Page 7 of Now That It's You
What had they even discussed? Stupid shit like baseball stats and an argument about their first babysitter’s name. Christ. If he’d known it was the last conversation they’d ever have, he would have just agreed her name was Sunny, even though he knew damn well it was Valerie.
Meg nodded and looked out at the river. She was quiet a moment and, knowing Meg, perfectly content to sit in silence. She’d never been one for blurting out her thoughts, tending instead to muzzle herself around his outspoken family. But something about it made Kyle edgy now.
“How’s work?” he asked.
“Good,” she said automatically. “Still catering. Business is good.”
“Good,” he said, then wanted to kick himself for repeating the same meaningless word she’d already used twice. Surely he could do better. A “great” or a “peachy keen” at least. He cleared his throat. “How’s your mom?”
She reached up and fiddled with her earring, making it jingle like a wind chime. “She’s fine. Still living in northeast Portland.”
“I’m not surprised. How about your—” He stopped himself, not sure if her father was still a touchy subject.
But Meg didn’t need him to finish the question. “My dad’s fine. Mom took him back again after his latest girlfriend kicked him to the curb for sleeping with the neighbor.”
“Sorry.”
“It is what it is.”
“True,” Kyle agreed, not sure what that expression was supposed to mean, but figuring it was time for a subject change.
It was Meg who offered it. “Does it make it harder or easier, you think, that you and Matt weren’t very close?”
Her bluntness surprised him, but he answered without hesitation. “I don’t know. Easier, maybe, because we didn’t spend much time together. Harder, maybe, because I feel like we should have.”
She nodded again, her eyes still fixed on the river. The sun glinted in the curls that fluttered beneath the edges of her hood, and a faint breeze carried the lilac scent to him again.
It might have been a nice moment if it weren’t for the approaching ogre.
Kyle blinked twice to clear his vision, but he wasn’t seeing things. There was definitely an ogre lurching toward them, clad in a burlap cape and carrying something that looked like a medieval ax. The weapon was made of foam or rubber, as was the dagger on his belt.
The ogre was followed by a man in chainmail wearing a helmet adorned with horns and walking beside a woman strumming a small harp and wearing a purple gossamer gown. Kyle sat back on the bench, relieved to know he’d finally gone crazy. It seemed like a sign the grief was kicking in.
“Good morrow, fair maiden,” the ogre said to Meg as he dropped to one knee in front of her. “I see you wear the cloak of Verdanen.”
Meg looked down at her poncho, her hands balled up under the fringed hem. “I, uh?—”
“Hark!” The woman with the harp pointed at Meg’s chest, and Kyle stared dumbly as well. The swell of her breasts was evident even under the bulky brown garment, and he wondered what it would be like to get lost in all that softness.
“The stone of Plutarnius!” the woman reached out to touch the acorn-sized gem on a chain around Meg’s neck. “His majesty will be greatly pleased to learn we have rescued the empress who wears it.”
The man with the horned helmet knelt before Meg, presenting his foam sword like a gift. “My lady,” he said, bowing his head. “My sword is at your service, and I offer my fellowship and protection as your most devoted servant.”
The ogre and the woman in gossamer followed suit, kneeling and bowing before Meg like she was a member of a royal family that governed lunatics. Kyle expected her to jump up from the bench and run like hell. She tensed beside him, too quiet for too long.
Instead, she reached out and placed her hand on the first man’s helmet. “Thank you, Sir—uh?—”
“Reginald.”
“Sir Reginald.”
“Milady.”
The woman played a few notes on her harp, keeping her head bowed. Kyle could see the tops of oddly-pointed elf ears sticking through her hair, and he leaned close to Meg and lowered his voice. “Uh, what’s going on here?”
Meg turned to face him, her curls tickling his chin. “They’re LARPers,” she whispered back.
“Lepers?”
