Page 97

MouthyMike: already?

“Yeah.” I give them a smile. It probably looks like shit. “Same time tomorrow.”

I end the show.

“Fuck.”

Becca is still on the couch when I come out, playing on her tablet. Same spot. Some kind of talent show that looks like glorified karaoke muted on TV.

I stand in the hallway for a second, dressed again in a T-shirt and shorts, the spare room dark behind me.

Becca looks up. “Done already?”

I should say something normal. Dead room. Weird night. Guys were annoying. Something like that.

“Wasn’t feeling it.”

She nods like that’s enough.

I sit at the other end of the couch. On TV, someone emotes in silence.

Becca watches with no reaction.

Her tablet is open to some spreadsheet. Becca is good at practical things. She makes lists. Labels leftovers. Pays bills before they become threats.

I used to think that meant she had everything under control. Now I wonder if it only means she knows nobody else will.

“Busy?” I ask.

“Little bit.”

“With what?”

“My budget.”

My budget. Not the budget. Not our budget.

I nod. “Right.”

Silence stretches.

The judges of talent are moving their lips, all bleached white smiles with nothing coming out.

Becca lays the tablet on her lap. “How was the show?”

“Dead.”

“Dead because nobody showed up, or because you didn’t want to be there?”

I look at her.

“Both.”

“Okay.”

“That’s it?”

“What do you want me to say?”