Page 10 of Happy After All

“Because of the people,” Alice says defiantly as she grabs a cookie off the plate beside her with crooked fingers. I made those cookies, and I’m warmed that she’s eating them—in a good, emotional way, not a scorching-desert way—and in that moment, she’s right.

The people are why I’m here.

Albert comes into the lobby holding a stack of plates that I asked him to get from the store earlier, his glasses fallen all the way to the end of his nose. “Alice,” he says, looking over the thick black rims, “I would think a woman of your gravitas would be reading something more worthy.”

“I like to read books with penises,” Alice says, waving a hand, not bothering to look up. “Because I don’t have them in my real life, and I don’t want them. They’re best in fiction.”

I’ve never loved her more.

Albert is clearly appalled. He also clearly has no idea Alice is reading my book, which has my pen name, Belle Adams, right there on the cover, so chosen for my love of the animatedBeauty and the Beast. I wouldn’t be surprised if Albert doesn’t remember my pen name. On purpose.

“It’s a good fictional penis,” I say.

“Damn straight,” says Alice, taking another cookie.

“This is why I must go and fetch paper plates,” he says, “because literary works are—”

“Boring,” Alice and I both say together.

I wouldn’t be so mean, but Iwrote the bookhe’s trashing without reading. I don’t care if he loves literary works, and I think people should read whatever they want—though, I’m with Alice—but in this instance I’m going to be a little bit reverse snooty since he started it.

He gives us a dry look but doesn’t storm out because the thing about Albert is he’s opinionated. When you’re opinionated back, he just deals with it. It’s why I like him. He’s not a hypocrite. He’s free with his feelings, so if you want to, you can be free with yours right back.

“Does it bother you?” Alice asks, fixing Albert with a steely glare. “The claiming of female sexuality.”

“Alice! You know it doesn’t,” he says.

“But you do agree that penises lack gravitas,” I say.

“Well, that’s not—”

“You’re being toxic and elitist,” I say, setting his plates down on the front desk. “Just because we want to read about big, throbbing peeeen—” I whirl around as that last syllable catches on my tongue and holds. Oh God oh Godoh God, he’s standing in the doorway. I let it die. I do not try to redirect, because that will only make it worse.

I’m in a slapstick comedy, and I don’t even like slapstick. What’s next? Am I a breath away from a pratfall? Is there a paint bucket I’m unaware of that I might step in? Is a pack of armadillos thatdon’t even live heregoing to come through my office in a stampede?

The possibilities are endless, and all bad.

“We’re debating gender politics,” I say, fighting to keep my expression neutral.

Fighting to keep myself from imagining him as I saw him two weeks ago, with water dripping down his muscular chest.

“The outlet by the desk seems to be having a short,” he says, his tone killing the manic joy in the room.

He does not acknowledge what he walked in on, nor my quip about gender politics. I notice he has a little gray by his temple. Not a lot. Why is that hot?

It shouldn’t be.Heshouldn’t be. He’s so committed to not being friendly, at all.

Also to being relentlessly handsome.

“I’ll call an electrician,” I say. “I assume it has to do with the sweltering, awful heat.”

“How long do you think that will be?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I’ll get you a ... a power strip. I just need to go to the storage shed.”

“I can start the meat if you want,” Albert offers.

Which is why I ultimately like him even though he can be ... well. Himself.

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