Chapter 18 #2
“He betrayed her throughout the entire book!” I wave my aggressively notated copy of Mexican Gothic in the air, ready to pull out page numbers as proof.
“The mushrooms were controlling him.”
“And they still are!” I jab a finger against the cover to emphasize my point. “Mark my words, that guy still has spores in him. Noemí needs to dump him.”
“No way!” Shawn crows back, flourishing his equally tabbed copy of the historical thriller.
“Even if there are some left, Noemí and Francis will defeat them together. True love will prevail.” Shawn faces the couch, extending the liquor toward his friend like the bottle is a microphone. “Come on, George. You know I’m right.”
“No fair! You can’t win just because he’s your best friend.
” I whirl to face George, towering over the man from my elevated perch.
It was inevitable that I ended up on the table.
I always require an extra foot or so of height to exert my dominance over my annoyingly tall brother.
“Tell the truth, George. Tell Shawn I’m right. Friendship means nothing in book club.”
The man stares up at me, a dazed expression on his face.
This is why I’d wanted to keep my composure. The woman I become when I discuss books with my brother is more monster than human. When George recovers from the shock, he’ll run for the closest exit.
And yet, I cannot contain my zeal.
Not when I may never have book club again after July.
George swallows hard and drops his eyes. He reaches up to rub the back of his neck.
“You…you both make good points.” He fiddles with his copy of Mexican Gothic, and I see he’s a corner folder.
Which is fine. I’m just surprised he managed to read the book in twenty-four hours if Shawn had only invited him yesterday.
“Noemí will probably have trouble trusting Francis. But I think Francis will work hard to combat any lingering evil in his system.”
“So…” Shawn taps a knuckle on the table. “You’re on my side about—”
“No!” I stomp a foot, refusing to concede. “War! I declare war!”
Shawn’s face lights up, and he roars, “War! War! Beth declares war! Shots fired!” He rushes over to me with a tiny glass of innocent-looking clear liquid. Tequila, you sneaky bitch. The fact that it’s already poured is a hint he knew this was coming.
We always fight about love.
I down the shot with only a slight wince—Shawn can afford the top-shelf booze that’s smoother than most—and hand my glass back to my brother to refill.
“How many battles will be fought?” I ask in the haughtiest voice I can manage.
Shawn scrunches up his face in a serious expression. “Five battles.”
“Agreed.” We shake hands. Then we both turn to George, our hands outstretched.
If he’s in book club, then he’s got to be in book club. Too late to escape now.
“I feel like I’ll regret asking this, but what does declaring war entail?” Despite his ignorance, George still stands and grasps Shawn’s hand, then turns to repeat the gesture with me. Shawn hurries back to the kitchen to grab more glasses while George slides his palm into my waiting hold.
A shiver travels along my nerves, and my breath catches the moment he wraps his fingers tight—but not too tight—around mine. The touch is warm and rough with his callused skin and lasts for a million years. Or at least, I imagine it does.
“War is the only way to settle a book debate.” Shawn’s voice snaps me back to the present, and I jerk my hand back.
George lets me go, dropping his hand to his side. And I must imagine the way he clenches it.
To distract myself from whatever that just was, I hop off the table and find the well-worn deck of cards stored in the hidden coffee table drawer. Despite the beers I’ve already downed mixing with the tequila, I manage to shuffle them like a pro.
My fingers need something to do other than reach for George Bunsen again.
“We play five rounds of war. Winner of each round takes a shot. Winner of the most rounds is the molder of history and, therefore, ordains the truth at the end of a book debate.”
“Oh.” George nods. “I get the notes now.”
I pause in dealing. “The notes?”
He freezes, eyes flicking to me, then to Shawn, then to the bookshelf on the far wall where my brother keeps all the annotated copies of the books we’ve read.
At the end of book club, we always exchange our copies, so we can read over the comments each other made.
Did George read my annotated copies?
Oh god, what did I write?
In at least one of the books, I know I used the phrase He’s giving major daddy energy surrounded by drawings of fire.
In the margins of a different thriller, I described—in detail—how I would commit a murder if I ever—hypothetically—needed to.
Then, because it always makes Shawn laugh, I like to write Smash or Pass whenever there’s a description of a character.
George potentially knows my murder plans and all of my smashes.
It’s fine. It’s cool. Totally cool cool cool.
Besides, I’m about to be drunk and forget this whole conversation if I’m lucky.
“Deal the cards. Or do you forfeit?” Shawn sets five shots down in the middle of the table, and I do my best not to dwell on the possibility of George having read my random book thoughts.
Technically, Shawn and I never agreed that others can’t look at the books. To be fair, Darla has flipped through a few of Shawn’s copies when we’ve hung out in my bedroom.
