Margaritas and Murder-Suicides
*
“The best-laid plans of mice and men oft’ go awry.”
Robert Burns
Dinner that night was surprisingly perfect.
Robert came home with two takeaway boxes of nachos and a pitcher of margaritas, the kind barely sealed with stretched cellophane to keep the contents from sloshing out.
We sat cross-legged on our cheap apartment carpet, the rough fibers pricking our skin as we devoured the greasy, cheesy mess like two college kids crashing a living room party, passing the pitcher back and forth like we were in a frat house.
“So, you’re not bothered that I’m switching from Anthropology to Archaeology?” Robert gave me a boyish grin as he handed me the half-filled pitcher.
I glanced at the dented lamp in the corner. The slight concave bend in the shade created a distorted light cone, pulling my gaze inward like a vortex. The room’s flaws glared under the harsh light, but I turned back to Robert with a smile.
“Not at all,” I said, taking a swig straight from the pitcher. “You’ve always liked Archaeology more anyway. So, where do we go?”
He grabbed his laptop, balanced it on his knee, and clicked through the ten open browser tabs. “There are five programs. They’re all over the UK—York, Leeds, Durham, London, and Edinburgh.”
I crunched into a chip, the snap loud and obnoxious. The jalapenos hit my tongue with a sting. “Which one do you want?”
He clicked on the Durham tab. A photo filled the screen: a medieval castle surrounded by thick trees on a hill. I squinted. “Where the hell is Durham?”
Robert laughed and zoomed out on the map. “Northern England. South of Newcastle. It’s beautiful. You’d find work easily, and we could afford to live there.”
He moved to the following few tabs: Edinburgh, a gorgeous, moody place. Leeds looked very similar, with its Victorian industrial buildings and sprawling row homes on hills. Then there was York, twenty minutes from Leeds by train but surrounded by massive rivers and historical buildings.
I nodded slowly, but my gaze drifted to the untouched University of London tab. With a mischievous grin, I reached over and clicked it, leaving orange cheese streaks across the trackpad. He winced.
“Why not here?”
His frown was subtle, but it felt like a slap. I saw the flicker in his eyes—the flicker of Chic City Brianna rising from the grave and dying again.
“London wasn’t a serious option, was it?” I asked.
He let out a sigh. Heat rose in my cheeks and I raged. “You put it on the list. What’s wrong with London?”
He sighed and leaned back, taking another swig before passing me the pitcher. “You know I’m not into big cities.”
I took a gulp that stung on the way down. “Then why include it?”
“Because I knew you’d want to live there. I hoped I could change your mind.”
He always did this. It was as if he were a teacher who lived to correct me for every infraction.
Remember to say thank you and hold the door open.
Why did you complain that your food was cold? That’s not very midwestern.
I placed my nachos on the coffee table and shifted to my knees. “So, you tried to manipulate me. Is that it?”
He reached out, resting a hand on my knee. I batted it away.
“No. I just thought we’d talk about it. We’re allowed to want different things.”
I leaned in, eyes narrowing. “Sounds like you made a decision and hoped I’d just go along with it.”
He stood, moving around the coffee table, which stopped me from storming off. His presence was calm and steady, and I hated how quickly that disarmed me. He walked slowly toward me, and I stayed where I was, fists clenched.
Then, the bastard smiled—soft, warm, infuriating.
I looked ridiculous: standing there with nacho goo on my hands, breathing hard like a cat puffed up to look tough. I wanted to scream. Instead, Robert hugged me.
I resisted, stiff and shaking in his arms, but the warmth of his chest and the familiar scent of sandalwood beard oil and tea tree deodorant began to dissolve the tension. I hated him for knowing exactly how to make me fold.
He kissed the top of my head, and the tenderness settled over me like a warm blanket.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I should’ve talked to you instead of just presenting options.”
I sighed and leaned into him. “You’re right. You are a prick,” I muttered with no real venom. The fire had dulled to a flicker.
He exhaled loudly. “I do this, don’t I? Give you only the options I want?”
I nodded. Yet, as the fury grew, I relented, throwing cold water on it. Robert wasn’t the only one at fault. “Well, I don’t even give you an option, so it’s likely something we both need to work on.”
We stood silently for a moment, his arms still wrapped around me, my body slowly admitting how much I needed the hug. Then, gently, he pulled back just enough to meet my eyes.
“If you want to stay here, we can,” he said. “I don’t have to go. I can stick with Anthropology and finish here.”
I stepped out of his grasp and dropped onto the couch, tucking my feet under me. “I don’t want to stay,” I admitted. “I got pulled off Project Melon.”
His brow furrowed as he sat beside me. “Why? I thought Hope loved your work.”
“She did. Security didn’t.”
His concern deepened. “What happened?”
I took a deep breath and stared at the carpet. “I lied on my security forms. I said my family was dead.”
His reaction wasn’t what I expected.
He laughed softly at first, then loud enough to shake the walls. I expected a lecture. What I got was a release. I looked up, confused, but couldn’t help the grin that tugged at my mouth.
“What’d you say killed them? A bus crash? Volcano eruption?”
I rolled my eyes. “Murder-suicide. I said my mom finally snapped.”
That set him off again, his laughter ringing through the apartment like a bell. It was absurd and morbid, and it was what I needed.
This moment dissolved the day’s tension in that shared, unhinged laughter. He wiped tears from his eyes as he handed me the pitcher again.
“Well,” he said, catching his breath, “this timing couldn’t be better.”
I took a long swig and passed it back. I reached forward and went through the tabs again. My eyes locked on one.
City Chic Brianna could whip out those stilettos on some cobblestones. “What about York?”
His eyes lit up. “York could be fun.”
I looked at the pitcher, the laptop, and him. Maybe “fun” was all we needed right now.