Chapter 10
Miller
The champagne does go to her head.
Not the three glasses, but the bottle she grabbed off a drink table pushed against the atrium wall by the stairs.
And not in a bad way, either.
I’ve got no idea what that fucking loser with the stupid glasses and even stupider shoes was talking about.
She should let more things go to her head.
Everything about her gets lighter.
Her movements seemed more fluid, unburdened and assured, when she kicked off her heels and padded across the floor of the museum exhibit on bare feet to grab a wood pointer hung up by the exit.
When her slim fingers moved, all confidence, across a panel on the wall, and a screen flickered to life beside it.
Each time she took a sip from the bottle of champagne, and we passed it back and forth while she flicked through slide after slide, setting the scene for what the world looked like sixty-six million years ago as the Cretaceous Period and Mesozoic Era were forced to an end.
And, for some reason, explaining the difference between something called boreal spring and austral autumn.
“The Chicxulub asteroid hits what’s now the Yucatan Peninsula, and then, in the Cenozoic Era”—she hits the pointer against the wall—“all non-avian dinosaurs are just, poof, gone.”
“Poof,” I repeat through an easy grin, bringing the almost-empty champagne to my mouth.
“Poof,” she echoes again through a resigned nod before a crease digs between her brows. “Not just the non-avian dinosaurs. Poof to almost all tetrapods weighing more than fifty-five pounds.”
“What’s a tetrapod?”
Ren waves vaguely towards the displays and exhibits surrounding us. “Most four-legged things.”
I nod, kicking off the wall where I’ve been watching her move through her demonstration about mass extinction events from millions of years ago, handing her what’s left of the champagne.
“So this is your theory, then? You said you’d show me what you believe, and as compelling as this was”—I tip my chin to the picture on the screen of an asteroid engulfed in flames hurtling towards Earth—“I thought you were going to tell me you had a secret theory. Aliens, maybe.”
“I don’t believe in aliens.” She throws me a haughty look. “And you shouldn’t either.”
“But you believe in dinosaurs?”
Her eyes sharpen on me. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those conspiracy theorists who think something that has an enormous body of scientific evidence and decades of evolutionary theory to support it isn’t real?
” One finger points towards a displayed triceratops fossil.
“I assure you, those bones are very real.”
My grin stretches, jaw almost pinching in pain from how foreign the movement feels. “That’s not what I meant. I mean, it was sixty-six million years ago. Couldn’t it have been something other than an asteroid?”
“I’m glad you asked, Miller.” She lifts her chin, eyes that remind me more and more of crystals on me when she takes a small sip of champagne.
“The answer is no. There’s too much evidence.
The Chicxulub crater was found in the early nineties, it stretches over 180 kilometres, and drilling projects have shown that granite in the peak ring must have been ejected in minutes from deep within the earth, but it’s missing all its gypsum. ”
I’ve got no idea what she’s talking about, but she’s been pretty good at dumbing everything down for me until now.
She pads across the floor, hanging the pointer back up on the wall before turning to the exhibits surrounding us—fossils and models of dinosaurs laid out across the room, grazing in grass, standing in riverbeds, propped up on rocks and generally looking like they’re just living whatever lives dinosaurs lived.
“But there’s actually a lot of debate about the how behind it all.
” Ren takes another sip of champagne before her hand finds mine and she pulls me towards the triceratops.
“Scientists and researchers say the impact event rapidly acidified the oceans and created long-lasting effects on the climate. Some researchers think it was sudden, and other people think it took place over years. It’s hard to say because the fossil record is technically incomplete.
” She shrugs, the silk of her dress shifting when she steps over the small barrier into the exhibit.
“Some people say it was a combination of things with a lot of contributing factors like volcanic eruptions and changes in sea level.”
“Is it okay—” I pause, half over the barrier with my hand still in hers, feet firmly planted on the floor.
Ren glances back with a tiny smile, and I might imagine it, but I think she squeezes her hand in mine before she lets it go. “Collections Manager says it’s allowed, if you don’t tell.”
“Our secret, then.” I lift my brows, bringing a finger to my mouth.
Her head whips back over her shoulder. “Don’t touch the fossils.”
Raising my palms, I follow her over the barrier into the exhibit.
