Chapter 4 #3
She barely glanced at the screen before her entire demeanor changed. Whatever had lingered—frustration, uncertainty—crystallized into something colder. She sneered, and I didn’t need to ask who the message was from.
The Boyfriend—ruining Vivian’s day with the persistence of a mosquito that was somehow immune to bug spray.
Vivian caught my gaze, her grin sharp, not friendly. It was the kind of smile you gave before jumping off a cliff—not for the thrill, but because the view behind you was worse. I suspected I was about to become her distraction, her act of defiance.
“You know what?” she said, her voice laced with spite and relief. “Let’s go to that comedy club. I could use a laugh.”
“Really?” I tried not to sound stunned but probably failed. The idea that she’d say yes felt like winning a raffle for something I didn’t realize I wanted until I was holding the ticket.
“Just as friends,” she emphasized, shoving her phone back in her pocket with enough force to make me wince. “This isn’t a date.”
“Totally just friends,” I echoed, my nerves tap-dancing. “Colleagues, nachos, laughter. Platonic enough to scare off Cupids everywhere.”
She slammed her trunk for emphasis, then turned to face me. “Because I really don’t need any extra complications right now.”
“Complications are overrated,” I lied, already knowing I was knee-deep in them.
She eyed me, a half-smirk curling her lips. “Funny, your life seems like a complication starter kit.”
“That’s just circumstantial.” I shrugged. “Voluntary complications? I avoid those like contagious disease.”
“You’re a doctor. Maybe leave the plague metaphors to history books.”
“You’re a nurse. You should grade my metaphors, not enable them.”
“I’m not enabling anything. Just observing you’re an idiot.”
“Again with the idiot thing. You really ought to diversify your insults.”
“Moron works.”
“Still just synonyms.”
“Fine. Buffoon.”
“Better. Creative effort noted.”
She grabbed her purse, locked her car, and marched toward mine. “Let’s go laugh at other people’s problems. I need a break from mine.”
“Healthiest coping mechanism I’ve heard all week,” I said, matching her stride.
She snorted. “I’m a nurse. I know better. This isn’t healthy—it’s just necessary.”
“Necessary is my favorite kind of unhealthy.”
“We’re avoiding our problems.”
“Tom-a-to, tom-ah-to.”
“That’s not how that expression works.”
“It is now. I’m reclaiming it.”
We reached my car, and I unlocked the doors with more enthusiasm than I should probably admit.
Vivian slid into the passenger seat, and I walked around to the driver’s side.
My brain screamed: Terrible idea alert. Going to a comedy club with Vivian Darcy.
Alone. On a Saturday night. While she was clearly still simmering about the boyfriend, and I was... well, whatever I was about Vivian.
Professional boundaries? Obliterated. Careful plans? Shredded. Disaster? Practically booked its ticket.
Still, I couldn’t help feeling this was, objectively, the highlight of my week.
I started the car.
“So,” Vivian said, buckling her seatbelt. “Just how bad is this place? Open mic bad or ‘actual professionals’ bad?”
“Somewhere in the middle. The reviews said ‘surprisingly competent.’”
“Not exactly a glowing recommendation.”
“Hey, it’s better than ‘surprisingly incompetent.’”
“Low bar, Quinton.”
“Working with what I’ve got. The other options were ‘aggressively mediocre’ and ‘we’ve seen worse.’”
“And you picked this place because...?”
“It’s new. And the name made me laugh.”
“Laugh Riot?”
“Could be comedy gold or a prison riot. Here’s hoping for the former.”
“What if it’s the latter?”
“We flee. Fast. Maybe through a window.”
Vivian actually snorted. “You’ve really thought this through.”
“Planning: my best quality.”
“I thought it was avoiding marriage proposals.”
“Different category. That’s survival instinct.”
“You organize your qualities?”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“No, Quinton. They don’t.”
“That explains my social life.”
Vivian laughed, the sound surprisingly bright.
For a moment, I wanted to blame my chest tightening on the seatbelt, not on how it felt to make her laugh.
Not on how she was here, in my car, letting me distract her from a life raft of bad decisions.
Not on the fact that, whatever we called this, it was dangerously close to something else.
Nope. Not thinking about that.
Vivian glanced at me, eyebrows raised. “You okay? You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“I’m good,” I said, rallying my nerves. “Ready to laugh at other people’s misery.”
“That’s the spirit.”
“It’s the only spirit I’ve got. Everything else died when Fitz told me about the twins.”
“Don’t tell me.”
“I won’t. Some things are best left unsaid.”
I pulled out of the parking lot, and headed toward downtown, determined not to think about the fact that this—right here, right now—was exactly what I wanted. And exactly what I probably shouldn’t have.
Because going to a comedy club with Vivian Darcy as “just friends” was like trying to defuse a bomb while blindfolded. Technically possible. Extremely inadvisable. Likely to end in disaster—possibly with nachos as collateral damage.