“They should sell tickets to a table in the kitchen. I’d pay a mint to see Jake Camille actually losing his shit in public.”
“You’re such a weirdo, Quincy,” the taller man says.
The shorter man—Quincy, it would seem—winks at him. “Love you too, babe.” Then he looks at me. “Excuse me, can I ask you a question?”
“No,” Tank says.
“By all means, ask away,” I reply.
Tank growls.
I ignore him.
“Are you here just for Bea to embarrass Jake, or are you here because of what Jake was rumored to have done to Lana in high school?”
I sit straighter. Not because I’m unaware of either woman’s issue with the owner of this establishment, but because I’m curious what the town says about them. I discreetly burp, remind myself I’m tipsy and need to tread lightly, and smile as though I’m confused.
At least, I hope that’s what I’m doing. “Excuse me?”
“Shut up, Quincy,” his partner says to him.
Quincy waves ashushhand at him. “You know. Because of that time that Jake put live goldfish into Lana’s locker in high school? But no one ever called him on it because they couldn’t completely prove it was him, and his dad’s sued like, everyone in town, and his mother runs the fourth grade like a dictator, but also the whole school secretly since every principal at thegrade school has always been afraid of her too. They’re the terror couple.”
One of the women at a different table makes a noise of protest.
“Shush, Gertie,” Quincy says. “Just because he’s always charming to you doesn’t mean he’s charming to everyone. Honestly, I thought Bea could do better when I heard she hooked up with Jake, but I imagine when you’re used to taking care of everyone around you, even breadcrumbs of affection feel like riches.”
Aileen is refilling water glasses at the next table.
Tank is glowering at me.
And I’m uncertain what to say in response.
Lana didn’t mention goldfish.
Which I most definitely need to not say out loud.
“Oh, you didn’t know,” Quincy whispers to me.
“Didn’t I? Or am I merely curious if you’re getting the story right?” I smile, quite proud of myself for making sense.
Bubbly.
Bubbly makes me tipsy faster.
His mouth forms an O. “Oh my god, is there more to the story? Tell me. Tell menow.”
I attempt to lift my brows in asorry, mate, not for me to sharelook that I’ve found most gossips understand.
It’s apparently a universal enough expression that Quincy gets it too.
He softly slaps a hand on the table. “What if I told you everything I know about the house you’re living in? It’s a good story. And you should know to watch out for what happens in the shed during a full moon.”
“Nothing happens in the shed during a full moon,” his partner says.
“That ghost was real, Wendell. I saw it myself.”
“That ghost was Logan Camille taking advantage of you being drunk because he liked picking on people who were smaller than he was.”
