Page 35 of Knot Just for Show

I’m about to swoop in for the proverbialkill—when a warm hand claps over my shoulder.

Roxy. Finally, the cavalry has arrived.

“God, I can’t be five minutes late, can I?” Roxy laughs dryly, draping her arm across my shoulder.

“Britters,” she chirps with fake sweetness, flipping Brittney the bird.

“C’mon Ur-zilla,” Roxy pats the top of my head with pride before swinging me around, guiding me toward the lunch spread laid out for us. “Adrenaline is a hell of an appetizer, but let those mean girls have it—there’s two bacon avocado club sandos over there that have our names on them.” She snorts dismissively, keeping us steadfastly on course for the catering.

“Girl,” Roxy breathes low, squeezing me against her side as we reach the edge of the kitchen island, Brittney and her ghoulish girls still sitting on the couch—vibrating with poison whispers. “Where did that bit of bite come from!?” She shakes me slightly, her look approving, if not a little incredulous.

“Did you hear what she called Lysander?” I hiss, still disbelieving of how outright shitty she was comfortable being about him while knowing she was being filmed.

“I did not. I came in with Kimmy—and you were already standing up and giving Ms. Bitch the business,” Roxy giggles, unable to hide her satisfaction.

“She called him the fuckingRain Man,” I seethe, my vision nearly going red once more.

“What. The.Fuuuuck?” Roxy marvels at the degree of Brittney’s shittiness before letting me free so that we can both serve ourselves some much needed lunch.

“I know, right?” I grab a plate and one of those bacon avocado club sandwiches with a little too much intensity, reeling my welling anger in as I grab myself a cluster of grapes and a seltzer. “It’s one thing to talk shit about me, but to start talking shit about my—” I stop myself, realizing that I’m about to complete the thought asmy pack.

There isn’t any time to think about that little slip though, because Roxy is already on me for my self deprecation.

“Ur-Zilla Goldblum-Laskaris!” she all but shouts at me. “Don’t you dare keep devaluing yourself like that! I have been so proud of you for standing up for yourself for the last few minutes—and now you’re telling me you’re only going to bat with Bitch Barbie because of one of these guys? Don’t make me kick your ass!” She drops her plate on the counter and pulls me into a headlock, tossing my hair into a curly mess before releasing me—not unlike thenoogiesmy brother frequently bestowed upon me in our youth.

I have to set my own plate down to set my glasses back straight on my face, pushing my hair out of my eyes so that I can see again.

“Yes Ma'am!” I make my pledge, just relieved to be back in the relative safety of Roxy’s tutelage.

I slip into the ‘bubble’ for my date with Lysander, my cluster of green grapes from lunch still clutched in my hand, wrapped in a paper towel.

“Hello, Ursula,” he greets me and some of the tension I’ve been carrying since my encounter with Brittney before lunch, unwinds from my shoulders.

“Hey Lysander,howareya?” I call back, settling into my sofa with a blanket and my little snack.

“Do you want therealanswer or the sugar coat version?” he asks with zero pretension, all authenticity.

“Almost always, I’ll opt for the ‘real’ answer—unless I don’t have enough spoons for it.” I confirm with a tired laugh.

“I’m sorry,spoons?” Lysander draws up short.

“Oh, jeez, sorry. Spoons like—as in ‘Spoon Theory?’” I try again, not looking to over-explain if I don’t have to.

“Not ringing any bells. What is ‘Spoon Theory?’” Lysander puzzles.

“There was a chronically ill blogger, Christine something-or-other; she came up with this metaphor to explain her experience with chronic illness to a friend. It can be physical or mental illness, but the spoons are kind of used for a measure of mental energy someone has for daily tasks and life events.” I do my best to explain off the cuff.

“Oh, okay… That makes slightly more sense. I just don’t think I’ve ever heard of it before—or seen or heard the terms used,” Lysander approaches cautiously.

“Yeah, no—I keep forgetting that not everyone knows what it means. I say things like ‘Oh, going to a big party is too many spoons’—but hanging out at a close friend’s house, especially my bestie’s place? That might not cost any spoons—in fact if it’s Dee, I’d say I might evengetsome spoons from hanging out with her.” I bite my tongue, realizing that I blurted out Daphne’s nickname. Thankfully I didn’t drop that beautifully alliterativeDaphne Dale—giving myself away completely.

“Oh! Okay, that actually does clarify quite a bit. Thank you,” Lysander confirms thoughtfully.

“I’m sorry—we totally derailed your response,” I jump back in, quick to get back to our date. “I’m happy to hear however much or little about your day you feel comfortable sharing.”

There’s a moment of pensive silence before Lysander starts up again.

“I am remarkably nervous about the prospect of asking for your scent card,” he answers, a flatness to his tone despite the fact that he says he's anxious.

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