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“See? Harmless.” I don’t tell Mariah about the fake mouse I stuck in his water bottle. The image of him jumping and screaming like a little girl around his big, muscly gym bros sparks so much joy.

We were able to return the bag to his truck and lock the doors with no issue, but now we have to find a way to return his keys behind the till... with him there, and all these witnesses. We hadn’t quite thought this part through.

Our drinks and food show up several minutes later, and I’m happily surprised that the sandwiches are actually really good.

Mariah and I eat off of each other’s plates, me sampling her poutine while she tries my BLT. We seem to forget that we’re in danger of getting caught, falling into a companionable back-and-forth conversation, swapping stories about my experiences on set and wedding drama she’s witnessed. There’s something about spending time with Mariah that feels so natural. I never would have thought after that first day together, where she’d been the world’s biggest grump and seemed irritated by everything I did—including the way I breathed—that we’d be able to move past it. Now I can say with confidence that we’re friends. Sure, I break down everyone eventually, but this is more comfortable than the average co-worker friendship. Perhaps it’s the situation we’ve found ourselves in that’s brought us together when it could have ripped us apart.

One hour and three drinks later, our opportunity finally arrives. A crew of college-age people walk in and head to the bar for Jell-O shots. Mariah and I hunch down, waiting for the right moment. Matt leans over the bar to flirt, but his usual hundred-watt smile has been blackened from the dye in his drink. It’s not enough to deter the young women though, who giggle at whatever he says.

“What do you think he said to them?” Mariah asks, fingernails tapping her glass with an irritated beat.

I scoff, also agitated by him openly flirting with multiple women right in front of us. “Probably something about karma.”

Mariah catches my gaze, a sinister gleam in her eye. “I think it’s time.”

I give her a solemn nod, pull a small remote from my pocket, and press the button.

An obnoxious fart rips from behind the bar. Everyone pauses like they’re in a tableau. Then, the group of women break out in laughter. Matt’s eyes widen in shock and his mouth hangs agape, horrified. He turns bright red, then takes a few steps back, trying to laugh it off. Whatever spell he had on the women has been broken. They take their cheap drinks and leave.

Look at that, we’re already making the world a better place.

Matt ducks down, searching for the fart machine, but can’t seem to find it.

Meanwhile, Mariah and I are dying, trying to stop ourselves from howling with laughter. My belly aches from it, my whole body shaking. Mariah does a little wheezing inhale, which only makes it harder for me to pull myself together. We finally manage to force the giggles away, each wiping at a tear, and prepare ourselves for round two.

Our next opportunity arises about ten minutes later. Another fart rips through the room, echoing off the walls. This time Matt is furious, pulling things off shelves and looking inside cupboards, frazzled beyond belief.

Mariah and I are barely keeping it together, both of us bowed over the table. We manage two more farts before Matt finds the sound machine and inspects it with irritation. He scans the crowd with an angry glare.

“Shit,” I say. “Act natural.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Mariah whispers, not acting naturally at all.

We need to get out of here before she blows our cover. Butbefore we can do that, we have to return Matt’s keys. Unfortunately, he’s now on high alert, eyeing everyone suspiciously. This won’t be easy.

I stroke my beard. “We should have put his keys back first.”

“What are we going to do now?” Mariah can’t keep the panic out of her voice.

I take her hand, assuming my role as badass biker boyfriend. Deepening my voice, I say, “Be cool, honey bunny.” Pocketing the keys, I swagger my way to the bar.

Matt regards me with mild disdain and doesn’t even ask me what I want. Rude.

“Can I have some of those there Jell-O shots?” I drawl.

He nods, then sets a few down on the bar from the bin behind him. “Two dollars.”

I inspect them. “The missus ain’t one much for red. Got any blues?”

He eyes me, and for a second, I think he’s going to recognize me. He has, in fact, stared into these very same eyes while wooing me into bed, naming our future dogs, planning the chicken coop, and filling our imaginary cellar with pickled vegetables from our garden. My stomach clenches as I prepare for a hasty retreat.

Then he sighs, turning back to the bin to retrieve a few blues. “Two dollars.”

I’m equal parts relieved and disappointed that he doesn’t know who I am. Maybe he wasn’t paying as close attention to me as I thought—close attention to my eyes, that is. He paid plenty of attention to other areas of my body.

I was hoping he’d have to go into the fridge to get the blue ones and give me a moment alone with the till, but now I have to think on my feet. While I pretend to fish money out of my wallet, I pause, then squint at him. “You got something going on with your teeth there, bud.”

Matt blinks a few times. Pulling out his phone, he checks his reflection in the camera. “What the... Excuse me.”