Nine #2
“Debauchery?” Gillian scoffed. “They’re kindergartners.”
“Kid debauchery is different, but it exists. Weren’t you ever a child?”
“She was not,” Daphne interjected. “I can verify.”
Robin turned to her. “I take back everything I said about how much fun she is.”
Gillian’s eyebrows shot up. “You were talking about how fun I am?”
“They were.” Daphne blushed slightly. “Though you’ve undercut their arguments a bit. Raisins?”
“I didn’t bring raisins this year. I brought fruit snacks. What happened to ‘sometimes different is a good thing’?”
Daphne’s breath caught as her own words came back to her. Only they shouldn’t have from this woman.
Gillian seemed to realize the same thing and explained, “Izzy said you told her we were very different, but sometimes different is a good thing.”
“Did you grill my daughter about what I say about you at home?”
“Uh, did you know she had a daughter?” Sawyer stage-whispered.
“I did not.” Robin leaned forward as if she found this conversation infinitely entertaining.
“And I did not grill Izzy.” Gillian cut back in. “She made a comment. I asked a clarifying question, and she quoted you.”
Daphne pressed her lips together. That did track for her chatty daughter.
“And what about you?” Gillian pushed. “Were you here grilling my employees about me?”
“No,” Daphne defended. “I was talking to my new friends, who were trying to convince me you’re fun, but then you brought fruit snacks to trunk or treat.”
“Hey now.” Sawyer stepped in. “No one’s grilling anyone, and I like the idea of different being okay. Also, this isn’t my first rodeo or my first attempt to get G-Ball over here to lower her standards, so I came packing heat.”
“Honey,” Robin drawled. “This is a family event. You’re not supposed to advertise what you’re packing within earshot of the K-I-D-S.”
Sawyer burst out laughing and raised their hand for Robin to high-five. Then without attempting to explain further, they opened the trunk of the car to reveal two massive buckets full of sweet, sugary goodness.
“God, I love you!” Robin practically jumped them.
The longer the full-on body wrap of a kiss went on, the more Daphne couldn’t decide if she was turned on or needed to turn away. She chose the latter, and in doing so met Gillian’s eyes.
“They’re like this all the time,” Gillian said flatly. “Everyone in my life is like this all … the … time now.”
“Must be fun for you.”
“She loves it,” Robin called, “almost as much as I love Sawyer for playing sugar daddy in the most literal sense.”
“I also brought some potatoes,” Sawyer offered, holding up a ten-pound bag of russets. “See, G-D, I can make healthy choices, too.”
“Potatoes?” Daphne and Gillian asked in unison.
“It’s a thing,” Sawyer said amiably. “I saw it on the internet, and everyone knows if it’s on the internet, it must be true.”
“Sure, sure.” Gillian rolled her eyes. “Fruit snacks are weird, but uncooked potatoes totally cool.”
“Duh.” Robin grinned. “What do you think, Daphne?”
She shook her head, but she couldn’t help enjoying all the spectacularly strange turns this conversation had taken, or the way no one backed away from it.
Even Gillian stayed in the mix. Maybe that’s why Daphne felt comfortable saying the unthinkable.
“I’m going to utter this phrase for the first time ever. I agree with Gillian on this one.”
Gillian’s jaw dropped open. “Would someone like to try to knock me over with a feather?”
Daphne rolled her eyes more out of playfulness than frustration. “Don’t let it go to your head. Saying kids would rather eat fruit snacks than a raw root vegetable isn’t exactly a hot take.”
“Don’t take this moment from me.” Gillian grinned smugly. “Daphne Milner sided with me over the chaos twins. We reward progress over perfection on this team, and this definitely constitutes progress.”
Daphne opened her mouth to argue, though about what she wasn’t quite sure. Maybe it was habit or instinct, because the more she thought, the more she realized she actually shared the value of progress over perfection, even if she wasn’t ready to admit Gillian was right about something else.
The first hints of real darkness crept across the sky, with only a crescent moon and a smattering of stars bright enough to be seen amid the tinges of orange still lingering at the horizon. Still, Gillian was glad for the steady stream of trick-or-treaters to keep her mind off the chill in the air.
“At least it’s warm enough that we don’t have to worry about snow next week,” Tegan said, then, turning to Brooke, added, “not that an early November snow didn’t serve us well last year.”
“How so?” Daphne asked.
“You see”—Robin leaned close enough to feel conspiratorial—“what had happened was—”
“Long story short.” Brooke cut her off. “Road trip, lake effect snow, we all lived to tell the parts of the tale fit for public consumption.”
