Page 57 of Business or Pleasure

Finn’s at least lucid enough to surmise what I’m currently debating. “You can sit here,” he says, patting the bed. “If you don’t mind my germs.”

Gingerly, I arrange myself next to him, on top of the covers, in my high-waisted jeans and socks dotted with tiny lemons. Then I get the show set up and settle in for the ridiculousness of watching The Nocturnals with one of its stars. There’s something oddly domestic about it, to the point where I can almost forget the person onscreen is the one in bed hacking into a tissue.

When the season one finale ends in a battle that pits werewolves against the humans trying to wipe them out and the season two premiere autoplays, he doesn’t say anything. We watch Caleb, fresh off having confessed his love for Alice in the season one finale, find himself tempted by new girl Sofia. And Hux, settling into a friendship with Meg, consults cool-guy Wesley on how to get out of the friend zone, a term he’s just learned the meaning of.

“In retrospect, it was a little problematic,” Finn says as Wesley tells a horrified Hux that he needs to take action, let the girl know his feelings, and not to take no for an answer. We both wince at that last piece of advice. “Well, maybe more than a little. It was the late 2000s, after all. And thank god, I don’t listen to him.”

Hux continues to fumble around Meg, inviting her on a study date that proceeds to go hilariously wrong: toppled book stacks, spilled coffee, Meg’s long hair getting stuck in the back of a chair. Until it’s interrupted by a girl in a vampire coven Meg has a longstanding rivalry with. Meg doesn’t know at this point that Hux knows she’s a werewolf, and when she saves Hux from vampires at the end of the episode, the two share a lingering look—now she knows, and she manages to communicate both relief and trepidation in the episode’s final shot.

“This scene—we had to shoot it close to thirty times because Hallie and I wouldn’t stop laughing,” he says. “Even though it’s supposed to be a serious moment. I honestly thought Zach was going to fire us right there on the spot.”

And I have to admit, based on how eager I am to see what happens next, that I’ve gotten just a little invested in these characters.

Hux and Meg continue to dance around their feelings until two more episodes have passed, and Finn’s starting to fall asleep. I wince when there’s a knock at the door, even though I’ve been expecting it. As quietly as I can, I fetch the delivery and bring it back to the desk.

“What’s that?” a groggy Finn asks from the bed.

“Sorry—you can go back to sleep,” I say. “Matzo ball soup. My parents used to make it whenever I was sick. My mom swears by it.”

“You ordered matzo ball soup?”

“It’s vegetarian,” I assure him. “No chicken broth.”

I’m not expecting his reaction, the slow smile that starts at one corner of his mouth as he attempts to bite it back. “You’re too nice to me,” he says, quirking an eyebrow. “Why are you being so nice to me? You could have just let me wither away.”

“There will be no withering.” I remove the lids from twin cartons of soup.

“I think that’s enough of me,” he says as I bring them over. He gestures to the TV currently frozen on his face. “I can only handle so much of it.”

I switch it off and cozy up in the bed again, spooning soup into my mouth. Amazing that it tastes just as comforting in Colorado as it does in Washington State.

For a few minutes, we sit in the relative quiet with our matzo balls. It’s midafternoon, the chilly October sun splashing our shadows across the bed. This is good, spending time with him like this. Surely, seeing him pale and congested will obliterate whatever I thought I felt in Memphis, before the phone call from our editor interrupted that strange kiss.

“What did teen Chandler watch?” Finn asks, nudging his head toward the TV.

“Hmm. Teen Chandler’s tastes were varied and slightly anachronistic. I went through an Agatha Christie phase that started with the books, of course, so then I had to watch all the adaptations, too. But nothing could beat the books for me.”

“I haven’t read any,” he admits. “Tell me about your favorites?”

So I do. I tell him about Miss Marple and about Hercule Poirot, who I had a bit of a crush on when I read about him as a kid. I tell him about And Then There Were None, my favorite Agatha Christie, making sure not to spoil any of the plot points. Slowly, slowly, we step closer to that document on my computer.

“I tried to imitate her, growing up,” I say, because this truth doesn’t feel like it’s been yanked from too deep inside my heart. “Write like her, I mean.”

“Yeah? Chandler Cohen, killing off fictional people?” He’s smiling, head propped up with one elbow as he turns to face me. His hair is sticking up in the back from where it was pressed against the pillow. “You know what, I can see it. That’s how you get out all your aggression. Someone wrongs you in real life? You just murder them on the page.”

“You’re not completely wrong,” I say. It’s possible a drowning victim in one of my earliest preteen attempts, Watery Graves, was based on a girl who’d copied off one of my tests in fifth grade math. “In the wrong hands, my preteen diaries would probably be very concerning. But I’m not a huge fan of all the blood and gore. Do you know what a cozy mystery is?”

“A mystery you read by the fireplace with a mug of hot cocoa?”

“Ideally. But no, it’s a book where the mystery is solved by someone who isn’t a professional detective. Everything’s wrapped up by the end and none of the main characters die. It was great for my anxiety. There’s no violence on the page—or sex, actually, which is kind of a bummer—and they usually take place in a small town or quaint seaside village. And they have these fantastic titles. Like The Quiche of Death, where a baking contest judge gets poisoned, or Live and Let Chai, about a tea shop owner framed for the murder of a customer.” I think about this for a moment. “They’re not all food puns, but a lot of them are.”

He’s just watching me, an unreadable expression on his face.

“What is it?”

“I haven’t seen you light up like this in a while,” he says. “You really love them.”

Suddenly self-conscious, I turn my head away from him slightly. “They’re comforting, and they’re fun, and they’re absurdly addictive. You always know the villain’s going to get caught in the end. But you know. I mostly just read them now.”

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