Wedding Night
Page 92

“Let’s go again,” I say. “And, this time, concentrate. What shampoo do I use?”
“L’Oréal.”
“No!”
“Head and Shoulders, extra strong for monster dandruff.” He smirks.
“No!” I kick him. “I told you. Kerastase. And you use Paul Mitchell.”
“Do I?” he says blankly.
I feel instant rage boiling up inside me. “What do you mean, ‘do I’? You told me you use Paul Mitchell! We have to be on the same page for this, Ben. If you say Paul Mitchell once, you have to stick to Paul Mitchell!”
“Jesus.” Ben takes a sip of beer. “Lighten up.” He turns up the volume on his iPad, and I flinch. Does he really like that music?
“Let’s do another.” I try to control my impatience. “What’s my favorite alcoholic drink?”
“Smirnoff Ice.” He grins.
“Funny,” I say politely.
No wonder he didn’t make it as a comedian. The bitchy thought comes from nowhere. Oops. I clench my lips together, praying my expression isn’t readable. I didn’t mean it, of course I didn’t.…
Richard would have made an effort. The even bigger thought flashes through my head like a powerful bird in flight, leaving me breathless in its wake. I blink at my piece of paper, feeling hot about the face. I’m not going to think about Richard. No. Absolutely not.
Richard would have thought Couples’ Quiz was ridiculous too, but, the difference is, he’d have made an effort, because if it mattered to me it would matter to him—
Stop it.
Like the time he did charades at my office party and everyone loved him—
LISTEN UP, STUPID BRAIN. Richard is OUT of my life. Right now he’s probably fast asleep on the other side of the world in some glossy San Francisco apartment block, having forgotten all about me, and I’m with my husband—repeat, husband—
“The Jeweled Path? Are you serious?”
I’ve been wrangling so hard with my thoughts, I didn’t notice Ben pick up the crib sheet I prepared for him earlier. Now he’s staring at it incredulously.
“What?”
“The Jeweled Path can’t be your favorite book.” He looks up from the paper. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“I’m not joking,” I say, nettled. “Have you read it? It’s brilliant.”
“I wasted thirty valuable seconds of my life downloading it and skimming the first chapter.” He pulls a face. “I want those thirty seconds back.”
“You obviously missed the point,” I say, offended. “It’s really insightful if you read it carefully.”
“It’s a pile of new-age shit.”
“Not according to eighty million readers.” I’m glaring at him.
“Eighty million morons.”
“Well, what’s your favorite book, then?” I grab the piece of paper to see, but my gaze is halted. I clap a hand over my mouth in shock and raise my eyes to his. “That’s not how you vote?”
“Don’t you?”
“No!”
We’re staring at each other as though we’ve discovered we’re aliens. I swallow twice, then look at the sheet again.
“OK! Right.” I’m trying not to give away how disconcerted I feel. “So … so obviously we need to recap on a few basics. Voting preference we’ve covered … favorite pasta?”
“Depends on the sauce,” he says promptly. “Stupid question.”
“Well, I like tagliatelle. You say tagliatelle too. Favorite TV show?”
“Dirk and Sally.”
“Dirk and Sally, definitely.” He grins, and the atmosphere lifts a shade.
“Favorite episode?” I can’t help asking.
“Let me think.” His face lights up. “The one with the lobsters. Classic.”
“No, the wedding,” I object. “It has to be the wedding. ‘With this Smith and Wesson 59, I thee wed.’ ”
I watched that episode about ninety-five times. It was Dirk and Sally’s second wedding (after they’d divorced and left the force and been recruited back in season four), and it was the best TV wedding ever.
“No, the kidnap double bill.” Ben has sat up in his hammock and is hugging his knees. “That was epic. Hey, listen. Listen.” His face brightens. “We’ll do it as Dirk and Sally.”
“What?” I stare at him, puzzled. “Do what?”
“The quiz! I can’t remember any of this shit.” He waves my crib sheet at me. “But I know what Sally likes and you know what Dirk likes. We’ll be them, not us.”