Page 110 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

“Mara, I promise you, we’ll do everything in our power to decimate the competition.”

“Thank you, Al. I needed to hear that from you. I was beginning to question your commitment.”

The tournament is made up of eight rounds with an elimination of the lowest-scoring teams each round until the final five face off. By round three, all of the casual players are out, leaving only the teams with at least one Mara-caliber competitive maniac. When our team name is announced as a semifinalist, Mara barely contains her squeal.

My pen is poised for the next question, but Darren interrupts the round to announce, “We have a latecomer for Marquizka Hargitay.”

Mara cups her hands around her mouth. “Send him in.”

I’m at the top of a roller coaster about to plunge down the first steep descent as the sound of men’s boots echoes offstage. My hands start to tingle with anticipation while I wait for the tall figure in a khaki-colored jacket to come into view under the harsh stage lights. He steps out of the shadows, and my heart sinks through the floor. I thought it’d be Adam walking out there.

“Patrick?” Chelsea’s voice echoes off the curved ceiling. We watch his red hair glowing in the spotlight, his pristine leather boots and nonreversible tan puffer coat. “I thought you were with Josie this weekend.”

“We broke up,” he says onstage, in front of the house of quiz nerds. The mic picks up his deep voice and carries it to every corner of the room. “The vacation was a plot to guilt me into getting rid of my cat.”

Multiple strangers join Chelsea in a horrified gasp. She peels her hands off her mouth to speak. “Not Colonel Corduroy!”

He nods solemnly. “She said it was her or the cat, and it was finally too much. She hates my family. She hates my friends. Now she hates my cat too? I couldn’t take it anymore.”

Strangers slow-clap him in either sarcasm or solidarity. Their motivations are unclear.

Mara’s eyebrow arches up. “So you were fine with her hating your friends and family? Cats are where you draw the line?”

Dozens of onlookers share Chelsea’s appalled expression. “Those are just people, Mara. Colonel Corduroy is blind in one eye.”

Darren, the tournament host, cuts through the crowd’s murmurs. “You can join your team, but per the bylaws, I need your excuse to log into the spreadsheet.”

“I would have gotten here earlier but we broke up during the couples massage, and then we had to drive home together—”

Darren moves the mic to the side. “Just say traffic, man.”

“Of course. Traffic. Sorry.” Patrick jumps down the steps two at a time to join Chelsea on her side of the table.

We wait for the questions to pour in, but the visibly perturbed cohost, Stu, is conferring with Darren, who steps back to the mic. “I promise we’ll start the semifinals in a minute, but we have a problem in the lobby. There’s a guy out front demanding to speak with someone on an unregistered team…” He looks down at the sticky note Stu passes him. “Otrivia Benson: SVU. Anyone know what he’s talking about?”

My heart stops.

Stu crosses his arms dramatically in front of the mic stand. “He’s refusing to leave. And we all know Otrivia Benson is banned from this event, so he isn’t here for any team participating legally.”

“Shit, Stu. It’s pub trivia. Let the guy talk to one of the Marquizka Hargitays.”

I look to my right at our defender—none other than Glasses from Risky Quizness.

Mara stands, fueled by righteous indignation. “Seriously, Risky? You’re resorting to getting us thrown out of the tournament?”

Glasses rears his head back in exasperation. “Everyone knows you’re Otrivia Benson! It was the least subtle name change of all time.”

Other teams start to express their own opinions until Darren gestures for the crowd to calm down. “We can’t actually ‘ban’ anyone from participating as a new team if they qualify. Stu, let him in and see what he wants. Then we can get on with it.”

I spot the jacket first, but I stop breathing the moment I see his face.

“Adam, wh—what are you doing here?” I stammer around the longing in my throat. He’s in that ridiculous jacket—denim-side out—with a red flannel underneath. My body registers pain at the sight of him, like how a perfectly warm bath stings when you’re freezing. My heart wants him so badly it hurts.

Stu ushers him to the mic stand. “You weren’t answering your phone,” Adam says, adjusting his volume to account for the microphone.

I point to the phone basket before asking the first of the one thousand questions buzzing in my brain. “How did you know I was here?”

Adam holds up his cell phone. “Sam invited me.”

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