Page 82 of If It Can't Be Us

“Next question: What’s my middle name?” I ask.

She smiles smugly. “James,” she says. “Easy peasy.”

“These are too easy.” I take her phone and scroll down the list. “You’re on the easy questions. Look,” I say, showing her the phone, “this list has harder questions. Let’s use one of these instead.”

She takes the phone back and looks at the new list. “Okay, first question here is… What’s a show I can watch over and over again and never get tired of?” She sighs, “These are still too easy.”

She writes her answer down, and I quickly respond, “Schitt’s Creek.”

She shows me her answer, and sure enough, I’m right. I glance at the list and ask, “Who’s my favorite artist or band?” I write my answer down, curious to see if she knows this one.

“Post Malone,” she says without skipping a beat. She’s right, still too easy.

“Oh, this one’s good. What’s a job that I would hate?” she asks, knowing it could be literally anything. She writes her answer down.

I think about it—there are many jobs I know she would hate, but then I remember her freaking out while watching Saving Private Ryan. All the blood had her nauseous, and she couldn’t continue watching.

I take a guess, “Something in the medical field. A nurse or a doctor?”

She frowns and flips her paper over. It reads ‘a nurse.’

I laugh loudly. “You are so fucked, Walker!” I playfully nudge her as she gapes at me.

“Have I ever broken a bone?” I ask, trying to recall if we’ve discussed this, as I write my answer.

“Yes, you’ve broken your arm and your collarbone,” she says with a pleased smile.

I turn my answer over, and she’s correct, again.

“Let me see this list. There have to be harder questions on here. Okay, new rule: we get to choose the questions. Someone has to start losing.”

“Fine,” she agrees, taking the phone back to find a question. She examines it, taking her sweet time.

“Today, Walker,” I say jokingly.

She glares at me. “Calm down, I’ve got it. What would my parents say is my worst personality trait?”

I don’t even let her finish writing before I say, “Too nice. You’re way too bloody nice. A people pleaser.”

She scrunches her nose in disgust and turns it over to revealpeople pleaser.

I take the phone, determined to stump her now that I can select my own question.

“If I were a superhero, what superpower would I have?” I ask, writing down my answer.

“Teleportation?” she guesses, arching an eyebrow.

“Dammit.” I turn my paper over. “How did you know that?”

“I didn’t. It’s just what I’d pick. It’s obviously the best superpower,” she says, laughing. She looks at the list and smirks. “What’s the last thing I posted on Instagram?” She knows she’s got me.

“Shit. Come on. You know I don’t have Instagram.”

“That’s unfortunate for you,” she says, unapologetically. “You fucking weirdo. Literally, theonlyperson in the world without Instagram,” she playfully shoves me, teasing.

I take a wild guess. “A picture of you and your family at Christmas?”

“Nope,” she says, smiling.

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