“I need to talk to you.” His eyes grow wide. “Now.”
Sensing the urgency, I excuse myself from the table and head to a corner where Breaker turns his back from The Beave and traps me between the walls and a collection of watercolor pens for sale.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Just saving you before you make yourself look like a fool.”
“What do you mean?”
“Paper is a journey?” he asks. “Where exactly were you going with that?”
“Well, if you let me finish, you would have seen that I was going pretty far with it. I had an entire diatribe about how it opens humans to new worlds.”
“Yeah, let’s keep the philosophical talk to a minimum. The Beave is not going to want to hear it. She’s on edge. Just keep the talking to a minimum. Okay?”
I glance over Breaker’s shoulder and catch a glimpse of the deep, menacing scowl she’s sporting as she flips through templates. Huh, maybe he’s right.
“Okay, yeah. Maybe she doesn’t want to know how paper is a journey.”
“I can bet my balls on the fact that she doesn’t want to hear it.” He pats my shoulder. “Deep breaths. Don’t ramble for no reason. It shows weakness. Pick out an invite with confidence.”
“I can do that.” I nod. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
We head back to the table, and like the gentleman he is, Breaker holds out my chair for me, and I take a seat. The Beave glances up and asks, “Everything okay?”
“Yes, quite good. Thank you.” I let out a deep breath, and as Breaker takes a seat, I say, “Funny how paper is made, right? I watched this documentary—”
Breaker pops right back up from his seat and says, “Lia, another word.”
Reluctantly, I follow him back to the corner, where I whisper, “What did I do now?”
“How about we try this,” he says, with one hand on my shoulder. “You don’t talk at all.”
“So just sit there in silence with her?”
“Yes.”
“You know I can’t do that. I don’t like silence. I can hear people breathing. It makes me uncomfortable.”
“I know, but your chatting won’t do anything to this situation besides make it worse. So just focus on picking an invite and try not to say much.”
“That seems so cold.”
“This is a cold situation,” Breaker says. “After you burned her heirloom veil in effigy, this is no longer a lovey-dovey time. This is war, and if you don’t want to be pushed around, you’re going to have to hold your head high, shut the fuck up, and pick out what you want.” I go to respond, and he adds, “You know how you are so perplexed by the way Huxley can not say a word but get everything he wants? It’s because he’s silent, and people buckle under the silence. Don’t buckle. Make her buckle.”
“You’re right. Be like Huxley, make her buckle.”
“Precisely. Okay, ready to go back there?” I nod. “And no talk about paper journeys and the mechanics of how it’s made.”
“My lips are sealed,” I say.
“Good.”
We head back to the table, and once again, Breaker holds out my chair for me. “Excuse me, I have to use the restroom. I’ll be right back,” he says right before heading to the back toward the restroom sign.
Okay.
