Page 58 of Turnabout Is Fair Cosplay
Mike slips his museum lanyard off and tucks it into his back pocket. “You were jealous.”
“I was not.”
“Admit it, you were jealous. I’d be jealous if I stumbled into you and a friend.” He tosses it out so casually. As if the words mean absolutely nothing.
“You’d be jealous?”
“Not for long. Some intense and lasting pity would flood my being for the poor devil who had to spend the day with you. You’d pick every last piece of flesh from him. There’d be nothing left.” He sucks his teeth. “What a way to go.”
My eyes narrow. “And I’m supposed to believe that one of your dates would fare any better? The poor thing would have to wear mirrors—and a whole lot of them—to survive even grabbing a coffee with you.”
“And your date by comparison would be dead because you bit his head off before he could even tell you…”
“What?” I demand.
“You look nice.”
“Nice?”
“Well, what else is he supposed to say? He can’t say ‘you look hot,’ because you’d attack him for being shallow and who knows what else? He’s not going to say ‘you look beautiful,’ because that’s too forward for a casual meet-up over coffee. And he’s not going to lie.”
“He could say nothing.”
“A lie of omission is still a lie,” Mike says quietly.
Wait. Did Mike just compliment me? I’m so distracted by the possibility that I miss the curb and nearly eat it when we cross Kline Street to the restaurant.
“You okay?” Mike asks.
“I’m fine,” I snap.
Monique is waiting for us at the maître d’ station.
“What’d I miss?” she asks.
“Mike’s wondering if he can order off the kids’ menu. I keep trying to tell him they don’t honor emotional ages.”
“That’s cute coming from a woman who has the coordination of a toddler,” he says. “Do we need to hold hands the next time we cross the street?”
“First, you drop hints about getaways to DC, and now, you’re trying to find an excuse to hold my hand?”
Mike reaches for a menu on the maître d’ station. “Look who’s keeping score.”
Monique watches us like we’re tennis players at the La Jolla rec center. “Y’all are a total vibe.”
Before I can even refute that statement, the host ushers us to our table, and Monique has ordered us three unicorn hot chocolates. “For the emotional twelve-year-olds in all of us.”
We chat. I learn that Monique and Mike were in the same sixth-grade play and how they’d walk to his grandma’s house after school to rehearse. I hear about summer tennis camps and birthday parties with legendary cakes.
“Grandma Evie loved food,” Mike says.
“I can’t eat taquitos without thinking of her,” Monique says around a mouthful of her waffles. “Or chocolate cake. Or red licorice. And she wasn’t even my grandma.”
“Licorice?” I ask.
“My grandma kept ropes of it in her pantry.” Mike steals a bite of my pancakes. “I can’t disassociate the smell of the ocean withthe smell of licorice. Sunshine, hot sand, sea breezes, and red licorice.”
“When was the last time you had a piece?” Monique asks.
