“Three bars,” says Dario.
“I can beat that,” Beau says, eyes squinted and head cocked back.
“Care to put that to the test?” says a man in a formal outfit appearing from behind a sign that says, Try Your Luck! “I represent Record Holders International. I’m happy to oversee any challenge to the official record.”
How much are they paying this official representative of an international organization to hang around the factory museum? It is not even that busy. This must have been one of the many ideas that got floated in meetings right after Cosimo Sr. passed. Dario, too bogged down by his fear of what came next, signed a lot of documents he didn’t read as closely as he should have.
Beau cracks his knuckles, then his neck, and steps toward the table. “Hell, yeah. Let’s do this.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Dario asks, aware of what the quick consumption of chocolate can do to the human body.
“Oh, man. You just made it an even better idea. I’m a bit of a hothead when it comes to people telling me I can’t do something,” Beau says, rubbing his hands together. “I don’t back down from a challenge. You probably didn’t know that I started my band on a dare.”
“Really?” Charlie asks.
“A friend of mine started a band a few years ago, and I went to his gig at this hole-in-the-wall venue where the drinks tasted like toilet water. The band was okay. They needed more practice, and some of their songs sounded like direct rip-offs of other, bigger artists. After the show, he asked what I thought, and I try to be an honest guy. I said, ‘Look, man, congrats. It takes a lot of guts to get up there and do what you just did. Here’s where you might improve…’” Beau says.
Dario and Charlie share a look, both clearly knowing where this story is headed.
Beau adds, “He got real mad, pointed a finger in my face in front of our whole friend group, and said, ‘What do you know? You’re not even a musician. Like you could do better. You can’t even commit to a job.’”
“Harsh,” Charlie says.
“Meh, I’m a career nomad. I’ve been a parasailing instructor, a diamond inspector, a short-order cook, a volunteer fireman, a for-hire sculptor and a limo driver. When I encounter a new challenge, I run toward it and leave everything else behind,” he says.
“Music was the new challenge?” Dario asks.
Beau nods with pride. “The next morning, I went to a secondhand shop, bought a beat-up Martin D-28 and taughtmyself everything I needed to know about music. Luckily, one of my previous challenges was writing poetry and selling a piece to a literary magazine. I had notebooks full of poems, which I turned into lyrics, which I turned into songs. The California Storm Clouds is a challenge that stuck longer than others.”
Dario bristles, afraid he might be another one of Beau’s challenges. Perhaps he’s only here to prove he could woo Dario. He could add “husband of a billionaire” to his overstuffed résumé of accomplishments.
“Now this? I’ve been eating chocolate since I came out of the womb. This will be a piece of cake,” he says, then pauses to correct himself, “This will be a piece ofchocolate. Ha! Four bars of chocolate. I’m going for the gold.”
“There’s no gold. Just a certificate,” the man says.
Beau waves the man on, dons the branded bib and unwraps his loot. Behind the employee is a big stop clock with bold, red numbers that ticks with each blink of the colon.
“I don’t think this is going to end well,” Charlie whispers, leaning in again.
That scent. That voice. It banishes thoughts of Beau’s intentions and gives Dario goose bumps along his arms. A lump forms in his throat. He swallows it back, nauseous for himself and for Beau. “Only time will tell,” he says.
“Your time starts…now!”
Beau’s limbs are a blur. He cracks the bar into quarters and shovels them into his mouth. Bits of chocolate fly into the air, landing on the table, skittering off the edges.
Two bars down, with one and a half to go, Charlie grips Dario’s forearm, ripping his attention away from the unfolding scene. That large hand crawling with tattoos bunching the fabric of his expensive suit jacket makes his heart speed and his cheeks heat.
The representative shouts that time is up. Dario snaps back to Beau, whose mouth and hands are smeared in chocolate. His eyes appear watery, and his brow crinkles like one of the discarded wrappers.
A silver platter swirls in front of Beau. On it are wet wipes and a T-shirt that reads I Tried to Beat a Chocolate-Eating World Record and All I Got Was This T-Shirt… On the back, near the neck, is the Amorina logo.
“Swore I had that,” Beau says, fists balled in apparent frustration. He gets up from the bench too fast and sways. From under the table, the representative produces a black metal bucket right in time. Beau hunches over and vomits into the bin.
Dario and Charlie quickly turn away, shoulders hunched and heads down.
In their tiny huddle of two, their eyes shift toward one another and lock in. Charlie’s clear brown irises capture him, and the faintest trace of a smile confuses him. Until Charlie laughs, low and throaty, broken up by weak apologies. “I don’t—” he hiccups “—mean to laugh, but…”
Dario peers over his shoulder. Beau is escorted out of the museum toward the nurse’s station, holding his own bucket of puke like an extra tragic consolation prize.
