“It was and they were great, but nothing compares to?—”
Lola doesn’t let me finish the thought before she teases, “Treachery’s Riot, we know, you obsessed freak.”
“I’m not obsessed; they have fans who full-on physically stalk them, especially the lead singer, Raven. Like breaking into tour buses or bribing security guards to try to get backstage type of high-level stalking. I’m harmless, all my crazy stays locked up tight here.” I tap my temple.
“Oh, you mean like imagining Ken was Raven while you were fucking so you could cross the finish line?” Lola quietly whispers in my ear before bumping my hip with hers and walking away.
“That’s the last time I get drunk and confide in you, Lo,” I say with my back to her, as I stir in sugar and toss the spoon in the sink. “Besides, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”
She snorts a laugh, and it sounds like agreement. “Ain’t that the truth.”
Spinning around, I lean against the counter and take a sip. “Can you blame me, though? I mean, have you seen the man?”
“No,” she deadpans. “And neither have you.The dude literally wears a mask.”
“Yeah, but you know the face matches the rest of the package. And the rest of the package is fucking hot.” I’m a highly rational person, and what I just said makes no sense; but that doesn’t stop me from believing it.
“Did you see Reddit is blowing up with theories that Treachery’s Riot called it quits?” Benji asks before setting his spoon aside and drinking the remaining milk from the bowl.
“No blasphemy before I finish my coffee,” I chastise, take another sip, and then add, “I think their breakup would hurt me more than my own.” I meant to say it as a joke, but it’s too early to think about how true it probably is.
Lola has parked herself in a barstool next to Benji, and they’re both looking at his cell on the counter between them. She taps the screen a few times. “Aww.” She’s wearing that pouty frown she always pairs with overly sweet declarations. “Miguel commented on last night’s post already. She says Pedro Pascal, the Siamese, loves the close-up of the guitarist’s ass.”
“Shut up.” It comes out as a laugh because I can’t help myself. “There is no photo of his ass.”
“My bad, I meant hands.”
When I look at Benji, he’s shaking his head, unamused. “Miguel is too nice to catfish anyone, Mom. He’s totally a fifty-something, Brazilian, cis man who likes dogs, not cats.”
“How do you know?” Lola asks.
Benji sighs like only teenagers can. “Because I looked at his profile years ago when he started following Aunt Soph, and I keep an eye on him. He’s consistent, and his interactions are genuine. He’s not a bot or a troll.”
Lola shakes her head in denial, both at the information and the fact that she didn’t think of doing it first. She’s far from social media savvy, a fact she’ll never accept. “A-plus for online safety, mini-parent, but you’ve completely ruined my fun.”
“He has gray hair, a black lab named Selma Hayek, and occasionally posts photos with his wife Juliana,” he confirms.
“I’ll never believe it,” Lola mutters before scrolling through the remaining comments, of which there are three.
I’m bent over the counter on the other side of the island, reading the comments upside down.
sãopaulomiguelI can practically hear the music through these photos. Truly wonderful.
BenjiBenjiBenji@ThickerThanWaterTheBand Check this out! #ThickerThanWater
TrudyandJohnSampsonInteresting, but perhaps these would look better in color?
goodguysfinishfirst_sometimesYou have an unbelievable eye. Love these.
Lola laughs. “I see Aunt Trudy’s being a twat again.”
I smile because if she wasn’t being a twat, we’d have to start worrying something was wrong. “Always doggedly and relentlessly complimentary, that one.”
“Who’s good guys finish first sometimes?” Benji asks, looking up at me.
I shrug. I don’t know.
Lola taps on the screen name to bring up his profile.