Maybe George only saw that there are notes but never read them.
That’s a good lie. I’ll tell myself that one.
All three of us flip a card at the same time, and I shimmy my shoulders in triumph at my queen decimating their lower card values. I eagerly take my second shot of the night.
But that’s where my winning streak ends.
Shawn. George. Shawn. Shawn.
“Damn it!” I slam a fist on the table, rattling the four empty shot glasses as Shawn downs his third.
“I am the victor,” he declares. “I write history. And the history is: Francis can be trusted. True love conquers all. Even evil mushrooms.” He slaps my book down in front of me. “Set the record straight.”
Grumbling all the while, I flip to the back of the book and scribble out his dictate.
“Does this happen every book club?” George asks, and I manage not to bristle at the question. Helps that he sounds curious rather than judgmental.
“Only when we disagree about what happens after the ending.” Shawn scoops up the cards and slips them back in their box, missing the first two times because he was already a few beers deep before his three tequila shots.
“So, yes,” I add, collapsing onto the couch and enjoying the warmth of the liquor in my belly.
The alcohol is slowly making being around George less of a thing.
I find it easier to forget that he’s my super-rich flight instructor who tolerates me because of my brother, and to remember how cozy I was with his arms wrapped around my thighs and his head nestled beneath my boobs.
Usually, a war designates the end of book club and the start of movie night.
Shawn might be tipsy, but he’s still plenty capable of making a massive bowl of popcorn.
For next month, Shawn gets to pick the book—we trade off—which means it’s my turn to select the movie.
But because I’m a magnanimous person, I hand the remote to George.
Also, I haven’t forgotten what today is for him.
The man looks like he’s never held a remote in his life, staring down at the thing, then back at me.
“Here,” I huff, scooting closer and taking it from him.
“He’s got all the streaming. What are you in the mood for?
And we can’t watch any more Masters of the Air, ’cause war stories make Shawn cry.
” When I glance up at George, I realize the tequila must be messing with my depth perception.
I’m much closer to him than I first thought I was.
Close enough to watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. Close enough to smell his cologne.
Damn, he smells good.
Because I’m not in full control of my body, I suck in a deep breath, filling my lungs with his delicious scent.
Would it be weird if I asked what his cologne is and then buy it and add a few drops to my laundry?
Who am I kidding? Whatever he has on probably costs more than my monthly grocery bill. No way I could ever afford to have a bottle of George Bunsen.
I face the massive TV mounted on the wall and start flicking through apps.
“Come on. Name a genre at least.” I try to nudge him with my shoulder but end up leaning a touch too heavily into his side. He doesn’t help me right myself. “No horror, either. Shawn is a wimp.”
Right on cue, “Don’t pick a scary one!” he yells from the kitchen.
George snorts, then clears his throat. “How about Scooby-Doo?” He takes the remote and pulls up the live-action movie with Sarah Michelle Gellar.
I gasp and give him a grin. “Really? I love that one!”
George smiles, his focus on the TV. “Me, too.”
After selecting the movie, I give up the delicious air that exists around George to crawl on all fours to the chaise section of the couch, where I normally sit. There’s a strangled cough behind me, and I glance back to see George rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes.
Maybe he’s upset about his mom. I turn away to give him a semblance of privacy, and I hope that watching a movie he likes is a helpful distraction.
There’s a fluffy blanket draped over the back of the couch, and I cocoon myself in it.
Shawn drops heavily onto the couch between us, clutching a party-sized bowl of popcorn covered in butter. “Scooby-Doo? Hell, last time I saw this was in college. Such a good movie to watch high.”
I reach a foot out of my blanket to poke him in the side. “You smoked marijuana?” I say with a dramatic gasp. “Didn’t you listen to the D.A.R.E. program?”
“I’m a rebel.” Shawn throws a lopsided grin my way, then passes the bowl over.
Despite the goofy goodness of the movie, I nod off halfway through and only partially regain consciousness when I hear a whispered argument.
“Don’t bother going back to your place. Just take the bed. Half the time she sleeps the whole night on the couch anyway.”
“I’m not taking the bed from her.”
“Then sleep on the couch with her. I can’t carry her. Tweaked a muscle in my back earlier this week.”
There’s a heavy sigh. “You need to stop attempting to do the worm when you get a sale.”
“You sound like the HR department.”
If I wasn’t in a half-asleep daze, I’d make a quip about my brother’s geriatric body. But I’m too cozy to wake up. Especially when my body starts swaying and I breathe in delicious air that smells like flying. Maybe Shawn asked George where he got his rich-man perfume and washed his blankets in it.
I sink back into sleep around the same time my body settles on a cushy mattress and a deep voice mumbles, “Good night.”