Page 75 of Take 2
“It’s not like I have to tell you every time I have sex.”
“But you do.”
An innocent yet coy smile rises on my face. Or I hope so. I don’t know if such a thing exists. “I stopped telling you everything.”
“Or you stopped having sex. You got rid of Nick right after that.”
“We had already discussed that. It was coming.”
James proceeds to pace in front of the TV, holding an invisible pipe to his lips. “The evidence! You have been a grumpy workaholic for the past year.”
“I object!”
“Overruled!”
“But I’ve been a grumpy workaholic my entire life.”
He purses his lips. “But it’s been … different this past year.”
“Maybe just because we don’t live together anymore.”
“That would certainly make you grumpy, but no. You were excited about Lisa’s move, happy as a Wisconsinite with cheese fondue—”
“I hate you.”
“But then you disappeared for a while. When you returned”—the imagined dramatic score is a silent figure between us—“you went right back to vodka and proceeded to suck for an entire year.”
“If bysuckingyou mean I had my debut film release, brought you to those parties, wrote two more, and sold one, thenyes.Sorry I sucked this year.”
He steeples his fingers. “I have a theory.”
“ThatCocois going to win animated feature?”
“That’s not a theory, it’s a guarantee.”
“But alas, we’ll never know because we’re having this conversation instead of watching the Olafs.” As much as I was trying to avoid watching, it’s preferable to this interrogation.
“A certain new smokin’ hot star client of Lisa’s also disappeared that night.”
I take in a deep breath and let it flap my lips with avery attractivesound on its way out. “Can we not refer to Preston Greene as thesmokin’ hot star client?Please.”
“Exhibit B: you don’t seem to like him very much. Which is suspicious for a Midwesterner who is nice to everyone.”
“I told you, he was a pretentious dick.” It’s not a lie. The conversation I had with Preston that night couldn’t have set him lower in my esteem if he’d tried. An auspicious start to what will no doubt be a lifelong rivalry.
“Funny you should mentiondick.”
“Oh, God.” I drop my face into my hands.
“I think … you broke yournever have sex on Oscars dayrule, and you are upset about it. Hence the sex strike.”
“I do not know this Oscar you speak of.”
If another man leaned on the armrest this way and got so close to my face with such intense eye contact, the moment would be riddled with sexual tension. “I can banter all day, cheesehead.”
“Fine by me.”
He drops the bad cop act like a DJ with a beat at a club, opting instead for the whiny toddler method. “Tell me, tell me, tell me.” This version is much more convincing. He should have started with it.
