Page 173 of What We Become

I point a pen at him. “Can we invite Frank?”

“Me?” Frank’s coffee cup clatters against the counter, and for a second I think he’s actually choking—face red, hand pressed to his chest, the whole production. He was so focused on his crossword puzzle, I’d forgotten he was within earshot.

“Oh no!” I frantically wave my hands in the air, trying to erase the moment completely.

“Fine,” he wheezes, holding up a hand so I don’t come closer. “I’m fine. Just—” He clears his throat with emphasis. “—didn’t expect to be looped into birthday orgy logistics this early in the morning.”

Milo spins on his stool, sunglasses still perched on his nose, looking delighted by the interruption. “Frank! My man. Did you think we meant you?”

Frank’s color deepens from burgundy to something approaching plum. “I wasn’t—I didn’t—” He glances at me with the desperate look of someone who just accidentally wandered into the wrong theater and can’t find the exit.

“No, no, no.” Milo holds up both hands, somehow making the gesture look reassuring and theatrical at once. “We were referring to our goldfish. Also named Frank. Remarkably similar coloring, actually—that same sort of beleaguered orange.”

Frank’s expression shifts through several distinct stages: relief, confusion, and wounded pride.

“Goldfish,” he repeats.

“Goldfish,” Milo confirms. “Named after you, obviously. In tribute.”

Frank’s brow knits in the middle. “You named a goldfish after me?”

Milo beams. “You’re very memorable, Frank.”

Frank looks at me. I shrug, because it’s true. He’s an institution in Hunter Harbor.

“A goldfish,” Frank says slowly, gathering his crossword and his dignity at the same time. “That’s who you’re inviting to your birthday orgy?” He lets out a breath. “You know what? I didn’t even want an invite.” He slides off his stool and drops a twenty on the counter that more than covers his coffee and melt. “I don’t have enough Viagra for everything you’ve got going on.”

Milo’s sunglasses slip down his nose entirely.

Frank doesn’t even wait for change, just shuffles out the door, the bell chiming a mournful goodbye to his composure.

“I should introduce you to my mom!” Milo calls after him, pushing his sunglasses back into place. “She’d like you. How do you feel about turtlenecks?”

Frank flips Milo the bird through the window.

I groan and press my forehead to the cool counter. “Milo. You are a menace.”

He spins back to face me, beaming. “A necessary one. Somebody has to provide color commentary on the crushing mundanity of everyday life. Otherwise, we just exist in beige.” He sips his coffee. “Now, back to the birthday reconnaissance. We were on presents.” He glances at the list on his phone. “Category four: symbolic weaponry. Something custom. Something engraved. A blade that says happy birthday in the language of consequences.”

“You are the most exhausting person I know.”

He takes a small bow from the stool. “Thank you. Category five: deeply impractical but spiritually correct. I buy you a horse.”

“A horse?”

“Yes. Black. Mean. Named Tax Evasion.”

I laugh before I can stop myself, and his whole face lights up as if he’s won something. Then I shake my head so he doesn’t get carried away—encouraging Milo is like feeding a Mogwai after midnight. “I’m serious, Milo. No horses. No engraved murder relics. No fish-proposal nightmare.”

Milo puts a hand over his heart. “You wound me.”

“I want something easy.” I hook my thumbs into the edge of the counter and lean in. “I want one night at the club when we aren’t using it as an alibi for disappearing through a basement to kill someone. Odin already offered us a private room, so take me there. Let me dance and stare at all of you in suits like the creepy little menace I am, then fuck me until we’re all sweaty and sticky and can barely move. And when we get home, cake.”

He blinks once.

Then his mouth slowly curves. “That’s . . . aggressively attainable.”

“I’m a simple woman.”