Page 80 of The Romantic Agenda

Oh, she’s sure all right. Damn sure.

The song ends, breaking the magic spell. They automatically part, backing up half a step, hands falling to their sides.

“So,” Joy says. “That happened.”

“I was surprised you asked.”

“You didn’t seem surprised.”

“I was surprised on the inside,” he says. “Or maybe I’ve adjusted to your impulsive ways.”

“No, it’s not that. It’s not possible to get used to me,” she teases. “We should clean up.” After the pie finishes baking, Joy sets it on a cooling rack just as Fox finishes drying the last of their dishes.

He asks, “Do you know how to play pool?”

“I know the basics. I think.”

“I could teach you.”

“That sounds fun.”

In the bar room, Joy refuses to play fair. She does everything she can to sabotage his shots, including (but not limited to) sneaking up behind him, cackling maniacally before every shot he makes, moving the balls around when he’s not looking, and even lying on the table and demanding he shoot around her or forfeit his turn, which he thankfully refuses to do.

All part of her master plan.

“You’re absolutely ridiculous,” he says, shaking his head.

“And you’re absolutely laughing. That’s all I wanted,” she says. “I’m not above making a complete ass of myself to see you smile.”

“Please don’t.”

“I have to.” She rises onto all fours, crawling across the table to him, praying to any god listening that it won’t break. “I get it.You’re grumpy. You have a grumpy reputation to uphold, but I need those smiles. Brightens my whole day.”

“Hmm.”

“That too. Just love thosehmms.”

“Maybe we should play darts instead.”

“Oh good, then I can compliment your form and your forearms again.”

“Or not.”

“Look, this is happening no matter what game you pick. I need you to accept the fact that you’re getting these compliments. You’re gonna take them and your gonna like them.”

“I do like them,” he says. “They’re, umm, very sweet. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now, teach me how to play.”

For lunch, they return to the outside, armed with a throw blanket and a basket Joy randomly found in the closet of the bar room. She kicked Fox out of the kitchen while she packed it full of sandwiches she made, chips she found, an assortment of drinks, and, of course, their pie. The side of the house where a group of trees separated them from their borrowed neighbors had the best patches of early afternoon sunshine—not too direct as to burn them to a crisp, but just enough to engage in lazy cat mode. Stomach full and good mood rescued from the depths of despair, Joy began to roll around on the warmed blanket, stretching and making tiny happy noises.

“Is sleeping part of the Joy Spa Day experience?”

“I’mresting. Y’all are so rude about my old lady internal timer,” she says. “You should try it. Pretend you’re a cat or a solar panel. Let the sun recharge you, make you feel warm and whole again.”

“What are you even talking about?”

“I don’t know,” she says with a laugh. “I’m warm and sleepy, shut up.”