Beneath the text, there’s an unappetizing photo of what appears to be fried catfish, mozzarella sticks, and onion rings drenched in at least seven different types of sauce. All on one plate.
I think I’d rather eat whatever that monstrosity is for the rest of my life than experience another Saturday afternoon like this. Especially when Barbie lets out her breathy sigh that roughly translates to:I’m about to ruin this guy’s day.
The urge to send her a captcha test and ask her to select all the street signs is strong, but outmatched by my desire to end this unpleasantry between us as quickly as possible. “I’ll circle back?—”
“Carter, do not?—”
“—on this later with any updates. We both don’t need to be here. I got this handled. Go enjoy what’s left of your Saturday.” Without giving her a chance to short-circuit on me, I end the call and welcome the few seconds of peace before she starts pinging me repeatedly in the IMs.
3
BARBIE
SATURDAY, JULY 5TH
“Consideringthe fact that this is thethirdSaturday in a row where we’ve both been called in,” I say, squinting at the monitor to my right. “I think it’s time for you to finally admit the truth.”
“You don’t have to be here,” comes a stony response that brings a slight curve to my lips.
“That’s a funny way of sayingI don’t know what I’m doing,” I reply. “I would have preferredI’m sorryoryou were right, Barbie.”
“I’d ask if you have plans for tonight,” Carter says flatly, “but we both already know the answer to that.”
My eyes roll while I restart the software. Whatever ounce of professionalism left between us died after we were asked to work on the weekends. “Your words would pack a much bigger zing if you weren’t right here in the trenches with me, buddy.”
“Not for long,” he says. “I’m going to make this as quick and painless as possible—Don’t say it.”
“Say what?” I ask, and I have half the inclination to turn on my camera so he can see me blinking in my innocent glory. “Whatever do you mean, Carpal Tunnel Syndrome?”
“How long have you been saving that one?” he asks blandly. I beam something smug at my laptop’s screen. “Anyway, I can’t stay long. I gotta go to the hospital real quick.”
“For your second job?” I whisper under my breath. “Ferrying souls to the underworld?”
“Hey, Barb,” he replies without missing a beat. “What are your thoughts on captcha tests?”
“On what?”
“What about ones and zeroes?”
I stare at his grainy profile picture in confusion.Is that a nickname he wants me to call him by, or is he trying to psych me out? “What’s that supposed to mean, Casserole?”
“Interesting.” Notes of amusement thread his voice. “I would have thought you’d feel right at home with me speaking your language.”
“You’re barely making any sense in English right now,” I mutter, and he huffs out a low, gritty chuckle. “Maybe it is a good thing you’re going to the hospital after all.”
He lets out an obnoxiously long sigh. “If you must know, my mom’s been in the hospital for the past week.”
My smile falters. “What?”
“She’s being discharged today, so I need to?—”
“Wait,” I cut him off. “Are you serious?”
“Why would I joke about this?”
“Are you for real?” I ask, straightening my spine. “She’s been inthe hospitalfor the past week, and you’re only mentioning itnow? Not during any of the B&E meetings with Ed? You’d rather”—I lower my voice to a deep register—“talk about sports, man,than mention the fact that your mother is. In. The. Hospital?”
“I fail to see why I’d bring her up during a call,” he says coolly. “And you’re one to talk. Especially when you’ve never been one to share any details about your life besideshow sunnyit is in Malibu,” he tacks on with a creaky rendition of what I have to assume is his attempt at a vocal fry.
