Glad that I summoned some gumption, I turn to glance at Elliot and see the hint of a sting in his expression.
Shit. He’s not a stranger to me now. I didn’t mean it that way, but of course I can’t correct myself.
“There you have it. Let’s take something from the back.Chef and Table, yes?”
“What did you eat to sustain yourselves?”
It’s another prepared question, one we knew would be coming. Elliot summons a smile again and fields it. “Berries and violets,” he says. “And excessive seaweed. Plus clams when we were lucky.”
“Elliot is a champion at gathering sea algae,” I add, completing our scripted answer.
Elliot smiles at me and improvises. “Hank found us fiddlehead ferns. They’re delicious. Like asparagus. Nearly worth going back to the island for.”
It gets a laugh from the crowd, and the digression off-script seems okay with the publicist. I turn to Elliot, and when he catches my eyes, I strengthen my focus.
We got this. Over in no time.
“One more from the back,” the publicist says while pointing.
“I’m on our social media right now, and I’ve got to say, people aren’t buying that you’re strangers. What brought Elliot to the casino boat that night in the first place?”
Damn it.
“We’re not…” I try, searching carefully for my words.
Elliot jumps in. “It’s just that… Since Hank first found me stuck on the raft, a lot has happened. And?—”
“Excuse me,” someone up front interrupts. “I thought you both came to investigate an injured bird?”
I lean forward. “That’s correct,” I say, trying to save. “That’s what Elliot means.”
“The bird,” Elliot says quickly, agreeing. “Hank was helping me when he slipped.”
“You slipped,” I correct him.
“Right,” Elliot agrees.
“We’re both quite tired,” I say, my pulse pounding in my ears. “And still recovering. From when I first saved Elliot?—”
“What about Elliot’s connections to radical climate terrorists?” a man with a clipboard asks as he stands suddenly. “We’re supposed to believe there’s no connection between Elliot’s terrorism against oil companies and the fact that Hank personally services major oil and gas accounts?”
“That’s all we have time for,” the publicist says, his voice clipped but friendly. “We promised the doctors that these gentlemen wouldn’t be kept under the bright lights for more than a brief event. If you have further questions, please refer to the informational packets. Thank you!”
The room erupts in commotion while Elliot and I are brought off stage.
“That didn’t go great,” I whisper. I realize I’m sweating.
“Sorry. I think that qualifies as me fucking up,” Elliot whispers back. “But maybe it’s not that bad.”
“No more than inconsequential details,” I offer. It was an honest mistake from Elliot under difficult circumstances, and I don’t want him to beat himself up.
The publicist stops and gives us a look that clearly saysyes, it’s bad,before hurrying away.
I rub my temples. “Shit. I want this all to go away so I can just sleep.”
“I don’t like being called a terrorist, but that guy sounded like he was from some bananas extremist news magazine. No one reasonable will listen to him, and there are already a million confused stories out there.”
“There you are,” Mr. Peterson says, joining us in the small room behind the press conference. “Not what we were looking for, gentlemen.”
