Page 23 of Clinically Awkward

“You’re something else, you know that?” he said.

“I’ve been told that before.”

“Usually by me, actually.”

The lights dimmed, and a voice came over the speakers: “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Laugh Riot! Please give it up for your first comedian of the night!”

A younger comedian burst onto the stage, practically vibrating with energy. “My roommate is a flat-earther,” he started, drawing a sympathetic groan from the crowd. “I know. I KNOW. It’s not like there was a checkbox on the lease—‘Do you believe in basic science?’ I just thought he was a regular guy with a regular job and, you know, a regular understanding of the shape of the planet.” The audience laughed, and I found myself grinning before I could stop.

Laughter bubbled up in me instantly, loud and genuine. Beside me, Quinton leaned closer, his shoulder brushing mine just slightly. “You want another drink?” he asked, voice pitched low enough for only me to hear.

“I’m good,” I said, barely catching my breath.

“You sure? The IPA’s almost gone.”

“You drank most of it.”

“I’m a generous person. I’m sharing.” He shot me a mock-serious look that made my smile widen.

The comedian’s story built momentum, unraveling into a wild anecdote about a road trip with his flat-earth roommate. “He wanted to drive to the edge. THE EDGE. Of the earth. I’m like, ‘Buddy, we’re going to hit Canada first, and I don’t have my passport.’” I was laughing so hard I had to set my drink down, afraid I’d spill it all over the table.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Quinton watching me again, his gaze lingering just a moment too long. Was he amused by my laughter, or was there something else he wanted to say?

The set wrapped up, and as the last of the laughter faded, a new comedian took the stage: an older man, his posture weary but eyes sharp. “I’m 58 years old,” he declared. “You know what that means? It means I don’t care anymore. I don’t care what you think. I don’t care if you like me. I don’t care if you laugh at my jokes. I’m here, you’re here, we’re all going to die, eventually. Let’s make the best of it.”

As the laughter died down, I realized how much I enjoyed sharing these moments with Quinton. There was something easy about the way we fit together in the noisy dark, as if we were in on the same joke.

“I got divorced last year,” the comedian continued. “After thirty years of marriage. You know what my wife said to me? She said, ‘I don’t love you anymore.’ Just like that. No buildup. No warning. Just, ‘I don’t love you anymore.’ And I’m sitting there thinking, ‘Okay, but what about the mortgage? What about the timeshare in Florida? What about the dog?’”

I was crying now, actually crying with laughter, and I felt Quinton shift beside me.

Quinton handed me a napkin without a word, his hand brushing mine for the briefest second. I glanced at him, warmth spreading through me. He had this uncanny way of knowing exactly what I needed, even before I did.

“She took the dog,” the comedian said, voice thick with mock betrayal. “THE DOG. We got that dog together. We raised that dog together. That dog loved me. And she took him. Just... took him. Like he was a lamp. Like he was a piece of furniture. ‘I’m taking the dog, Steve.’ That’s what she said. ‘I’m taking the dog.’ Not ‘Can I take the dog?’ Not ‘Would you mind if I took the dog?’ Just ‘I’m taking the dog.’ Declarative. Final. No negotiation.”

I was doubled over, laughter threatening to burst out of me again, but in that moment, I was thinking less about the comedian and more about the man sitting beside me—the one who always seemed to be paying attention, even when I wasn’t.

Quinton was laughing too, but every now and then, when he thought I wasn’t looking, his eyes would linger on me, and something about that look made my chest ache in the best possible way.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I’m...” I tried to answer, but another wave of laughter hit me, and I doubled over, clutching my stomach. “I’m going to pee my pants.”

“Please don’t pee your pants in the comedy club.”

“I’m trying...” I gasped for air. “I’m trying not to.”

“Do you need to go to the bathroom?”

“I can’t move. If I move, I’ll pee.”

“Viv.”

“I’m serious. I’m going to pee my pants in this divorced-dad-smelling comedy club, and it’s going to be your fault.”

“How is this my fault?”

“You brought me here!”