Rayne & Delilah's Midnite Matinee(30)

“Never been afraid of commitment.”

“Clearly.” Slick little plug for yourself, by the way, Mr. Vargas. “How did you get into martial arts?”

“My whole family used to watch reruns of Walker, Texas Ranger. And I loved it when Walker would kick butt.”

“As opposed to what? When Walker would hold forth on quantum physics? When he would write haikus? When he would interpret Bach on the harpsichord? That show is an infomercial for Chuck Norris kicking people through plate-glass windows in slow motion.”

“So you’ve seen it.”

“Have you not learned yet that my having seen something does not speak well for the quality of it? Yes, I’ve seen it. It’s bad even by my standards.”

“I mean, it’s not gonna win any Oscars, for sure.”

“For multiple reasons. First off, it’s not on the air anymore. Second, TV shows aren’t eligible for Oscars; they’re eligible for Emmys. And third, there’s no Emmy category for Best TV Show That Exists Solely to Show the Protagonist Kicking People Comically High into the Air.”

“That didn’t happen that much.”

“I’ve seen two episodes, and it happened on both.”

Lawson looks over the set. “You got everything? We good in here?”

“I think so.”

We start walking toward the door. Arliss would probably love it if we were gone when he returned.

We’re halfway to the door when I realize I don’t have my phone. There are no pockets on my gown, so I’m always misplacing it on set. “Gah.”

“What?”

“My phone.”

“Lost it?”

“Yeah. You have my number in your phone?”

“Yep.”

“Call it for me.”

I walk back into the studio as Lawson dials. There’s a buzzing on the floor behind some of the chairs used for studio audiences. I guess I set it on one of those chairs and it fell behind. I pick it up and answer. “Pizza Trough. What kind of pizza do you want?”

Lawson doesn’t miss a beat. “Wow, I don’t know, what kind of pizza do you have?”

“We’re featuring our new Poultry Lover’s pizza.”

“Oh, tell me about that.”

“It’s a pizza piled high with succulent chicken, duck, turkey, goose…What’s another kind of bird?”

“Pheasant.”

“And pheasant. With a scrambled egg–stuffed crust and a zesty egg yolk dipping sauce.”

“Huh. I like all those things, and yet that pizza sounds weird and gross.”

“Did I mention that the crust is made out of pancake?” I start to walk back toward the door.

“Wait,” Lawson says. “Stop walking but don’t hang up. I wanna ask you something.”

I stop. “Depends on if we’re still pretending I’m a representative of Pizza Trough.”

He laughs, a jitter in it. “No. I was gonna ask you over the phone because I’m nervous and I hadn’t planned on doing this. I have a fight next Saturday night, and I was wondering if you wanted to come?”

“I can actually hear you speaking right now even if I hold the phone away from my ear.”

“I know.”

“Next time you want to ask me something like this, we should put a blindfold on you. Same thing,” I say.

“I swear it’s easier for me this way.”

“You had no trouble asking me to dinner last week.”

“This is different.”

“You seem less scared about actually engaging in hand-to-hand combat than me watching.”

“Yeah.”

“Normally Delia and I use Saturday nights to get ready for next week’s show.” I get ready to really lean on this as an excuse, but then…I don’t feel like it.

“It’s cool if you can’t make it.” His voice contains equal parts disappointment and relief.

“But we could do show prep another night.”

“Awesome. I’ll text you where it’s at.” He sounds like he’s speaking through a smile.

And just to be a butthead: “I like your new clothes. They look sharp.”

“What? No. I’ve had them for a while.”

“No, you have not.”

“Have!”

“You just got them.”

“No.”

“You sound really busted right now. Why would you be weird about clothes being new if they weren’t new?”

“Okay, fine. They’re new.”

“So let’s try this again.” Now I’m speaking through a smile. “I like your new clothes.”

“Thanks. I maybe hoped you would.”

“I know.”





I wedge the bin into the back seat of Josie’s car. I figure Josie and Lawson will be along shortly, so I pull out my phone and call my mom to see if she wants me to stop and pick up something for dinner.

“Hello?” Her voice is thick and woolly with sleep. That ain’t good.

“Mom? Are you at work? Why do you sound like you just woke up?”

“What time is it?”

“Seven-thirty. At night.”