“What shit?” I asked while debating if I should just leave Paul outside. Then I remembered he had a key. Which didn’t explain why he wasn’t using it. He was a mystery wrapped in a candy-coated shell, my Paul was.
“Sandy! I will break this door down, I swear to god! Okay, now your neighbor across the street is staring at me funny. Let me in before she calls the cops! You know she’s hated me ev
er since Wheels accidentally threw up on her feet that one time. She’ll do anything to get revenge! Wheels! Stop barking at the somewhat nice lady!”
“What shit indeed,” Corey said. “I’m surprised he didn’t charge in here last night after we left the bar. You know. When you conveniently disappeared and then ignored all phone calls and pretended to be asleep when I got home.”
“I was tired,” I said stiffly.
“Really,” Corey said. “That’s what we’re going with.”
“I really have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Funny,” Corey said. “Because Mike and Charlie seemed to think otherwise.”
Uh-oh.
Corey picked up his phone from the table, pointed it at me, and took my picture. “There we go,” he said, looking down at the phone. “I’ve always wanted to have a photo of someone in the middle of a dawning realization tinged with horror. I must admit, it’s sweatier than I thought it’d be.”
“Wheels! You can’t poop there! Vince, grab him before more comes out!”
“You grab him before more comes out!”
“Oh my god,” I moaned, covering my face with my hands. “This is not happening.”
“Oh but it is,” Corey said. “But then, you probably should have expected this to blow up in your face.”
“Wheels! Oh my Christ, what did you eat? An entire bowl of gravy? Vince! Call an exorcist! That has to be the result of demonic possession.”
“You’re pretty much fucked,” Corey said. “I didn’t get to see the intervention you had for Paul back in the day, but you can sure as shit bet I’m going to be a part of this one.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” I hissed at him.
“Watch me.”
“Holy shit,” Paul said. “Vince! I have a key.”
“Uh, yeah,” Vince said through the door. “I know. I just thought you were trying to be overdramatic like you normally are.”
“I’m not overdram—you know what? Never mind. We’re doing this now.”
And the key slid into the lock.
I admit: I gave very serious consideration to running back to my room and escaping through my window. I’d have to go into hiding and probably change my name. I wondered if I could pull off being a Preston Babcock. By the time the front door opened, I’d forgotten to run because I’d been distracted by my new alter ego who would be a mystery writer and pen a series of semisuccessful novels about an elderly woman who solved white-collar crimes like tax fraud and the occasional murder with the help of her pet raccoon Mr. Florida. Preston Babcock would like to drink Earl Grey on cool foggy mornings before he sat down at his typewriter to finish Mrs. Havisham and Mr. Florida and the Mystery of the Corrupted Zoning Board.
So it was a surprise when the door sprang open and Paul Auster stood there, magnificently posed with Wheels in his arms and Vince rolling his eyes behind him, like he was some divine god seeking to hand down judgment upon me. He was also slightly sweaty and wearing a pink Hello Kitty bicycle helmet I’d bought him after Vince had convinced Paul that riding bikes saved lives by protecting the ozone from nocturnal emissions.
“Sanford Stewart!” he bellowed.
“So loud,” Corey murmured, taking another sip of his coffee.
“Look,” I started. “It’s not what you think—” and Vince stood behind him, waving his arms frantically at me, as if trying to tell me that probably wasn’t the best thing to say.
Paul narrowed his eyes at me. “Not what I think? Not what I think? So is it or is it not true that you and Darren Mayne were never really together to begin with?”
“Oh,” I said. “Okay. It’s exactly what you think.”
“You were Freddie Prinze Junioring us the whole time!”