Page 45 of Next Season
Riley drew one knee up and gazed out at the dark, placid lake. “Beautiful.”
“Yes. I don’t come here often enough. It’s a good spot to think and remind myself that we’re all tiny specks of dust in the universe. My troubles are all in my head.” I tapped my temple wryly. “They don’t matter in the grand scheme of things.”
“Your friend is right. The pizza place has good bones. It could be a nice restaurant,” he said carefully.
“I agree. I’ll talk to Nolan and see what he thinks about opening a second eatery. Not a diner, though—an elegant gastronomical extravaganza. Who could say no to such an investment, eh?”
“But if he does?”
I sighed. “I’ll have decisions to make. That’s okay. Change is good for the soul. If you’re not changing, you’re not growing. But…let’s not talk about it anymore tonight. My head is spinning too much. Change the topic for us, please.”
“No problem. What’s with the verynotboring real estate agent? Talk about false advertising,” he huffed. “I thought he was going to be a shifty-eyed, monosyllabic weirdo. Bryson is fucking hot.”
I shot him an irritated sideways glance. “You’re a new queer. Should you be noticing other men already?”
Riley nudged my ribs. “I’d have to be pretty obtuse not to notice him.”
“Hmph.”
“Ahh, I thought so,” he singsonged.
“What does that mean?”
“He’s another ex of yours, isn’t he?”
I rolled my eyes. “No, not an ex, but we did…fool around a couple of times.”
Riley opened his mouth in an exaggerated wide O. The little shit was teasing me and enjoying it. “Ex fuck-buddy? That definitely doesn’t sound boring to me. What happened?”
“Nothing. We had…you know…”
“Sex,” he deadpanned.
“Yeah. A few times. But it wasn’t special. It was just…sex.”
He snickered. “Got it. Still not sure why you’d say he’s boring. Unless that’s a personal defense mechanism to convince yourself he’s not great, even though he’s clearly not so bad.”
“Whatever. You win.” I threw my arms in the air like a white flag. “Bryson is perfect, but perfect is boring. Perfect hair, a perfect body, perfect car, perfect kid, perfect relationship with his ex…how is that fun? I’m mostly joking when I give him a hard time, but I’m also honest, you know?”
“Mmhmm. So basically, you’re attracted to hot messes like me.”
“Yes, that’s it,” I agreed, looping my arm over his shoulder and kissing his cheek.
He buried his face in my neck with a laugh, sighing as he looked out at the water, still leaning against me. “Perfect always backfires on me. I’m getting the idea that it’s better to embrace my flaws.”
“Flaws? You?Qu’est que c’est? What flaws, other than not speaking French, do you have?”
“I understand a little,” he commented defensively. “But…I wasn’t a good student, and I haven’t retained much of my high school French. When did you learn English?”
“I’m still learning,” I replied. “As a kid, I copied what I heard on television. As an adult…it was sink or swim. I picked up necessary phrases so I could communicate with my American teammates. I do okay now, but I struggled a lot in the beginning. My translations were painfully literal.”
“Give me an example.”
“Uh, okay. Easy. If I wanted to tell someone ‘Hold on tight,’ I would say, ‘Attache ta tuque.’ The literal translation is ‘Attach your beanie hat.’” I waited until Riley stopped chuckling and added, “I know you could say ‘Hold on to your hat,’ but you begin with what you know, so in my head, I’d say it in Quebecois and translate to English. I was sledding with my American teammates down a steep hillside on what was supposedly a day of bonding. The snow was icy and slick. It was dangerous, and I could see the toboggan in front of us keeling to one side. So when it was our turn to go, I yelled, ‘Attach your tuque!’”
Riley hooted. “I love it. What did they say?”
“They laughed. The joke is that they were from California and no one knew what a tuque was, so it took forever to explain that a tuque is a beanie and…aye, too much work. Thankfully, there was alcohol at the bottom of the hill.”