“Yeah, no problem. I’ll walk you to your Uber.”
My hand was still on Kyle’s arm. The message couldn’t have been clearer. Ben surveyed Kyle again, who straightened almost imperceptibly. Ben swallowed, his Adam’s apple moving in his throat. “Right. Okay. I guess I’ll see where my friends went.”
I felt a surprising flash of regret, then remembered Alexis, who was likely sobbing in a stranger’s Honda Civic, on her way to my house. There was no time to keep messing around with tequila shots and memories that I was better off leaving for dead, anyway.
So I did something I’d done before. Something that should feel familiar to Ben by now. And I didn’t even think about how it was a repeat of history—a re-slash of an old wound—until I woke abruptly at 5:00 a.m. alone in my bed, covered in sweat but also somehow shivering.
I took another man’s hand and walked out of the bar, leaving Ben behind.
5
Mature Adults
I might as well retire, because I was standing outside the men’s bathroom at the Antonio Camarillo Convention Center, staring at the best PR idea I would ever have in my life.
Ben glared at me with the heat of a thousand suns, a look that very clearly said,I wish you nothing but pain and misery for all of your days. I was riding a professional high, and the fact that he was sinking to what I assumed was a new professional low made it all the sweeter.
“I will never forgive you,” he said, adjusting his long, red gloves. “This is somehow even worse than what I imagined when I pictured working with you.”
I clucked my tongue. “This is why you shouldn’t bet against me.”
I’d gotten the idea from Daisy David, actually, so I should probably send her a thank-you note. I’d cashed in my tequila-contest-win blank check for the promise that Ben would attend the first event on our Green Machine campaign trail—the Comic-Con in Senator Janus’s district—dressed as Captain Planet. Let’s just say it was probably not the noble start to his Texas political career he’d imagined.
Ben looked down at himself despairingly. “This is practically pornographic. How is this a character from a children’s cartoon?”
I had to admit I’d forgotten how scantily clad Captain Planet was. Other than a little red crop top, he was basically wearing granny panties and knee-high red boots. It was a look oddly reminiscent of certain bachelorette trends I’d noticed lately on Rainey Street. Granted, Ben’s costume was a full-body foam one that gave him Captain Planet’s blue skin and endless cartoon muscles, but the overall package was still mighty suggestive.
I think my favorite part was the teal mullet.
“I will not rest until I pay you back,” Ben promised, lifting the heavy box of glossy pamphlets—a concise explainer on the bill I was very proud of writing—out of my hands.
“I don’t see why you’re complaining.” I flipped through the blank pages of our petition. All that beautiful real estate, ready to be filled with signatures. “This is Comic-Con.”
I started walking and gestured for Ben to follow. Which he did reluctantly, folding his arms over his midsection in a move that reminded me of junior high, when I’d suddenly filled out and had tried in vain to hide myself every time I had to perform in my dance uniform on the football field.
“Everyone here is wearing costumes,” I said. “You’ll fit right in.”
We made it to the end of the hallway and turned the corner to face the main convention space. The sheer buzzing volume of thousands of people milling around, going from booth to booth, taking pictures and signing autographs, was dizzying. Abilene’s Comic-Con was a huge draw for the district, bringing in people from all over the state and lots of tourist dollars. Practically everyone in Abilene attended, too, making it the perfect place to start gathering signatures and spreading the word about the Green Machine bill.
As I’d promised, a solid 60 percent of attendees were dressed in some manner of science fiction or fantasy get-up. But from the look on Ben’s face, solidarity did not dull the sting of indignity.
“Think of it this way—you dressed as Captain Planet is the single best advertisement we could ever have for the bill. No one wants to hear a bunch of suits drone on about Senate Bill 3 at a comic convention. They want to hear how they’re going to help save the world with Captain Planet.”
Ben shot me a bloodcurdling look. Facial expressions aside, he was being awfully quiet.
“You know it’s true. You’re just upset to discover I’m an evil genius.”
We walked through the crowd, passing She-Ra andStar Warsbooths. I spied Doctor Whos, Ewoks, Hulks, Captain Jack Sparrows, and what I assumed—hoped—was Severus Snape, and not someone with a truly unfortunate personal aesthetic.
I elbowed Captain Planet. “Go on. Get out there and sell our bill.”
Ben narrowed his eyes at me, sucked in a breath and then spun to a group of young men. “Hey, Planeteers! Do you want to take on the evil scum of pollution and save the world, just through a little political action?”
Oh.Ben was usingthe voice. He was committing to his character 100 percent, like they teach you in improv.
I slapped a hand over my mouth to keep my hyena laugh inside.
“Cool.” One of the guys, whose sporadic beard growth marked him as likely early twenties, nodded vigorously. “Captain Planetwas my favorite. Such a throwback.”
