“Congratulations?” he offers.
“He was so overwhelmed by my good looks that he lost control of a condiment,” Archie says.
“That’s not exactly?—”
“His hand trembled. The syrup flew. It was like something out of a movie.”
“A horror movie,” Jaymee says.
“A romance,” Archie corrects.
“Same thing,” I say, and Archie grins at me.
After we order our drinks and food, Andrew turns to Archie.
“So, how is the post-doc going?”
Archie leans back in his chair and gives a bright smile. “The post-doc is going great. I’ve just been asked to give a guest lecture next term to the postgraduate psychology cohort.”
“What about?”
“The role of absurdist humor in building resilience in neurodivergent children.” He pauses. “I plan to do a live demonstration involving balloon animals.”
I was the one who suggested Archie consider returning to academia in some form.
Archie had initially resisted, but then one day, I came home and he quietly informed me that he had applied to UCL’s psychology department. He planned to study the developmental impact of play and humor on children with social communication difficulties. It’s something that combines his PhD in evolutionary psychology with every single thing he’s learned as Captain Giggles.
His first paper was accepted by theBritish Journal of Developmental Psychologybefore he’d even finished unpacking his office.
My brilliant man is now using his genius to bridge the gap between the lecture hall and the children’s party, and making it look effortless.
Archie continues to talk about his research, his hands moving as he explains something about laughter as a social bonding mechanism in early development. I watch the way the whole table leans in toward him—Jaymee asking sharp questions, Billy looking confused but invested, Andrew nodding. And Vaughn is listening with an expression that borders on pride.
Because this is it. The version of Archie that the world nearly didn’t get to see. The man who can hold a room full of academics spellbound and then make a poodle out of a balloon without breaking stride.
He didn’t choose between Dr. Archibald Mansley and Captain Giggles. He made them the same person.
I don’t say any of this. I just squeeze his hand under the table.
He squeezes back.
The drinks arrive, including a tray of bright-green shots.
“We didn’t get to drink these last year,” Jaymee says, distributing the lethal green liquid. “You got covered with syrup instead. Now it’s time for a redo.”
“What’s actually in this?” Billy asks, sniffing it.
“It’s Davy Jones’s Locker Juice,” Jaymee says. “I didn’t ask questions last year, and I’m not starting now.”
We drink. It tastes the way the fog machine smells.
“Oh god,” Andrew says.
“That’s the worst thing I’ve ever put in my mouth,” Vaughn says.
“Another round?” Archie asks brightly.
“Absolutely not,” Vaughn and I say in unison.
