Funny Feelings (52)

“Fee. Do you have any more of those s’mores bars things?” he asks urgently, like they’re an essential life saving tool he needs, his tone making me sit up straighter.

“No, why? I just gave you a tray of them two days ago! What’s wrong?”

“Your house is on my way back, and I’m going to eat the god damn hat floating around in my car if I don’t eat something soon. I gotta eat!” he declares vehemently.

“Okay, sir, dial it back. I’ll remind you that I have tried to give you the recipe for those bars, many times. It’s just one I found on the internet, not some generational memento passed down from my hillbilly camp-loving ancestors or something. It’s s’mores, not exactly baked Alaska.”

“I just need to eat something. And I’ll remind you, again, they didn’t turn out the same!” he whines. Actually whines.

“Jesus, My. I’m about to start Survivor. These people get a bag of rice and are stoked. I think you’re being dramatic.” I hold the phone away from my face so I can smother an evil laugh.

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.” And then he hangs up.

In five, he Cosmo Kramer’s through my door like a man possessed, his glare narrowing in on me before he stomps toward me in the kitchen.

“Why are you all dressed up?” I accuse. “Where did you just come from?”

“A dinner thing.”

“A dinner for what?”

“For the finale of Funnybones.”

“A dinner celebrating you and your show?! Why didn’t you tell me?!”

“Fee, I’m dying here. What do you have as far as snacks?” he rips open the refrigerator. “Aha. Yyyes, fuck me up with some mozzarella,” he exclaims, grabbing the bag like a prize. “And it really wasn’t a big deal.”

It was a big enough deal for him to get dressed up. A blue jacket blazer thing over a crisp white button down, with matching indigo dress pants that hug his truly spectacular ass.

“What’re you making?” he asks around a mouthful.

“I’m making your stupid s’mores things,” I grumble. They’re a pain at every step and are incredibly messy, though I love how much he loves them. So much that I’ve long-conned him and made him dependent on me for them, only ever giving him the recipe sans one ingredient or two. I claim to not know which recipe I used originally, but I know. I blended a few of them.

“Good, I’m going to watch you make them,” he says, before he reaches into the cheese bag again and pinches a handful.

“Get your hands out of my cheese, you animal! At least get a bowl!” I demand. He dips his head back, showing off the column of his throat as he drops some in his mouth. “And no, I don’t need you hovering while I make them.”

“You mad at me or something?”

“I mean, I wish you would’ve told me about your dinner. I would’ve wanted to celebrate you too,” I admit.

“I was a cowriter. It wasn’t about me at all, Fee. It was for everybody.” His eyes widen when he realizes what he’s said.

I carefully set down the rolling pin that I’m using to painstakingly fine-crush graham crackers and drag my eyes to him. “Does that mean the cast was there too?”

“Fee…”

“Meyer. Did you deny me my one chance to meet Dermot Mulroney?!”

“Fee…”

“And then you come here, begging me for treats?! Nah-ah.” I set everything aside and go walk to the couch haughtily.

I hear him sigh behind me and zip up the cheese. “Jones, I’m sorry. Would you believe me if I told you it was because I don’t want to share you?”

I scoff, even though the statement fills me with a frothy, bubbly feeling. “Meyer, I stand in front of hundreds of people for a living and wax poetically about my innermost thoughts. I quite literally share myself with whoever cares to listen.” I glare at him over my shoulder.

“Exactly. Maybe I just don’t want anyone else interested in you… or your s’mores bars,” he says lightly, trying to pacify me, pouting his lips and lifting his eyebrows in a forgive me I’m a cute man-baby sort of way.

He’s the first to relent with a sigh, “I’m sorry, Jones.”

“I don’t believe you, Harrigan.”

He walks around to stand between me and the TV. He’s ditched the jacket somewhere and starts rolling up the ends of his shirt sleeves, exposing miles of well-developed forearms, my eyelids peeling further and further apart with each inch. I bet I could swing from those if he’d let me. I swallow and try turning up the volume to distract myself. Remind myself to blink.

He thwarts my efforts when he steps in every direction I try to lean, blocking my view until I give up, turn it off and lift an eyebrow his way. I catch the wisp of a smirk, but he smartly flattens it and puts on an earnest face, hands on his hips.

“I mean it. I didn’t think. I didn’t even want to stay long and I think I assume that everyone else is miserable at those things like I am. I should’ve invited you, and I promise I will next time. Maybe then I won’t be so miserable. I’m sorry, Farley Amalie Jones.”

I make a sound in the back of my throat. “Don’t use my middle name, that’s cheating.” It makes me feel all feminine and lovely, which makes the reptilian part of my brain want to follow it up with a burp.