“Hi. George. Hello,” I croak. Clearing my throat, I glance around for something to dispel this tension that’s suddenly thrumming between us. My eyes fixate on his beer again, and I point to the drink. “Hope you found a bottle opener for that.”
His stare drops to the brown bottle, and when it raises again, humor is crinkling the corners of his eyes.
“I did. But I can open yours the caveman way if you want.”
Yes, please.
“Dig in!” Shawn sets plates on the island’s granite countertop, then rubs his palms together eagerly. “You’ll need your strength.”
George’s brows pop up, and I cringe internally. “For book club?”
Shawn nods while shoveling pork fried rice onto his plate. “Did you get a chance to read the book?”
“Yeah,” George picks up a plate and offers it to me. That’s when I realize I’m still hovering a decent distance away, probably looking like I’m about to flee.
Maybe that would be best before my flight instructor sees the type of person I truly am. The Dr.Jekyll and Mr.Hyde switch elicited by book club.
“Good,” Shawn says, clueless to my reticence. “Then maybe you can hold your own.”
I want to insist that we’re not going to put George through our normal traditions. No one deserves to experience that. But then my brother will pout, and Shawn has a golden-retriever-puppy level of pouting skills.
The best course of action is to keep my composure. I will lead by example, and Shawn will have to fall in line.
This will be a pleasant, sedate evening during which three intelligent people calmly discuss a piece of literature.
Easy.
—
An hour later,through no fault of my own, I end up standing on a thousand-dollar, one-of-a-kind coffee table, shouting at my brother about fictional characters while he pours shots. And this is when I realize I’ve let the evening get away from me.
But I can’t let Shawn think he’s right about this. I just can’t.
“Francis cannot be trusted as far as I can throw his skinny ass!” My yell reverberates through the penthouse, echoing off the towering ceilings.
“I believe youcouldthrow his skinny ass pretty damn far.” Shawn waggles the tequila bottle at me. “Hence proving my point that Francis can be trusted. He won’t betray Noemí.”
“He betrayed her throughout the entire book!” I wave my aggressively notated copy ofMexican Gothicin the air, ready to pull out page numbers as proof.
“The mushrooms were controlling him.”
“And they still are!” I jab a finger against the cover to emphasize my point. “Mark my words, that guy still has spores in him. Noemí needs to dump him.”
“No way!” Shawn crows back, flourishing his equally tabbed copy of the historical thriller. “Even if there are some left, Noemí and Francis will defeat them together. True love will prevail.” Shawn faces the couch, extending the liquor toward his friend like the bottle is a microphone. “Come on, George. You know I’m right.”
“No fair! You can’t win just because he’s your best friend.” I whirl to face George, towering over the man from my elevated perch. It was inevitable that I ended up on the table. I always require an extra foot or so of height to exert my dominance over my annoyingly tall brother. “Tell the truth, George. Tell Shawn I’m right. Friendship means nothing in book club.”
The man stares up at me, a dazed expression on his face.
This is why I’d wanted to keep my composure. The woman I become when I discuss books with my brother is more monster than human. When George recovers from the shock, he’ll run for the closest exit.
And yet, I cannot contain my zeal.
Not when I may never have book club again after July.
George swallows hard and drops his eyes. He reaches up to rub the back of his neck.
“You…you both make good points.” He fiddles with his copy ofMexican Gothic, and I see he’s a corner folder. Which is fine. I’m just surprised he managed to read the book in twenty-four hours if Shawn had only invited him yesterday. “Noemí will probably have trouble trusting Francis. But I think Francis will work hard to combat any lingering evil in his system.”
