23. Tink #2
“What do you mean?”
“Yeah,” Pan puts in, “what do you mean?” He gestures with the stump of his last slice. “This baby can hold, like, the whole damn food pyramid on it. How’s it bad for you?”
“Because it…”
Pan’s gaze catches mine, but somehow I don’t think he’s on the same wavelength I am.
Because it makes you fat, is what I was going to say. Because it’s full of carbs and grease and empty calories.
But I’m not about to say that. Not in front of them. And, I realize, not in front of Wendy.
“Never mind,” I say.
I look at Pan, expecting him to have some kind of pushback or joke to make.
Instead, he just cocks his head and does a little refill?
gesture with his empty hand. I nod and get to my feet, and Pan beams and presses his hands to his chest for a little bow of thanks, which I return by rolling my eyes as I turn for the kitchen again—
—and walk right into Blue.
Jesus. A spike of surprise jets down my spine. He really knows how to loom.
“You just got up.”
“Well, I’m getting up again,” I say, trying to keep the exasperation out of my voice. “Pan needs a beer.”
“And that’s your problem?”
I expel air out of my nose. “Just move.”
To my surprise, he does, stepping aside so smoothly I almost trip on my feet to pass him, and I glower at every thump of his feet up the stairs to the loft.
Fine, I think. Go sulk. Or go jerk off on camera. Whatever it is that you do.
Without meaning to, an image from last night—was it just last night?—flashes into my mind.
Get a grip, dude.
I fling the fridge door open and stick my whole head inside. Breathe in the chilly, humid air, like my brain needs a hard reset.
And maybe it does.
When I return, beer in hand, everyone is staring at me.
“What?” I say, alarmed, like I missed something important, because I’m getting the sense that I did.
“Nothing,” Pan says, grinning wickedly and accepting the can when I offer it. “I see what you’re saying, kid. It’s a tough call.”
“I’m sticking with Kit,” Fox says. Arms folded and a resolute nod, like some kind of brotherly loyalty.
Kit squints at him. “Weren’t you just talking about how you could kick my ass five ways from Sunday?”
“Yeah,” Fox says, “but that’s me. This is Tink we’re talking about.”
I freeze. “We are?”
“Yep.” Pan digs a painted fingernail under the tab of his beer and cracks it with a fwish sound.
He swings his legs to the ground and sits up properly on the settee.
One finger pointed at me. “You,” he says.
And then swivels his finger to Kit. “And you. Are just too evenly matched. We’re in a dead heat over who we think would win. ”
I glance back at Fox.
“So, you think I would beat Kit?” I say to Pan.
Pan takes a sip from the top of the can, shaking his head. “No, no. I am Switzerland. I am undecided. She”—he points at Wendy—”now has a lot of confidence in you, though.”
Wendy tips her face up at me from the floor, then glances at Kit. “I mean, no offense, Kit,” she says. “You are good at other stuff.”
Kit gives a short laugh. “Thanks, kid.” He brushes his hair out of his eyes.
I’ve been in enough fights to know that the back of my neck prickles. I don’t really like where this conversation is going, but I can’t pinpoint why.
“Seems to me,” Pan goes on, drumming his fingers on his chin, “that there is only one way to settle this.”
“Back alley!” Fox calls through cupped hands.
“Bare knuckle brawl.”
“What?” Kit and I say at the same time, staring at him.
Fox shrinks a little. “Okay, maybe not that,” he says quickly. Then he catches his lip in his lower teeth. “I am not going to lie, though, I kind of want to see you guys face down.”
“I am saying.” Pan slaps the coffee table. “It’s the only way we’ll know for sure.”
I breathe out a long breath. “Yeah, I don’t know,” I say. “Why don’t you just get Blue or something to be a tiebreaker?” No way he’d vote for me, but not like I care. I’d rather take a ding to my pride on a vote than have to actually throw a punch, and at Kit of all people.
