She sent me a wry smile. “He is about to.”
The man spoke, and she was right. He lied.
I looked at her. “You knew.”
“I always know. It’s a talent of mine.” Zoey licked more ice cream off her spoon, and I tracked the movement of her tongue. “Here it comes.”
I blinked and turned my attention back to the screen. “What?”
“The revisionist history.”
The man began rewriting the timeline in real time.
I looked at her, one eyebrow raised. “You predicted that.”
“I always do.” She pointed her spoon at the television, dangerously close to slinging melted mint across the couch. “Observe the deflection.”
“I’m observing.”
“He’s not answering the question. He’s reframing it so she feels unreasonable for asking.”
“It’s a strategic move,” I said.
“That’s cowardly.”
She leaned forward further, intent, the line of her neck exposed again, her focus absolute.
I studied the screen, then her. “How do you know what’s coming?”
She gave me a sideways look. “Pattern recognition.”
“From experience?”
“From existing in the world.”
She was animated and completely invested in the drama unraveling on the screen. Her hair had slipped over one shoulder at some point, and she didn’t fix it. Her fingers curled loosely around the spoon as she gestured, punctuating her argument about narrative manipulation and fragile masculinity, but I barely heard a word. I was too fascinated by her.
Her knuckles brushed my thigh absentmindedly. She didn’t even notice it, but I did.
“This is not about the fiancée,” she continued, leaning closer to the screen. “This is about power.”
“Everything is about power,” I said.
She stilled for a fraction of a second, then narrowed her eyes at me. “That was an ominous thing to say.”
“Maybe I’m jaded.”
Her mouth twitched at that, and I could see she was cataloging that and filing it away somewhere.
On screen, a drink went flying across the table in a dramatic arc.
Zoey gasped, delighted.
“That is assault,” I said.
“Assault makes for quality television.”
From the back of the couch, Markie yelled, “PROSTITUTION WHORE.”
