The Music of What Happens(43)

Especially after the text I just got.

Kayla: OMG he likes you! Totes adorbs

Pam: Totally. You need to jump on that now.

Kayla: If you don’t, I will transition and jump on that. That boy is yummy!

Pam: He’s out of your league, K

Kayla: Fuck you bitch

Finally I interject.

Me: Wives. You are interrupting my date

Me: OMG OMG am I on a date?!?!?!?

Me: I am drunk on Max

Me: He could NOT like me. Right?

Me: Right?

Kayla: He’s yours, baby. Just stop making weird jokes about codgers or whatever. I think he’s pretending cause that shit is so not funny at all

I respond with a meme of this angry-looking woman giving the viewer the finger, and I put away my phone and turn off the volume. Max is forking up some sweet corn that is drowning in butter. “How come I think that’s about me?”

I roll my eyes. “Oh my God you are so full of yourself.”

He gives me a charity Guy Smiley smile, and then he speaks while chewing. “You gonna touch your food?”

The truth is I’m afraid to. I’m afraid I’ll look like, well, him. Which is funny because I totally don’t care that he looks like a chicken predator, like some sort of feral wolf who has just made a kill. I just don’t think it would be such a good look on me.

“Eat something. You’ll blow away,” he says, taking a sip of his purple Kool-Aid. I have a blue one. This must be about the fifth sugary drink we’ve had today. I freakin’ adore today. I take a sip and imagine how stupid my tongue and lips must look. Purple looks good on Max.

“I prefer to drink my meals,” I say.

He cracks up. “We’re definitely on a sugar binge. Sugar is our crack.”

I pretend to be high off my ass, swaying incoherently back and forth. My elbow knocks into my blue Kool-Aid and almost spills it. Max cracks up again.

“You’re like, getting high to forget your pains.”

“Hell yeah I am,” I say.

“What ails you?”

“Well, I guess the whole I’m-about-to-be-homeless thing, maybe?”

He nods his head. “That makes sense. Though we’re doing pretty good, aren’t we?”

“I guess so,” I say. “What ails you?”

He shrugs. “Nothing. I just like sugar. And fried.”

I laugh, and he puts an entire fried chicken leg into his mouth. It comes back out a mere bone, stripped of crust and meat. I look down at my plate. There’s a breast, a wing, and a waffle underneath. I tried to order a chicken tenders basket, but Max immediately looked at the waitress, shook his head, and said, “Sheeda’s Special.” I was like, Huh? But he sent the waitress off and promised me.

“Chicken on the bone,” he said. “It’s more tender. More delicious.”

I’ve actually never eaten chicken on the bone. I like the tenders, because I can pretend that the meat comes from a lab or something. The bones are a little primeval for my taste.

I stare down at what used to be the wing and breast of an actual bird, take a deep breath, and pick up my knife and fork. Max literally reaches across the table and knocks the knife out of my hand.

“Whoa,” I say. “That could have fallen on my leg and chopped it in half.”

“It’s a butter knife, dude,” he says. “Pick it up with your hands.”

I screw up my face at him. This feels wrong. I just want to slice off a piece. “Can’t I —”

“Pick it up with your hands,” he repeats. “Trust me.”

I’ve done a lot of new things today. Introduce a boy to my wives, go out into the desert when it’s a hundred and twenty to hunt prickly pears, operate a grill by myself. All in all, it’s been the best day of my life. I take a deep breath. I pick up the breast, bring it to eye level, and smell it. Man, does it smell good. The crust is golden brown, flaky. I bite down. My teeth break through the crust and into the flesh, which is hot and juicy, and immediately the juice sprays my upper gums and then down onto my tongue.

“Oh my God,” I say, even though my mouth is full.

Max beams at me. “Right?”

As I chew, the warm liquid — is it frying oil? Is it chicken juice? Why don’t I care? — fills my entire mouth. “Food of the gods!” I exclaim, chewing.

“Yes.”

I pause to enjoy the experience, and once I swallow, I say, “How did I not know about this? That chicken fingers are, like, starter chicken. Is it a different animal?”

He cracks up. “Better on the bone,” he repeats, and something about the way he says it is so freakin’ sexy, and first I avert my eyes. And then I sneak a peek back at him, and his eyes are staring right into mine. My heart pulses and my cheeks heat up. I hold his gaze. It is the visual equivalent of a mouth full of perfect, fried, on-the-bone chicken.

“So now we do something you want to do,” Max says, and I laugh, because, like, what do I like to do? This, obviously. But before Max, all I tended to do was stuff with my wives, and a lot of that was mall-related. Plus it’s eleven at night, and I should be home by now. If I had a mother who noticed things, I should have been home hours ago.

Fuck it. I don’t want the best day ever to end, so I rack my mind for any semblance of a fun idea. It makes me think of hooligan do-gooders. Which, when I tried to explain it to Pam the first time, she said, and I quote, “Flat-out no.”