Chapter 4 #2
Vivian’s response came through clenched teeth. “I’m not trying to murder my car,” she insisted, her frustration barely contained.
I glanced at the trunk, battered and bruised from her earlier attempts. “Could’ve fooled me. That trunk looks like it’s filing a restraining order,” I remarked, unable to resist poking fun at the situation.
She turned toward me, her expression making me wonder if I was about to become the next target of her wrath. For a moment, the tension between us hung in the air as thick as the summer humidity.
Then, just barely, her mouth twitched—a subtle sign that the anger might be giving way, even if only for a second.
But it was there.
“You’re an idiot,” she said, but her voice had lost its edge, falling somewhere between exasperation and something softer, something almost familiar.
“I’ve heard that before,” I replied, a crooked smile tugging at my mouth. “Usually from you, actually. Consistency is kind of your thing.” I tried to keep it light, but beneath the words was a hope—maybe misguided—that I could still make her laugh.
“It’s one of my best qualities,” she said, arms folded across her chest, but her lips twitched like she was fighting the urge to smile.
“Right up there with trunk assaults and weaponized death glares,” I teased, nudging the air between us. “Honestly, if you keep kicking things, we might have to start a tally.”
“I don’t assault trunks,” she said, but she wouldn’t quite meet my eyes.
“The trunk begs to differ,” I countered, letting the grin show.
She glanced at the trunk, then at me, then at the trunk again. I saw a muscle jump in her jaw—the sort of tic I’d learned to recognize over the years, the one that showed up after disappointment, after yet another promise that hadn’t been kept.
Wordlessly, she kicked the tire. Not hard—more a gesture than an attack. It was like she was trying to shake the anger loose from her bones, as if each small act of violence against the car might help her reclaim a little control.
“Okay, now you’re just being vindictive,” I said, but it was gentle, the way you might tease a friend just to see if you could soften the tension.
“The tire had it coming,” she muttered, but I caught the flicker of something else—a weary resignation—cross her face.
“What did the tire do, exactly?” I asked, keeping my tone light, willing her to keep playing along.
“It knows what it did,” she said, but her words were more tired than angry now. Maybe she was just tired of everything—of things breaking, of people letting her down.
I hesitated, watching the way she stood—shoulders squared but not quite relaxed, bracing against the world.
I remembered all the times she’d been let down and wondered if I was about to become another disappointment.
Maybe that was why I blurted out the next thing, grasping for something to break the cycle, just for tonight.
Sympathy, maybe. Or solidarity. Or just the stubborn hope that laughter might break through her anger, even if it was just for a night.
So I said the first thing that came to mind, stupid and hopeful: “Would you like to come to a comedy club with me?”
Vivian turned slowly, one eyebrow raised so high it was practically in orbit. “What?”
“Comedy club,” I repeated, gesturing vaguely in the direction of downtown.
“New place. Laugh Riot. Terrible name, possibly a front for money laundering, probably decent comedians. I was going to go with friends, but apparently everyone I know has either reproduced, gotten married, or is attempting to join the mile high club with twin flight attendants while not actually being on a plane.”
“That last one is definitely Fitz,” Vivian said.
“It was absolutely Fitz. He’s currently in a CVS parking lot buying condoms in bulk and learning French.”
“Why French?”
“I didn’t ask. I’ve learned not to ask.”
She crossed her arms, studying me with an expression I couldn’t quite read. “And you’re inviting me because...?”
“Because you look like you could use a laugh,” I said honestly. “And because I don’t want to be the sad guy sitting alone at a comedy club on a Saturday night, laughing at dick jokes while everyone around me is on dates.”
“I thought you said comedy was sophisticated.”
“I lied. It’s mostly dick jokes. I’ve made my peace with it.”
“That’s depressing.”
“Hence the invitation.”
“So I’d be doing you a favor,” she said slowly.
“A huge favor. Enormous. Monumental. I’ll even buy the nachos.”
“You’re bribing me with nachos?”
“I’m incentivizing you with nachos,” I corrected. “There’s a difference. Bribery implies coercion. Incentivizing implies mutual benefit. You get nachos. I get to not look like a friendless loser. Everyone wins.”
“Except for the nachos.”
“The nachos knew what they signed up for.”
Vivian’s mouth twitched again, and I could see her fighting a smile. “This is a terrible idea.”
“Probably,” I agreed. “But all my good ideas got rejected, so now we’re working with terrible ideas. It’s called adaptability. I’m very adaptable.”
“You’re very something.”
“I’m going to choose to interpret that as a compliment.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Too late. Already interpreted. Can’t take it back now.”
Vivian opened her mouth, ready to shut me down.
She was poised to say no—remind me that Saturday nights were for anything but awkward coworker outings, that she had plans, boundaries, sanity.
Maybe even suggest I seek professional help.
But the truth was, I could see the flicker of indecision in her eyes.
She wasn’t just weighing my ridiculous invitation; she was weighing her own need for escape.
The gnawing restlessness, the urge to not be alone with her thoughts, or worse—with her phone.
Then her phone buzzed, slicing through her hesitation like a scalpel.