Gillian held her breath, afraid the subpar explanation wouldn’t hold. Not that she didn’t still have a few burning questions of her own, but this was neither the time nor the place, nor the company in which she wanted to ask them.
Still, Daphne stared at Brooke waiting for more, and even Gillian had to admit she may’ve faltered having those dark eyes on her with such earnest interest. She was beautiful.
There was no two ways about it, and the ethereal attire only added to her naturally soft figure, all curvy and cozy with her dark curls creating a kind of halo effect in the dimming light.
She’d always been the kind of person who pulled people in, and Gillian couldn’t blame anyone for being lulled into a false sense of security. She’d been tempted one time, too.
Brooke, on the other hand, either had superhuman boundaries, or she didn’t notice Daphne’s hypnotic power because she saw only Tegan in every room.
Gillian suspected the latter was true as her best friend turned and kissed her love sweetly on the cheek, making their Buttercup and Farmboy costumes from The Princess Bride even more adorable than they had been all night.
Then, as if to further transition away from the topic, Brooke turned to Gillian and asked, “What are the preliminary findings of your research?”
Gillian could’ve kissed her for the segue. “In a surprise to apparently no one here, the traditional candy is most popular across the board, but two subsets have emerged as statistically significant outliers.”
“God, I love it when you talk all academic and shit,” Robin said. “Tell us more.”
“Children dressed as teachers, historical figures, politicians, or book characters are more likely to choose the fruit snacks than the general population.”
“Aw, G-Thang, you found your people.” Robin bumped her shoulder with her own. “Who picks the potatoes?”
“Shockingly, there’s enough data to suggest a correlation there, too.” Gillian shook her head. “I can’t believe any child would choose a potato over chocolate, but this is why we study data over our own assumptions.”
“Do we?” Sawyer muttered.
“Obviously, it’s no double-blind study.” Gillian tried not to be too sad about that. “But I’ve kept a running list of kids who pick potatoes, and they’re often dressed as abstract or absurd things, or sometimes as cartoon-type villains.”
“Oh yeah, the kid dressed as a bed did pick a potato,” Tegan said.
“And so did the little Mad Hatter,” Brooke added. “What about the kid dressed as a toilet?”
“Also potato,” Gillian confirmed, checking to confirm more than half the bag was gone.
“But the little Jane Goodall went for the fruit snacks?” Daphne doubled-checked.
“A woman after my own heart,” Gillian confirmed. “Hey, here comes a George Washington. Let’s sit back and observe.”
Everyone did a rather conspicuous job of trying to act casual as the kid stepped up to their table, powdered wig and tricorn hat slightly askew as he surveyed his options.
“Take whatever you like best,” Gillian coached in a soothing voice.
The kid’s eyes landed on the small stack of potatoes and went wide. “Cool.”
“Donnavan,” his mother warned gently.
“It’s hilarious.” He dropped one in his bag, causing his parents to frown, and Gillian had to school her own expression, though likely for different reasons.
“He’s been picking up absurd things all night,” his father explained sheepishly. “He’s got two rocks and three vegetables. He doesn’t even like vegetables.”
Gillian inspected his costume once more, from the open Revolutionary War jacket to the faux riding boots. Maybe she needed to adjust her findings.
As if reading her mind, Sawyer stepped forward, crouching to make themself eye-level with the kid. “Hey Donnavan, I love this for you. Keep bringing those chaotic neutral vibes, but in the meantime, will you tell me what you really wanted to be for Halloween?”
The kid’s eyes lit up. “I wanted to be The Joker from Batman, the grown-up one with the messed up makeup. They made me wear my brother’s boring old costume!”
Sawyer grinned. “I thought so.”
“We don’t do violent movies,” his mother explained quickly. “He hasn’t even seen the adult Batman movies. He’s only seven.”
“Totally understandable,” Gillian said.
“I’ve heard sometimes you can shoot potatoes out of special guns,” Donnavan said to Sawyer.
“We don’t do guns, either,” his mother reminded in a singsong voice.
“Here.” Tegan handed her a bag of community mental health resources, including a business card from each of them. “Good luck.”
The mother smiled faintly and ushered her child along, but no sooner were they out of earshot when Gillian turned to Sawyer. “How’d you know?”
“What? That he wanted to be something else for Halloween, or maybe his whole life?” Sawyer lifted one shoulder as if trying to force casualness into their tight tone. “This little game is all too reminiscent of my own childhood.”
“Which part?” Robin asked, wrapping an arm around their waist. “Unauthorized research on minors, or forcing kids to wear costumes that affirm their parent’s choices rather than respecting their own?”
“Both.”