I glance around at the fake rocks forming a jagged cliff face against the wall, the riverbed that looks like it’s just paint up close, and the small collection of fake eggs, some with cracks dotting their surfaces, all spread out around the triceratops fossil in the centre.
Shoving my hands into my pants pockets so I don’t accidentally bump into anything, I ask, “You didn’t really answer my question. What do you think?”
“That the dinosaurs went extinct sixty-six million years ago, and how lucky am I to study such a lasting legacy?” She spins around with a soft smile before waving a hand.
“Who knows, really? People argue about multiple impact structures at once, too. But I think, probably—” She rests her shoulders against the opposite wall, painted with swirls of green meant to represent towering ferns, sliding down until her legs stretch out across the fake grass.
She adjusts the hem of her dress across her shins before shrugging.
“I think multiple causation makes the most sense. Volcanism, marine regression, and then impact from at least one asteroid. Perfect storm, and we’ll probably never know the exact truth. ”
I slide down against the uneven, fake cliff face, until my legs are stretched out, almost touching hers. “Are there any fossils or . . . I don’t know . . . places that support the idea that it happened all at once?”
“Sure.” She nods, considering over a final sip of champagne before she sets the empty bottle beside her near the nest of eggs. “There’s a lot of evidence for the impact event in general. The Tanis site in . . .” she trails off, sticking her tongue out and making a face. “Hell Creek.”
“What’s Hell Creek?” I ask. “Sounds like a shithole.”
She giggles, and it turns into a snort that blooms a blush across her cheeks before she shakes her head.
“A very large formation of upper Cretaceous and lower Paleocene rocks that stretches across Montana, North Dakota, South Dakota, and Wyoming. Very famous. Very important. It’s where very famous and very important people go to make very famous and very important discoveries. Like . . . Scott.”
Her voice catches on his name, and she tries to force a smile.
I tap her foot with mine. “What’s his deal?”
“He’s my . . .” Ren trails off again, glancing down at her hands where her fingers knot together. She gives a wet laugh before she looks back up at me. “We were together. For a long time.”
I blink. “What? That guy? Why?”
“When I was eighteen, I had my reasons.” She sniffs, grabbing the champagne bottle, rolling it between her hands like she wishes there was still something left. “They weren’t very good ones though, in retrospect.”
“Sorry, that was rude. I, uh, I just meant—” I wave a hand towards her before tugging on the ends of my hair. “Look at you. Come on. You could have anyone.”
“Miller Colson-Burke likes pretty girls,” she murmurs through a scoff, eyes on the peeling champagne label before she glances up to me with a wince. “Sorry. Sorry. That wasn’t—it’s just something Scott said to me earlier this week. He was just posturing. It wasn’t personal.”
“I do like pretty girls.” The part of me that woke up when we had coffee two weeks ago and decided she seemed like someone worth flirting with grins when I say it, but this feels infinitely more important than flirting ever was.
Leaning forward, I dip my chin so I can catch her eyes.
“And you are one. But I’m serious, why him?
Only met him once and I know enough to know I won’t be interested in a repeat performance. ”
She rolls her eyes before lifting a shoulder. “Eighteen-year-old me wanted to be wanted so badly she didn’t care by who.” Her thumb runs along the curve of the bottle. “She should have, though.”
“How long were you together?”
“Almost ten years.”
“Wow,” I exhale. “Long time.”
“Yeah.”
“Longer than my longest relationship by about nine years and five months.” I tap her foot with mine again, and I think the corners of her smile tug upwards.
Ren glances at me from underneath lashes that kiss her brow. “So, you do like pretty girls, the rumours are true.”
“Sure,” I concede. “Some of them, anyway.”
At least, the less nefarious ones that circulate.
That I’m not all that smart or serious outside of baseball. That I’ve spent my fair share of time cosplaying as yet another professional athlete who won’t commit and rotates through an endless list of women on his arm at games and events.
I’m not that smart or serious off the field. Stats and analytics and baseball strategy? Genius.
Math and science and words and a big vocabulary? Never really clicked for me and I never really cared.
Girls? Women? I’ve dated a lot, I guess. But I’ve never really met anyone who’s made me feel very good about who I am outside of bases that make up a diamond.
