Funny Feelings (34)

“Sorry. Again,” he says, taking a step back, plate of food held up like an offering.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have implied that things weren’t going well so you should just kiss me, I shouldn’t have manipulated you like that, and then I shouldn’t have…um.” My god, I am blushing, I can feel it. I have simulated doggy-style on a stage in front of a crowd and this god damn conversation about a kiss is making me blush. “Well, it was a good kiss,” I shrug, the words coming out too quickly and too close together. I can’t apologize for it in earnest because it was good and I’m not ignorant. He was enjoying himself just fine.

His expression cracks, the laugh lighting up everything about his face and pulling my eyes to his. I automatically start to laugh back. “It was a fucking great kiss, Fee,” he replies, his eyes landing on my mouth and heating.

Not willing to risk the buzz making me misread the moment, I take the plate of food and thank him, shakily. We head back out to the party, the smells of barbecue and pies perfuming the air.

Meyer was recognized by a few of the guests earlier, and I now catch one of the grandsons taking a picture with his phone in my peripheral.

“Meyer—just a heads up, that kid over there has snapped a few pictures of you.”

“Fee, it’s you too, not just me,” he smiles down at me and we find our spots at the end of a picnic table.

“No chance.”

“Absolutely a chance. I overheard him talking about it.” His eyebrows pinch even though he smiles, like he can’t understand how I don’t realize this.

I don’t manage a reply, not sure how I feel. I focus instead on getting food in my system to counteract some of my reckless decisions.

Glasses clink around us, then, a tinkling sound that gathers and grows. Abel walks over, ruddy-faced from indulging himself and raises his glass at Meyer. “Tell us the story of how you met.”

Meyer’s eyes skitter across the crowd, as cheers and encouragements go up in the air. “No, no. I couldn’t. This is your celebration, Abel,” he says.

“Nonsense. We already know our own story. We want to know yours.” Abel replies.

I work to swallow my bite quickly and put my palm on Meyer’s arm. “I always tell the story better, My, why don’t I?” He lets out a breath through his nose and nods in thanks, eyes speaking volumes.

“Well alright then, stand up so we can all hear you,” Abel booms. Meyer slides off the bench and holds out his palm to me, jaw working. I stand up alongside him.

He looks down at me, his eyes never leaving, and all I can manage is to tell the truth. I can’t come up with much else with the weight of his gaze and the feeling of his palm at my hip, tucked into his side this way. I embellish some parts, saying things that apply to our friendship but read like they apply to love in this case. Things like, “and that’s when I knew I’d charmed him and he’d never be rid of me.” Or, “he was pretty standoffish at first, but he kept coming around.”

The glasses start clinking again, spoons tap dancing against them when I’m finished. So, I look up to his fierce frown, reach up on my toes and peck his lips. They soften just so to mine, just enough to give the people what they want.

“Thank you,” he huffs against my ear.

“I’ve got you. Always.”

“You do. I’ve got you too.”





14





18 MONTHS AGO





“Just because nobody complains doesn’t mean all parachutes are perfect.” - Benny Hill





FARLEY


The energy in the club is frenetic. There are pub tables littered throughout the dingy room, but not a seat to be found. Shoulders are rubbing like flint and steel, tempers rising. The air is stale, smelling like cigarettes in spite of the fact that it hasn’t been legal to smoke inside here for decades. Someone is shoved and it dominoes through the crowd, the sound of a bottle breaking crashes. Shouts of “Where the fuck is this guy?” and “We want our money back!” are slung out in various forms.

“Meyer. Should I just go out there? This place is about to blow.”

“No, Tweed is supposed to go out first and warm up the crowd. You shouldn’t have to. It’s not your set.” No, shit. But Tweed is nowhere to be found and is thirty minutes behind schedule. This is a paid gig, in Vegas, of all places—my first out-of-state event. These people paid for a group of comedians tonight, not just for me.

Just then, the MC of the night comes barreling around the corner backstage, his face pinching when his eyes find us. “We’ve got a slight problem, guys.” He says.

“No shit, Ralph, where is this kid?” Meyer barks. I struggle not to roll my eyes at him calling the guy a kid, even though Tweed’s a couple years older than I am. He’s good, too. Always dresses like a hipster Sherlock Holmes, covered from the neck down in tattoos. His material is mainly just making a parody of himself and the questions and comments he gets over his look, but it’s the perfect opening act. Attention-grabbing and easy.

“He’s not going to make it. He’s nervous.” Ralph replies, and I flinch because I just know that My’s about to shred him.

“He’s nervous?”