I leaned over. “What did you put?”
“Urine.”
I slowly turned my face toward him. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Urine.”
“You said that with upsetting confidence.”
“It’s right.”
“If you’re wrong, I’m leaving you here with the ferret woman.”
The host clicked his pen against his clipboard. “The answer is urine.”
Easton slid me a look.
I took a slow sip of The Red Flag. “I hate being attracted to you.”
“You love knowledge.”
“Not that knowledge.”
He leaned in. “You look proud.”
“I look nauseated.”
“You’re proud and nauseated.”
“That is unfortunately correct.”
He smiled, and the fact that he smiled without trying to weaponize it, without hiding it, without turning away from me before it got too soft, made something in me ache.
The next few rounds went exactly as badly and beautifully as they should have.
Songs Everyone Lies About Knowing nearly destroyed us because Easton claimed everyone knew the second verse of “Mr. Brightside,” which led to three different tables yelling conflicting lyrics and one man in a Patagonia vest standing on his chair until the host threatened to remove him for “vocal fraud.” Legal or Illegal gave me my moment when the host asked about outdated adultery statutes, and Easton stared at me like I had pulled a knife out of my purse when I wrote the answer before he finished the question.
“You knew that too fast,” he said.
“I contain multitudes.”
“You contain concerns.”
“You’re dating me. Adjust.”
“I’m trying.”
Sports Rules Nobody Understands should have belonged to Easton, but the host asked, “In hockey, what penalty is called when a player uses the shaft of the stick between both hands to hit an opponent?”
I wrote before him.
He looked down at the sheet. “Say it.”
“No.”
“Say it with eye contact.”
“You are not turning cross-checking into foreplay.”
