“Aaron,” I say, repositioning the duffel on my shoulder. “Hi. Listen, there’s been a… a… mishap at my place. A pipe burst. I need somewhere to stay the night. I’d go to a hotel but I’m a little low on funds.”
“Riiiight,” I hear him drawl. “The mysterious mountain of cash on Sue’s desk that you absolutelydidn’thave anything to do with.”
“Uhhhh…” I manage, unable to lie convincingly.
“If you want to cross the bridge to Aaronland, you have to pay the toll,” he chimes.
I inhale sharply through my nose. “Okay, fine. It was me. But you can’t tell Calvin!”
“I knew it!” he shouts into the phone. “It was generous, I’ll give you that. But there is such a thing astoo much, Jude. You laid it on a little thick,andyou were sloppy, doing your handoff at work instead of privately. Sheer luck that video crapped out, or Calvin would have fired you for something like ‘disruptive behavior’ or ‘oversharing’ already.”
“A kid was sick, Aaron. What was I supposed to do?”
“Let Sue figure it out, which she eventually would have,” he says sagely.
“I’m sorry—have you met the American health care system?” I ask acerbically.
“Fair,” Aaron drawls. “Look, don’t get touchy. I’m just worried about you. That was a lot, and now you’re in a pickle. It’s a manageable pickle, but a pickle all the same. Calvin’s watching you like a hawk in Dockers. You could’ve started a GoFundMe, you know, given others a chance to pitch in. It’s not your job to solve everyone else’s problems for them.”
He’s not wrong, and he doesn’t even know how much of a pickle I’m in, what with the company card and Calvin threatening to make me his fall girl. But there’s only so much I can tell him. When it comes to me and my life, the less people know the better. “So can I stay with you now, or are there more truth-or-dare taxes I have to pay?”
“Come on over,” he relents. “I’m texting you the address. I have a couch that’s deeper than the Mariana Trench. You’ll sleep like my grandma on edibles.”
“Thank you,” I say with a sigh of relief. “Be there in twenty.”
When I pull up to his bungalow twenty-four minutes later, Aaron opens the door and greets me. “You’re late.”
I smile. His humor has always been infectious. “I can’t thank you enough for doing this.”
He waves me off as he ushers me inside. “Nonsense. Can’t let the Good Samaritans of the world end up curbside.” He takes my duffel and drops it on his overstuffed sofa. I decided it was safer to leave the painting in the car, just in case.
His eyes glide over me knowingly. “I heard you were hospitalized with food poisoning today. Miracle recovery, I assume.”
I’d forgotten all about Arla’s call to my employer this morning. “Oh yeah, that. I’m, uh, feeling much better.”
“Sure you are.” He grins. “Nothing like a day away from the office to sleep off a hangover.”
I’m not sure what to say. It’s evident by looking at me that I was lying, or Arla, in this case.
Aaron crosses his arms and studies me. “You know, I never pegged you for a night rager, lie-to-the-boss type before. I mean, I always sensed there was more to you than that sad twee vibe, and I like that you laugh at my jokes. But you’ve been such a square peg for so long, I started to think you were in the witness protection program or something.”
“Not exactly,” I reply.
“No,” he says. “I guess not. But there’s something lurking behind your eyes,” he continues, waving two fingers at me as he marches toward the kitchen. “A secret. Abigone.”
When I don’t deny it, he says, “I’m watching you, Clark. Not in a Calvin-the-office-troll sort of way, but I do like a puzzle. You’re human Wordle. I’m intrigued.”
“I’m glad one of us is entertained,” I tell him.
“How many guesses do I get before you gopoof!and disappear?” he asks.
“If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” I tease, which sends him roaring with laughter.
“Nightcap?” he asks from behind the counter, holding up a bottle of birthday cake vodka. “You owe me, remember? You said ‘drinks.’”
“I did.” As he pours, I wave the bottle away. “Aaron, that shit is for twenty-year-olds. You need to get some adult booze.”
He looks up at me. “I don’t drink brown liquor,” he says, “unless it tastes like chocolate.”
