“Don’t worry, Bea. There’s a scheduled Spider-Man discussion.” Holland comes back from the bar, drinks in his hands, and takes Bea’s place across from me.
I wave at Bea and smile at her as she leaves the restaurant. Without our very own chatterbox, the restaurant is quiet. Many other guests have left and it’s mostly sounds from the event in the distance. After a long few seconds, Holland clears his throat.
“These are on me, for the whole box fiasco…” He picks up his glass, tipping it towards me.
“Thanks for the drink and thanks again for finding those. Any idea what happened?” I slide the cider closer.
“It’s a classic tale of someone not checking the boxes in the shipping elevator, waiting to be brought up. Anyone looking for them had to ride the elevator next to them… but never looked at the label.” He grimaces.
“You’re kidding me.” My mouth drops open. “That hurts to hear.”
“Believe me, it hurts to say. And I’m not kidding. That’s why I brought more cider. Those boxes must’ve been passed at least ten times.” He covers his eyes, avoiding eye contact, in dramatic fashion.
“Wow. Brad is sincerely a ding-dong,” I say before taking a sip of the new cider which is just the right amount of cinnamon sweet, like apple pie.
“You’ve been talking to Bea too much.” Holland smirks and takes a drink of his own cider. “I’m glad she called and I was able to help.”
“Ugh, I forgot it was your day off. I’m sorry you had to come in. What’d you do; draw the short straw?” I look at him over my cider glass.
“Quit doing that… saying sorry when it’s not your fault,” he says. Before I have a chance to respond, he continues. “I sort of run the lodge.” His voice is so nonchalant. “Plus, I’m local and the usual go-to person for things like this. I live close by.” He runs a hand through his hair, dark and still doing the swoop thing you only read about.
Doesn’t seem like he’s going to give me much more than that.
“Ah, okay.” I nod in understanding. “Well, thanks again. Not sure what I would’ve done.” I know damn well what I would’ve done, which is panic. Well, panic even more. The anxiety would’ve been so heavy it’d last for days.
I need to change the subject.
“Believe it or not, I’m sick to death of thinking or talking about those boxes. Let’s get to the main event… defend your Spider-Man… and go.” I drumroll my hands on the table and Holland dramatically sucks in a breath.
“With all due respect, Andrew Garfield walked so Tom Holland could run. He’s the superior Spider-Man.” He leans back in his chair like there’s simply no other explanation, with his hands behind his head. His muscles make parts of his shirt tight.
“That’s not much of a defense.” I lift my hands off the table with a but-that’s-none-of-my-business expression. “Tom Holland is the best Spider- Man and also has the strongest Aunt May and funniest M.J.”
“I speak the truth and also the facts. No need to defend.” He lays it on thick with a smug laugh. “We can both agree that Tobey isn’t at the top of our respective lists.”
“Agreed.” We tap our glasses together for a cheers.
“What are your thoughts on Tobey?” I prompt him.
“He crawled through the end of his franchise,” he says, eyebrows raised. “Tobey did the best with what he had.”
We sit across from each other, drinking local cider, highlighting the merits and traits of our favorite Spider-Man.
I look around the restaurant and see Holland and I are the only ones left. The bartender has cleaned up the tables, put the chairs up, and is on his way out with a wave to Holland.
“Ivyyy,” a voice squawks from somewhere close. The door to the outdoor seating area is open and there’s Royce, in all his glory, clearly having had too many drinks. He’s got a woman on his arm—one of his clients—who also looks like she’s hadallthe cocktails.
“Closing it down, I see. Looks like the networking was a success.” I force a smile.
“Yesss… not like when Jack is around, but it was a blast.” He looks down at the woman on his arm. My stomach turns because this is kind of inappropriate and another somewhat gross interaction to add to the list. “Stacy here knows Jack reaaaal well,” he slurs.
My mouth is dry. The nausea is back.
Royce looks at Holland and back to the woman, who I’m guessing is Stacy, and stumbles, “You know, our girl, Ivy almost had a really bad day yesterday. Almost lost the entire reason for her and her company to be at this event! Would’ve been a mess.” He stammers his words, bookended with drunk giggles, but they pack a punch, nonetheless.
Extra cringe points are awarded for the “our girl, Ivy” comment.
Not sure what to do, I manage a nervous laugh, and stare at my almost empty cider. Each word made me shrink further into the booth. I feel like I’m almost eye level with the table.