“No, no, no, no, no,” Pan says quickly. “First of all”—he glances at his phone—”I think he’s just clocked in so he—” He gives a cough, his mind is elsewhere. “And second of all”—he flashes that smile, that stupid beguiling double dog dare you smile at me—”are you chicken, Tink?”
“What,” I say, remembering just in time to keep my voice at a low register, my pulse is pounding in my neck. My heart ricocheting against my ribs and lungs and binder. “No, I just—this is stupid.”
“Like that’s ever stopped us before,” Kit says.
He’s stretched out on the ground now, hands behind his head, and I can’t help but notice the hem of his T-shirt riding up a little above his jeans, revealing the inked lines of a vine and a faint line of dark hair right above his belt buckle.
My cheeks heat up, and I look away. At the most innocent thing I can think of, Wendy, which turns out to be a mistake because she just gives me a big, toothy ten-year-old smile.
“I really think you can beat him, Tink,” she says matter-of-factly. “I mean.”
“You’re like the same size, but he’s, you know.”
Kit opens one eye behind his glasses. “I’m you know what?” he says. He pushes up to sitting. “Do I have to prove that I can actually kick Tink’s ass?”
He looks at me and our eyes meet for a long half second.
“I don’t want to fight,” I say again. “Not ‘cause I’m chicken,” but I can’t think of another good reason. “‘Cause I don’t wanna get all beat up for nothing,” I finish. “What if I have to, you know, run for it or something?”
I throw a meaningful look at Pan, who chews his lip.
“My man’s got a point,” he says to the ceiling. “Arm wrestling?”
“And break my drawing fingers?” Kit scoffs. “No way.”
“Hm.” Pan thinks again, then he snaps his fingers. “Here, I know—push-ups. Low risk of injury, but I think it still counts.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Fox says. “I’m so in.”
Kit shrugs. “Fine.”
Pan beams, and looks at me. “Tink?”
Fuck no, I think. I don’t want to do this. I mean, I’m not weak. I can actually do push-ups okay, but I have to kind of spread my arms the way I saw in some Instagram reel. Something about women’s hips and how that makes it easier to distribute our weight. I don’t fucking know, but still.
“Uh…” is all I manage.
“We’re talking one handed or two?” Fox drops to the ground, tucks his right arm at the small of his back, and pumps up easily on his palm a few times. “Cause I could do this all day.”
“Show off.” Pan chugs back a mouthful of beer and jumps to his feet, cracking his neck side to side, then his knuckles out in front of him, and then sheds his jacket. “Just regular. We won’t get fancy. Wendy here can be our referee, right?”
She nods eagerly. “Yeah, absolutely,” she says.
“Perfect.” Pan crosses his legs at the ankles and sinks immediately to the ground, crisscross applesauce once again. “I am going to kick all of your asses.”
“This is so stupid,” Kit mutters, but he still sheds the top layer of his flannel, revealing thick, dark ink up most of his forearms. “Is there at least some kind of prize for this?”
“Bragging rights aren’t enough?” Pan says. But he nods, thoughtful. “No, you’re right. We’ve gotta have stakes. Cash?”
“Bo-ring.” Fox rolls back to sit, arms wrapped around his knees. “I think it’s more like…like loser does everyone’s laundry for a week.”
“No,” I say quickly, too quickly. “That’s—that’s fucking gross.” I amend quickly, “Uh, sorry,” I add to Wendy.
Fox looks slighted. “Okay, well then what do you think we should do?” he says. “If that’s too gross.”
“Uh.” I look at Wendy. “I don’t know?” I say, sort of to her, sort of to everyone else.
She thinks. “Loser…” She presses her lips together. Then her eyes light up. “Ooh! Loser has to get a tattoo,” she says, rushed and out of breath, “and I get to pick it.”
I grimace. “That—
“That is a great idea,” Pan finishes for me, eyes gleaming. “Good thinking, Wendy.”
Kit looks skeptical. “Design, location, or both?” he says to Wendy.