As if anyone who purchases a book with that title can simply act normal. If that option were available to me I wouldn’t have memorized every day topics of conversation, like do you have any pets? or I heard it’s supposed to rain soon. Small talk leaves me feeling like I’ve found myself unarmed in the middle of a Nerf gun fight, foam projectiles hitting my face while I wonder why I’m here and where everyone else got a weapon and whether trying to leave would make it worse.
Also, I shouted at Silas through a door earlier because he thinks he can do whatever he wants all the time and rules only apply to other people, and now I have to stand here and hope no one knows that was me, so yes, I feel a little like a rubber band stretched way too far and like I might snap if anyone fucks with me.
At the other end of the table, an older man with gray hair and glasses walks up, looks at the sign, and folds his arm over his chest.
“Is the auction silent, or are the pies silent?” he asks. I have no idea if he’s asking me. Shit. Is he asking me? He’s not—
“They’re both silent, Harold,” a woman says, coming to my rescue and not even realizing it. “Should we bid on the blackberry or the strawberry-rhubarb?”
“Blackberry,” he says, after a moment. The woman frowns. After a moment, she looks at me.
“Which one do you like?” she asks.
I didn’t prepare an answer for this question, and I have no idea why. This is, like, the first question I should have had an answer for, and I’m already blowing it.
I look at her. Then at the pies. Then back at her. I cannot recall ever eating a single pie in my entire life. Oh God.
“They’re both good,” I finally say.
“I can never decide,” she confesses. “I like the blackberry, but the strawberry rhubarb is really something special…”
“Strawberry rhubarb, then,” Harold says, supportively.
“You could bid on both,” I say, even though the back of my neck is starting to prickle with sweat.
“Giving us the hard sell,” Harold says.
“Haha,” I manage.
“Well, you’ve convinced me,” the woman says, grabbing a pen and writing her name and a bid on the two pies. “Not that I needed much convincing, of course, Clara’s pies are always absolutely divine—”
Something snags at my attention. Even though I’m totally focused on this woman and her pie discussion, mind already racing as I try to figure out what I’m supposed to say next, what manner of baked good discourse is the right thing to say, something else pulls me out and away and I’m standing there, blinking behind my glasses, heart thudding as I try to figure out what it was.
“—just offer to trade her a pie for your famous pickled okra,” Harold says. I scan the crowd, listening, mostly focusing.
“But this is for charity,” the woman says. “It’s such a good—”
It’s Evan. He’s standing there, in the middle of the theater floor, staring up at the oversized cardboard thermometer that shows how close the animal shelter is to its annual donation goal. He’s wearing boat shoes and Madras shorts and a polo shirt, collar mercifully unpopped, holding a beer, looking for all the world exactly the same as he did the last time I saw him six months ago.
I thought I had time. Greg, my boss, said he’d be here Monday. I thought I had the weekend to prepare myself, do some breathing exercises, and maybe also set a couple of minor traps in the office we’ll be sharing.
But no. He’s here, holding a beer and staring up at this big thermometer like he owns the whole place, standing there while people flow around him looking entirely unbothered at being a stranger in a strange town.
I wish I hadn’t had a granola bar thirty minutes ago, because my stomach clenches and wobbles. I take a deep breath as that bright, twisty feeling courses through me. My heart thumps. I’m already sweating. I want to hide under this table and also smash through a wall and run three miles, but that would definitely make everyone look at me, so I don’t.
‘Thank you, dear,” the woman says, finally laying the pen down on the table. I think she might have bid on all the pies. I wasn’t paying attention because I was too busy panicking.
“Good,” I say. What? Wrong response. I clear my throat. “Thank you for bidding!”
I wonder if it sounds too much like thank you, forbidding, like I’m telling her she’s forbidding but I’m the only one who thinks that because they walk off, smiling. Opposite them, Evan’s headed my way.
I consider running. Seems cowardly, maybe is cowardly, but I know I’m supposed to be professional with him and I’m unprepared to do that right now. I’m not sure what I am prepared to do, but it’s not smile and say, so glad to see you! Can’t wait to work together!
He steps up to the table. He’s smiling. He looks down at the pies, picks up the ballpoint pen, looks at it like he was hoping for something better. I hold my breath so I feel less like puking.
We look at each other. I’m not speaking first. Fuck that.
“Pies, huh?” he finally says, smiling a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “They any good?”