Page 136 of Cackle

“How’d it go?” he asks.

I consider sugarcoating, but instead I say, “Bad.”

I tell him about Pascal, whom I describe as having the personality and general vibe of a ventriloquist’s dummy sans ventriloquist.

“He barely said a word the entire night.”

“Was he a creep?”

“If he had any defining personality traits, maybe, but he didn’t. It was pretty incredible.”

I tell him about Dan, about how he was rude and obnoxious. I say he choked on his food and someone had to come perform the Heimlich. I don’t know how I invent this alternate history so easily. I guess when telling the truth isn’t an option, lies will always be there. They’re opportunists. They’re dandelions.

“It was this awful German-themed restaurant,” I say.

“No,” Sam says, “I don’t believe you.”

“I swear,” I say. “Beer steins everywhere. Everywhere.”

“Yodeling?” he asks.

“No yodeling. Is yodeling German?”

We ask the Internet. We fall down weird rabbit holes. Soon we’re looking up conspiracy theories about the Dyatlov Pass incident.

“Yeti,” he says. “All evidence points to yeti.”

I’d laugh him off, but . . . who’s to say what’s real and what isn’t?

Certainly not me.

“This is it,” he says. “This is what I missed.”

“Discussing the mysterious deaths of Russian hikers?” I ask.

“No,” he says. “Discussing the mysterious deaths of Russian hikers with you.”

I feel a swell of affection for him. When we were together, everything was simple. I knew who I was, what I wanted. I ache for that sense of certainty. With Sam, I know exactly what my future looks like. There’s nothing scary about it. Nothing unknown.

I lean across the couch and kiss him.

I forgot what it is like to kiss. I forget how. My tongue remains limp in my mouth, suddenly heavy and inert, like a walrus on a rock. He prods at it with his. He has a very warm tongue. Very agile. I wait for some kind of rhythm, an implicit understanding of what should go where when, but it doesn’t come. It’s a clumsy exchange.

I pull away, wiping my bottom lip.

“You smell different,” he says into my neck.

“Do you like it?” I ask.

“I liked your old perfume.”

“Oh,” I say. It bothers me probably more than it should. I know he doesn’t mean anything by it, but I like this scent. I chose it myself.

“You smell good,” he says. “Don’t worry.”

I wasn’t worried.

“Here, I brought you something,” he says, opening his backpack and gifting me a license plate key chain with my name on it.