The Elizas: A Novel(12)

He harrumphs. “It is not a Renaissance Faire. You should check it out. For two weeks in July, there are gladiator events, a soothsayer, a replication of the Oracle at Delphi, a reenactment of Homer’s Odyssey . . .”

“That’s from a completely different time period!”

He frowns. “Well, sure, but we take some creative liberties.”

“And you’re Caesar, huh?” I can so picture him in a toga and with a laurel in his hair. “You like it?”

He juts up his nose. “It’s intense. I get assassinated twenty times in the two-week period. I try to really get into the character, which means every time I go down, it really and truly feels like a death.” He looks at me meaningfully, and for a moment—a very, very brief one—I’m a little bit curious. I wonder if he could possibly think about death as much as I do. I wonder if he likes reading suicide notes as much as I do.

But then I fear I’ve let my gaze linger on him too long, and I avert my eyes. “So, um, what brought you to the Tranquility again?”

“Well, I’m a bit of a celebrity, too,” Desmond says loftily. “Besides being Caesar, I mean. I’m also the second-in-command of marketing for the Los Angeles Comic-Con. I was meeting with my team to strategize for this year’s event. We came up with very important initiatives, like how we’re going to have members of the Umbrella Corp from Resident Evil protect the female cosplayers in case anyone harasses them. Those Umbrella people mean business.”

I have no idea what he’s talking about. I also want to laugh, but I think he’s actually serious. I can picture the poster in Tranquility’s lobby: Comic-Con’s logo, and then instructions directing the attendees to one of the conference rooms on the second floor. “So basically, your whole life is about conventions.”

His eyes dance. “I love conventions. Hopefully, in the future, there will be conventions for everything you’re into. People with the same interests could gather together and unite in their shared devotion to old-timey medicine balls, for instance. Or clock making. Or squirrels.”

“Isn’t that what social media’s for?”

He sighs. “It saddens me how social media has changed the way we interact with one another.”

“So you don’t have an Instagram account, then? No Facebook for the convention?”

“Well, yes. Of course I do. But that’s different. That’s useful.”

“You didn’t by any chance retire to the Shipstead bar after your strategizing?” I ask, deciding to change the subject again, hoping we’ve done enough getting-to-know-you bullshit.

He fiddles with the hair on his chin. “I don’t know the name of the place we went to. What’s it look like?”

“They’re going for a yacht club feel, but it’s more like a down-market cruise ship.”

“Nope, we were in the one that looked like Easter Island.”

I sigh. “I was hoping you could fill in a few blanks for me. Apparently I was at the Shipstead that night.”

“But I thought you didn’t drink.”

“I don’t. Normally.” My brain catches. “How did you know I didn’t drink?”

There’s a small flicker across his lips, practically concealed under his curly mustache. “I think you told me. You were saying all kinds of things when you regained consciousness.” Then he leans in. “So you can’t remember anything?” I shake my head. “That sounds like what happened to our best chariot driver. He got trampled, had a concussion, and he forgot not only what happened that day but the whole two weeks of the ludi circenses. He never got any of it back, poor man.” Desmond looks mournful.

I want to roll my eyes. I have a feeling the Circus Maximus is like what I’ve heard about athletes in the Olympic Village: they’re crammed together in close quarters, dressed in questionable clothing, and they’re all so excited about the pomp and circumstance that they celebrate by having lots and lots of sex. Except that in the Olympic Village, everyone is a hot Olympic athlete, and at the Circus Maximus, most people have day jobs at Best Buy. Still, I appreciate Desmond’s acceptance of my botched memory. He’s the first person I’ve come into contact with who isn’t looking at me and this pool situation like it’s all my doing.

“Well, I’m glad you were able to rescue me,” I say.

“I’m glad, too.” His eyes sparkle. “It’s not every day someone like you falls to the bottom of a pool.”

“I didn’t mean to fall into that pool, you know,” I blurt, before I can help myself.

“I am aware,” he says, without missing a beat. But then he cocks his head and looks at me strangely. “Come again?”

There is a swoop in my stomach, but I decide to tell him. Desmond seems like he’s a lot of things, but I doubt he’ll judge. “I didn’t jump in. And I didn’t accidentally fall in, either.”

Desmond’s brow furrows. An expression slides across his face I can’t quite discern. Alarm, perhaps. A sudden bolt to the brain. “So then you . . .” He trails off. His Adam’s apple bobs.

My heart lurches. “I think someone pushed me. Do you know anything about that?”

He glances over his shoulder. “I don’t . . . I’m not sure. It could have been nothing.”