Page 109 of Lovebug
“Well, I didn’t know!” I say a tad defensively. “You’ve been very strange and mysterious up until this point, and I have to say, my counselors had some convincing theories about you that are somewhat hard to shake.”
“Like…?” he prompts.
“Like… you live in a tool shed and bury people in your backyard.”
“Clever but untrue. At least the tool shed part,” he adds with a wink.
I keep looking around, surprised by how classy the place is. “But this is more like one of those ‘tiny house’ situations you see on HGTV, huh?”
“It’s exactly like that, yeah,” he says, “Built it myself this spring with all recyclable materials. It’s solar-powered, which I feel really good about. It’s a process, but I’m working to make it as self-sustainable as possible. Watch your step.”
He takes my elbow and guides me down the drop from his home to the patio area out back. It’s adorable. He has a clearly handcrafted table with a simple ivory candle burning in the center, already set with silverware and two cloth napkins. The two chairs, wide, tall tree stumps with cream-colored cushions are positioned so whoever sits there has the perfect view of the lake.
“This is… lovely, Wallace.” I breathe as I take it all in.
“Hey!” he lightly admonishes. “What happened to Wally?”
“You like Wally?”
“From you?” he rumbles. “Yeah… I like Wally.”
It’s getting dark out now, and I wonder if he can see me blush. I can certainly feel the warmth in my cheeks. Who am I kidding? I’m feeling the warmth everywhere. But before I can let anything further happened between us, I need to ask some serious questions.
“Care to swing?” he asks and gestures to a two-seater high-backed tree swing hanging from a sturdy oak.
“Uh. Sure. Yeah.”
He holds my wineglass while I position myself on the seat, then places it back in my palm once he settles himself beside me.
“Alright, girl. Hit me.” He taps his hand on my thigh again, just like he did the night he brought down the pyramid scheme. And just like that night, I feel the zing.
“Twenty Questions time?” I ask after a long sip of the wine.
“Mabel, you can dotwo hundredquestions if you want. Seriously. I’m an open book.”
I take a deep breath and say, “Okay. Here I go.”
With that, he pushes us forward with a press of his feet, and we start to swing.
Chapter Twenty-One
I start off easy, lobbing some preliminary get-to-know-you questions at him. You know, basic things we just never tackled before diving into passive-aggressive rowboat kissing and ill-advised shower shenaniganing. Can you use the word shenanigan as a present progressive verb like that? Shenaniganing? Well whether you can or you can’t, I just did. That’s right, people. Bad Mabel does what she wants!
We cover the “where were you borns,” the “do you have siblings,” and the “what did you want to be when you grow ups,” with the obligatory conversational side dish of “what’s your favorite color.” I’m not sure why the color question is the one humans have repeatedly asked to learn about other humans. The answer is never particularly illuminating, is it? For what it’s worth, his is navy blue. Mine? Scarlett Johansson. Seriously I got this box of celebrity color crayons once when I was a tween, and Scarlett Johansson—this gorgeous red shade—was my absolute favorite. Though Jada Pinkett Smith and Forest Green Whitaker were also delightful and were tied for second place.
Anyway, once we’re warmed up, I get to the more pressing matters.
“So.” I exhale sharply. “Tell me more about the woman whose clothes I wore home this afternoon after our shower shenanigans.”
He scoffs. “Is that what we’re calling them… shenanigans?”
“I don’t know.” I feel my cheeks heat. “What would you call it? A shower... conference? A meet and greet? An assemblage?”
“Assemblage,” he parrots back. “Nice. You took French in high school, I take it?”
“Oui.” I joke. “Et tu?”
“Deutsche,” he says.
