Page 8 of Rival Hearts

Kelvin took a beer out of the cooler in what should have been my kitchen. “How do you expect people to vote for you when you don’t even have a house that works? Who doesn’t have a fridge?”

“To recap, I don’t expect people to vote for me. Or not many people.” I took a swig of my beer and hauled out one of the lawn chairs I’d bought that day for Kelvin to sit in. Flicking my wrist, the chair opened up and I pushed down in the middle so it wouldn’t collapse when Kelvin sat down.

“And lawn chairs in your house? This is the first and last planning meeting here if this is where I have to sit.” He took a sip of his beer and then held it away from his face so he could read the label. “And what is with this beer?”

“It’s Korean. Like my dog, Hite. I like it.”

“Hite is Korean?”

“Yep. Zeus is Greek.”

“Right. Yeah. I forgot you collected them along your travels.” He glanced at the two behemoths lying at my feet. “Seriously, though, when are you starting work on this place?” Kelvin pickedat the label on his bottle as he took in the cracked walls and stained carpet in the living room. “You should have moved in with your mom.”

I took a long drink of my beer. “I’m thirty-four. Who the fuck moves back in with their mother at thirty-four?”

“Someone who can only afford a house that’ll cause headaches, asthma, and who knows what other respiratory illnesses.”

“You searched this up last night, didn’t you?”

“Of course. Google Doctorisgood for some things. We’re very close.”

“Like developing a hypochondriac disorder?” I took another swig of beer and squinted at Kelvin. One of the things we’d had in common was a thirst for knowledge. Kelvin had excelled in high school in every subject. School hadn’t been as big of a deal to me, but I’d loved to read, anything and everything. “What about Google Dentist?”

“Utter bullshit.” Kelvin laughed. “Half of the crap on there is just plain wrong.”

Not surprising, and I grinned. The thing was, I could have afforded a better house. But there’d been something about this place, like the town itself, that had drawn me in. I’d come home for the anniversary of my dad’s death, and this house had been for sale. I’d toured through it with the real estate agent, and a feeling of rightness had seeped into my blood. Maybe the sensation that it was time I stayed, the desire to lay down roots, was simply nostalgia. This place, old man Whittaker’s house, had been the last handyman job I’d done before going to my audition nine years ago.

Everything after that had been a whirlwind, sweeping me up and carrying me off. I’d felt hopeful my last day here, like maybe there was more to life than this town and shitty-paying jobs. Ichuckled to myself. Now, I was running for mayor. What was wrong with me? Did the town even pay a salary?

“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you? About how dumb all this is? Are we quitting? Maybe we should quit. Did you see Maggie already has signs up everywhere?” Kelvin heaved himself out of the lawn chair and went over to the curtainless windows to point across the road to the signs dotting my neighbors’ lawns. “Did you pick one of those slogans I sent you? We’re already behind schedule.”

“Take some deep breaths, Kelvin, or else I’m going to start hyperventilating for you. We’re fine. It’s been a week. The election isn’t until November. I don’t want to win. I want to make it harder for Maggie.”

“So far, your plan for making it harder seems to be doing nothing but walking your dogs and registering as an independent.”

“I like walking my dogs. It helps me think.”

“About what? You haven’t picked a slogan. You have no plan. No platform. Probably most of the town doesn’t even know you’re running.”

“I can’t put all my good ideas out there at once. Who would do that?” I gave Kelvin an amused look. Kelvin scowled. “Besides, I still have my real-life job that needs to get done. And you said I needed money for this campaign, so I took on some work I wouldn’t normally consider, much less complete.” I looked up at the ceiling. “Thinking is half the paycheck.”

“I wouldn’t want to stunt your intellectual process.” Kelvin’s voice dripped with skepticism. “But you made a promise to me I wouldn’t be embarrassed by being associated with your campaign.”

“I don’t care about the slogan or the platform or any of that stuff. Put down whatever sounds good to you. I can talk bullshit all day long. I’ve been doing it for years. The platform and sloganaren’t going to matter because I’m not going to win.” I stood and walked back to the cooler in the not-quite-a-kitchen and grabbed another beer. Hite and Zeus were close at my heels.

“Every day I wake up and remember I agreed to this, I want to stop being your friend.” Kelvin’s voice echoed around the empty house.

“That’s fine.” I walked back into the living room and passed Kelvin another beer. Kelvin didn’t mean it. We’d pulled all sorts of pranks in high school, and when I went to visit Kelvin in college beforeCenter Stage, we’d spent many wild nights making choices worse than this. “But you’ll still be my campaign manager. That contract was binding.”

“At least tell me you’re going to show up at the Fourth of July parade and fireworks. We can announce your run for mayor there.”

“Sounds like a plan.” The cap of my bottle was being stubborn, and I put it on the edge of the window and leveraged it open. “That must make you happy. I used the word ‘plan’ in a sentence.”

“As long as our plans are the same.”

“Doubtful.” I tipped the beer back. “Fourth of July must be some sort of big PR deal for Maggie, right?”

Kelvin’s nod was slow to come.

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