Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Vivian
This was a terrible idea.
“You okay?” Quinton asked, shooting me a look as we neared the entrance. “You look like you’re about to bolt.”
“I’m assessing whether this place is a fire hazard,” I said, eyeing the emergency exit sign that looked like it hadn’t worked since the Clinton administration.
He glanced at the building, then at me, then back again. “You think Laugh Riot is going to burn down?”
“I think it’s one health code violation away from being condemned,” I replied, suppressing a smile.
“That’s fair,” he admitted. “But the reviews said the comedians were good.”
“The reviews said, ‘surprisingly competent,’ which is not exactly a ringing endorsement,” I retorted, my tone matching his lighthearted banter.
He grinned and held the door open, the laughter and clinking glasses from inside spilling out. “Come on, Viv. Live a little.”
I stepped through the door and was instantly assaulted by a sensory symphony: the sticky squelch of my shoes against the grimy carpet, the tang of stale beer mixed with something I could only describe as “comedy club musk,” and the flickering dim light overhead that cast everyone in shades of jaundice.
The tables looked like they hadn’t been wiped since the last time someone actually laughed here, and my hand stuck to the surface when I brushed against it.
The ambient soundtrack was a medley of muffled laughter, clattering glasses, the distant hum of an ancient air conditioner struggling for relevance, and the occasional pop from the sound system—a sound so distinct it belonged in its own genre.
It was the sensory equivalent of a divorced dad’s apartment, but with more neon and less dignity.
Quinton gestured toward an empty table near the middle, its sticky surface glistening under the erratic glow of the overhead lights. “That work for you?” he asked, sounding oddly earnest amid the chaos.
I blinked, adjusting to the blur of swirling colors and noise. “You’re asking my seating preference? In a place where the only thing separating us from hepatitis is a thin layer of denial?”
“Yeah. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.
” His voice was soft, almost lost beneath the laughter and the air conditioner’s drone.
For a second, I caught something in his expression—a flicker of nervousness, maybe a desperate hope that tonight wouldn’t crash and burn.
Was Quinton worried about my comfort, or was he just hoping this night would be the one thing that went right?
“Quinton, we’re in a building that smells like a divorced dad’s dreams and looks like they died here. Comfort is not on the table—literally, since I’m pretty sure that sticky stuff is a biohazard.”
“Okay, but within the parameters of divorced dad smell and questionable stains, do you have a seating preference?”
I looked at him, really looked, and saw the way his hands fidgeted at the table’s edge, his gaze darting from me to the stage and back.
For someone who walked bravely into places with broken neon and bad Yelp reviews, he was remarkably invested in my well-being.
Maybe he was nervous. Maybe he just wanted tonight to be a win for both of us.
“Middle is fine,” I said, picking the spot that looked least likely to ruin my clothing.
He pulled out my chair—its vinyl seat tacky to the touch and making a sound like wet sneakers against gym floor.
I stared at him, eyebrows raised. “What are you doing? Trying to impress me with furniture etiquette? Because unless you brought disinfectant wipes, it’s a lost cause.”
“Pulling out your chair?”
“Why? Is this a secret audition for a gentleman’s club, or are you just prepping for the next health inspection?”
“Because that’s what you do?” His answer was more question than statement, and I noticed his nervous smile linger a moment longer than usual.
“This isn’t a date.”
“I know it’s not a date. I’m just being polite.”
“You’ve never pulled out my chair at the clinic, and those are at least clean and predictable, unlike whatever creature is living under this seat.”
“That’s because the clinic chairs are on wheels and it would be weird. This is a different kind of weird.”
“This is also weird, but at least you’re consistent.”
“Noted. Should I push the chair back in now, or are we going to stand here and argue until the show starts?”
I took my seat, eyeing him as if trying to decode a foreign language. “You’re incredibly strange, you know that?”
“You say that like it’s new information,” he replied, settling across from me with a grin. “You’re my primary source for that diagnosis.”
The server appeared, and Quinton turned toward me, all business. “What do you want to drink?”
“I can order for myself,” I said, my tone edged with defiance. Still, I couldn’t help wondering if his need to orchestrate everything was just efficiency, or if he liked being in control—maybe a little too much.
He barely blinked. “I’m asking so I can order for both of us and save time.”
I looked at the server. “Vodka soda, please.”
“Make it two,” Quinton said, then pivoted. “Do you have any local beers?”
The server rattled off options.
