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“And you should probably curb the carnage and plot your next move.”

I drop the gun and rub my hands together like Monty Burns from The Simpsons. “Excellent. Excellent. Smithers, release the hounds!”

Dax yells to the bullpen, “Interns, scatter!” The interns scurry out of sight to collect all the stupid eggplant papers. One of them, who’s on dart duty this week, collects the spent ammo and reloads the guns.

I sit at my computer and change my password. I hope to God she figures it out.

GamefuckingonBette14.

BETTE

“Then he had the audacity to fucking step to me on the regional directors call, mansplaining my job.” I slam the rest of my wine, then glance at Paul. He’s so uncomplicated with his predictable IPA and chicken order. No matter how it’s cooked, ole predictable Paul can be counted on for a chicken dish. I smile at him and he does not return my grin. That’s not good.

He hasn’t touched his chicken. Paul loves chicken. He sits back and sips his beer, then puts it down slowly. I wave to the waiter for more wine. I think I’m going to need it. Paul slowly turns his wrist to see his watch, then he looks up at me.

“Thirty-seven minutes.”

“Until we have sexy times?” My voice lilts up at the end of my sentence in an exaggerated tone, trying to change whatever subject he’s settled on.

“Of my day devoted to hearing about him.”

I wince. He’s asked me not to obsess over work or Hayden Corelli. I can’t help it. I give a lot of blow jobs to make up for the shop talk. I don’t think it’s going to work tonight.

He reaches for my hand and pats it. It’s weird. Not romantic, but like a stranger consoling you. He continues, “I want to hear about your day. But when my entire dinner conversation consists of ‘uh huh’ and ‘wow,’ it’s a bit much, Bette.”

It’s not a new relationship, but it’s not old, either. It’s just a relationship.

I make a silly face and pull my shoulders up. “I’m sorry?”

“The thing is, you’re not. You love your job too much. And your obsession with Hayden Corelli—Christ, Bette. I shouldn’t know the man’s name. He’s not even in your office. You have more of a relationship with him than me. And I’m the one holding your hand. I’m here, but your head is almost always with him.”

“Not true.” God, I hope it’s not true. “I hate him. I like you.” It’s a little true, probably.

He squeezes my hand, then lets go. “This isn’t working.”

This would be better with wine. I wonder when I checked out of this relationship. I didn’t even notice this time. None of them have staying power. Ok, Bette, focus up. You must pay attention and ignore wine. He’s saying things he thinks are important. Don’t fucking look. My eyes dart to the waiter and he notices instantly.

“Did you hear me?”

My eyes snap back. I lie, “Absolutely.” He’s bland chicken babbling, no one could ever pay attention to everything he’s saying. I’m awful.

“No, you were focused on wine. I mean so little to you?”

“Paul. I think you thought this was more than I did.”

No man has ever has had that spark. I keep hoping I’ll feel it again. But each guy, like Paul, is nice enough but not enough.

Danny lives at the bottom of all my relationships. I’ve tried to shake it. I’ve been to therapy and certainly talked it out with Kris until she passed away. Hell, I still talk to Kris about it. I randomly write to her or talk into the ether so I can feel her around still.

Danny’s three fucking months set the tone for my love life. Two people finding a connection deeper than they could understand. A desperate and glorious love that guided me to be a better and worse person.

I can’t find Christopher Danny Danson since the fall of his senior year of college. I always thought once I healed, I’d look him up and ask what happened. But he’s simply gone without a trace. I haven’t healed so it’s probably for the best he’s hiding.

I’m moving to New York. I’ll leave all the boring chicken men in Chicago and find someone who makes my soul rumble again.

Paul’s still talking. “You have a drawer at my place. It’s been almost eight months. We’re on a path.”

He crumples his napkin on his plate and the edges begin to stain as it takes on the chicken piccata sauce. I stare at it slowly creeping up the white napkin until he pushes his chair back a touch to cross his chicken legs. Oh shit, I never noticed. He has chicken legs and only orders chicken. He’s mad at his poultry legs and taking it out on real chickens.