She makes a sound like a tea kettle about to explode. "This is—you can't—we're at a wedding."
"Which is why I brought additional equipment. Weddings are high-risk environments."
"How are weddings high-risk?"
"Large crowds. Alcohol consumption. Emotional volatility. Open venue with multiple entry points. Inadequate security presence." I tick off each point on my fingers. "And the presence of your ex-partner, who you describe as 'the worst.'"
"I said he was the worst."
"You also said you would rather 'eat glass' than speak to him."
"I was being dramatic."
"You also said he deserves to step on Legos barefoot for the rest of his miserable, pathetic life." I pause, accessing the full memory file. "And that his new girlfriend 'probably thinks Olive Garden is fancy dining.'"
She flushes, color spreading from her neck to her cheeks in a pattern I have learned to recognize as embarrassment. Her fingers twist around her purse strap. "You remember everything I said that night, don't you."
"I was briefed. I remember all the briefings."
"That wasn't a briefing. I was drunk and crying into nachos."
"Tactical intelligence comes from many sources."
She drops her head back against the seat. "I'm going to die. I'm going to die of embarrassment before we even make it inside."
"You will not die. I will not allow it."
"It's a figure of speech."
"I do not understand figures of speech."
"I've noticed."
I unbuckle my seatbelt, scan the parking lot one final time. Clear. "We should proceed. Remaining in the vehicle reduces our tactical advantage."
"Our tactical advantage."
"Correct."
She unbuckles, gathers her purse, checks her reflection in the visor mirror. She has done this three times since we left her apartment. Each time, she makes a small, dissatisfied sound.
"You look acceptable," I tell her.
"Acceptable. Be still my beating heart."
"Your heart rate is elevated. Is this a medical concern?"
"No, Kruk. It's a sarcastic concern." She pinches the bridge of her nose, exhaling slowly through her teeth. "A joke. I was making a joke."
"I do not—" I pause, reviewing the interaction. Analyzing her tone. Cross-referencing with previous similar exchanges.
"Understand sarcasm," she finishes for me, her voice somewhere between resigned and affectionate. "Yeah. I'm definitely getting that now." She reaches for the door handle, then stops, glancing back at me. "This is going to be a very long evening, isn't it?"
"The event is scheduled for four hours. That is the projected duration."
"That's not what I—never mind." She shakes her head, curls bouncing with the movement. "Never mind."
I exit the vehicle. Move around to her side. Open her door before she can do it herself.