“The IPA sounds promising,” Quinton said. “Viv, want to try it? We could split a pitcher. It’s award-winning, so efficiency and quality.”
“I just ordered a vodka soda, but sure—let’s maximize beverage potential.”
“Efficiency and quality, they’re practically synonyms,” he replied, a little too pleased with himself.
“If you say so, Quinton.”
“I tend to be efficient. It’s a character strength, I promise.”
“You mean ‘controlling,’ but sure—spin it however you want.”
“See? Efficient, controlling—it’s a common misconception.” He winked, as if that made everything clearer.
The server left, and suddenly I was alone with Quinton Wesley in a comedy club that smelled like a mid-life crisis on a Saturday night.
I was here because Colton had texted me “miss u babe” while he was out with his friends, and I was tired of being the girlfriend who waited around for a reminder she existed.
I was here because Quinton had tossed out an invitation like a life raft, and I was desperate enough to grab it.
I needed to laugh, or at least to do something that wasn’t scrolling through other people’s lives from my couch.
“You’re doing it again,” Quinton said, nudging my arm.
“Doing what?”
“That thing where you look like you’re about to audit the fire exits.”
“I’m just thinking.”
“About?”
“About how weird this is. We’re colleagues. We work together every day, and now here we are, pretending it’s normal to spend Saturday night together in a room decorated entirely in fake brick.”
“It could be normal,” Quinton said. “People need to laugh. And I figured you could use a break from work too. Plus, honestly, I didn’t want to come alone.” There was a flicker of something like vulnerability before he grinned again. “You’re good company, statistical anomaly or not.”
“We’re not friends.”
He raised an eyebrow. “We’re not?”
“We’re... friendly. That’s different.”
“How so?”
“Friends hang out outside work. We don’t—well, except tonight.”
“So we’re colleagues who are friendly but not friends, and tonight is a statistical anomaly?”
“Exactly.”
“That’s the most complicated way of saying ‘we’re friends’ I’ve ever heard.”
“We’re not—”
“Viv. We’re friends.”
I opened my mouth to argue. Then closed it.
Because the truth was, I didn’t know what we were.
My fingers curled around the table edge, trying to steady the tremor I hoped Quinton wouldn’t notice.
The scent of fried food drifted through the air, mingling with bursts of laughter from nearby tables.
A neon beer sign flickered near the stage, casting everything in a soft, golden haze.
“You’re overthinking this,” Quinton said, his voice softer now. “It’s just a comedy club. We’re just two people who needed a laugh. It doesn’t have to be complicated.”
“Everything is complicated.”
“Not everything.”
“Name one thing that isn’t complicated.”
“Nachos.”
I blinked. “Nachos?”
“Nachos,” he confirmed. “Chips. Cheese. Jalapenos. Simple. Delicious. Uncomplicated. The perfect food.”
“Nachos are not the perfect food,” I shot back, trying not to smile. “Next you’ll tell me nachos are a superfood,” I teased, earning another genuine laugh from Quinton.
“They absolutely are. They’ve got carbs, protein, fat, and vegetables. That’s a complete meal.”
“Jalapenos are not vegetables.”
“They’re technically fruit, but they’re culinarily classified as a vegetable, so I’m counting it.”
“You’re very passionate about nachos.”
“I love nachos. I’m not protecting them.”
The drinks arrived. Two vodka sodas and a pitcher of IPA, and Quinton immediately poured me a glass. “Try it,” he said. “It’s local. Award-winning. Probably pretentious as hell, but maybe good.”
I took a sip. It was good. Damn it.
“It’s fine,” I said.
“Fine?” He looked genuinely offended. “That’s an award-winning IPA and you’re calling it fine?”
“It’s good. It’s adequately hoppy.”
“Adequately hoppy,” he repeated. “You’re killing me here, Viv.”
He laughed. Actually laughed, and the sound was so genuine that I found myself smiling despite my best efforts not to.
“You’re something else, you know that?” he said.
“I’ve been told that before.”
“Usually by me, actually.”
The lights dimmed, and a voice came over the speakers: “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Laugh Riot! Please give it up for your first comedian of the night!”
A younger comedian burst onto the stage, practically vibrating with energy.
“My roommate is a flat-earther,” he started, drawing a sympathetic groan from the crowd.
“I know. I KNOW. It’s not like there was a checkbox on the lease—‘Do you believe in basic science?’ I just thought he was a regular guy with a regular job and, you know, a regular understanding of the shape of the planet.
” The audience laughed, and I found myself grinning before I could stop.