog’s teeth,” the gentle-professional voice that knew better. I turned it over once, felt the small, ugly weight of it, and set it down where I set things I wasn’t going to deal with before a run.

Adrian didn’t need a treatment plan. Adrian needed, as far as I could tell, nothing from me, which was its own quietly alarming discovery.

Puck reappeared, assessed my continued failure to leave for my run, and left again in protest—of what, I would never know.

I leaned against the counter.

Outside, a car backfired.

My phone buzzed as Puck darted through to the den to inspect the damage of the bomb he clearly heard explode.

Adrian: Hey.

Me: Hey again.

Adrian: Can you do the worm?

Me: We’ve been over this.

Adrian: I need a straight answer. Okay, a happily gay answer. Yes or no.

Me: No.

Adrian: THANK YOU. Finally. An honest man.

Me: I never claimed I could do the worm. You’re the dancer.

Adrian: You implied you could.

Me: I implied I had questions about whether you could. That’s different.

Adrian: I can do the worm, Brendan. I will prove it. Your life will change.

Me: Fine. Prove it.

Adrian: When?

I stared at that word sitting on my screen. Then I looked out the window. Then at Gerald.

Gerald offered nothing, which at this point I was treating as a blank check.

Me: I’m going for a run. Should be done by eleven. You could come over after your workout. I’ll grill something. You can offer proof of worm.

I put the phone on the counter.

Picked it up again.

Put it back down.

Picked it up.

Adrian: Yes. There will be worming. And grilling. Just not grilling worms, please.

I laughed into the screen.

Me: I’ll text you the address.

Adrian: I’ll get my worm ready.