Those things were all Matt. The perennial golden boy. Athlete. Honour student. Serial monogamist.
And I didn’t kill him.
I don’t say any of those things, certainly not the last one, but it hangs heavy and unsaid, and judging by the way her mouth dips into a frown, I think it’s a rumour she’s heard about, too.
Ren smiles, soft and quiet and sad. “The dinosaurs and I have something in common, you know.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“We both suffered a mass extinction event.” Her brows give a half-hearted lift.
“One morning I looked at myself in the mirror, and I didn’t recognize the girl staring back at me.
” Her cheeks puff with an exhale. “He whittled me away, you know?” she admits softly, thumbnail picking at the already-shredded champagne label.
Ren lifts her head, shame lowering her brows.
“Quietly, at first, and then the years went on and on, and I didn’t realize the hands I thought loved me were holding a carving knife.
And then one day, I looked down”—she holds a palm towards her bare feet, pressed into the fake grass of the exhibit —“and there they were. All the shavings of Ren Jacobs, littered across the ground by my feet.” She chews on the inside of her lip before blinking hopeful eyes at me. “Do you know what I mean?”
“Not really,” I start, pushing down to crack my knuckles when I catch sight of the tattoo and realize that maybe, in my own way, I do.
“Kind of, I guess?” I flash her the back of my palm.
“Matt wouldn’t have—he was the best person on the planet, probably.
He wouldn’t have ever . . . put me down.
Not the way other people do. The press. People on social media.
But him being gone? Yeah, maybe I know what you mean.
Each day that passes and he’s not in it?
I think that might take pieces from me.”
She angles her head, red hair a spill of the best colours from all the sunrises and sunsets in the world across her bare shoulders. “What kind of pieces?”
“Oh, I’ve got a whole list of things I don’t do anymore.” I give a dry laugh, knocking my head against the fake rock behind me.
Ren digs her elbows into her thighs, chin coming to rest in her palm. “Like what?”
“Uh . . .” I glance down at my hands, considering, before I start ticking things off on my fingers.
“I don’t really go in public anymore. Like, even the grocery store.
Definitely not like, to a bar or anything.
No posting on social media—that one’s dumb, but when opening your phone feels like a minefield, the whole thing just kind of fucking sucks.
I don’t just . . . play for fun anymore.
Matty and me, we used to play catch in his backyard every week.
Just us, whatever we felt like barbecuing and a few bottles of beer .
. . like when we were kids, minus the alcohol, obviously.
My aunt and uncle were cool about a lot, but they didn’t let us drink. ”
Ren laughs quietly, this soft, tinkering sort of sound that reminds me of one of the wind chimes hanging above the deck at my cottage.
That’s another one. I keep ticking things off the list. “I don’t really .
. . do a great job at talking to them. Screen their calls more than I should because I can’t really .
. . face them. I don’t date—” I reach my last finger with a dry snort when I raise that palm, lifting my other hand in a thumbs-up to mark the sixth thing I don’t think I’ll ever do again.
“And my cottage. I never want to go there again.”
“Miller’s List of Things He Doesn’t Do Anymore,” Ren says gently. “Six things is far too many for someone your age.”
“Yeah, probably.” I nod, eyes cutting to the empty bottle in her hands. I wish we’d brought up another. Maybe something harder.
“I’ve got a list too.” She tosses out another soft admission. Her hair swings, curling inward and framing her face when she leans forward. “The Remains of Ren and Who She Used to Be.”
“What’s on yours?”
She blows out a breath. “Who knows? Like I said, it’s all sitting on the ground in shavings of a different girl around my feet.” She gestures to her feet, and she wiggles toes painted the same colour as her dress. “I wouldn’t even know how to start picking them up.”
“You ever want to, and you need help,” I start, “I’ve got good hands. Don’t mind getting a few slivers, either.”
Another soft laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“So,” I toss out, palming my jaw. I don’t do great in silence anymore, even though Ren Jacobs seems like she wouldn’t be a bad companion to sit in it with. “What would two adults do now?”
She tips her head in fake consideration before she smiles, eyes sparkling and a wrinkle drawing across her nose. “The adult thing to do would be to go back to the party and steal another bottle of champagne, don’t you think?”