Page 39 of The Goat in the Bedroom
Meanwhile, I was trying to pay attention to Puck, who was telling me about his work as a yoga instructor, but my eyes kept drifting to Artie as she attempted to pull out Rob's chair for him while he was already halfway to sitting, causing him to have to stand back up awkwardly.
“So you live with Artemis?” Puck asked, following my gaze.
“Yeah, she's...” I watched Artie try to pour wine for Rob but overfill his glass so it nearly overflowed. “She's perfect. I mean, it's perfect. The living situation. Very... situated.”
Puck studied me with surprising intensity for someone who looked like a real-life fairy. “Oh honey,” he said softly. “You've got it bad.”
“What? No, we're just?—“
“Roommates who stare at each other with cartoon heart eyes? Sure.” He patted my hand sympathetically. “How long have you been in love with her?”
I choked on my water.
Across the table, Artie was announcing, “I love escargot. They're almost my favorite food.”
Rob brightened. “Interesting. I've never actually had them. This should be an adventure.”
“I'm basically a snail-eating expert,” Artie said with confidence that absolutely did not match the panic in her eyes as the server placed a dozen brown swirly snails in some kind of butter sauce in the center of the table.
I watched in slow-motion horror as Artie picked up a pair of tong-looking instruments, clearly having no idea what to do with it. Rob was saying something about loosening it from the shell first, but Artie had already shoved a tiny fork into the shell.
In the perfect Julia RobertsPretty Womanmoment, the snail shot out of the shell like a slimy missile, arced gracefully through the air, and landed with a wet splat directly on Rob's shirt.
“Ten points for perfect aim,” Rob laughed, reaching for his napkin.
“Oh god, I'm so sorry.” Artie lunged forward with her own napkin, knocking over Rob's overfilled wine glass in the process.
Red wine cascaded across the table. Rob jumped back, shoving his chair directly into a passing server.
The tray went flying and a chocolate soufflé landed directly on a woman at the next table who looked like she'd stepped out ofReal Housewives of Beverly Hills. Her scream could have shattered crystal.
“Ooh, look,” someone nearby held up their phone. “Is that Gryff Kingman, football player, or wait, is it Flynn? I can't tell the difference between them.”
More phones appeared. The manager looked like he might faint. The Real Housewife was now shrieking about her Hermès bag. Rob was covered in wine and oyster juice. Puck was wide-eyed and frozen like a telephone pole about to be plowed down. Artie looked like she wanted the earth to open up and swallow her.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” Artie gasped and fled.
I stood there for a second, then announced, “I should... check on her,” and followed, leaving Rob and Puck to deal with the manager and the still-shrieking bag owner. I looked at Sloane whose face had gone full shocked Pikachu as she stared, her crew now filming the people filming us. “You stay here.”
I followed Artie into the unisex bathroom, and found her with her back against the wall, eyes closed.
“Hey,” I said softly.
She opened one eye. “Did I actually just assault my date with shellfish and cause a comedy of errors?”
“Technically, it was the snail that did the assaulting. Is a snail even a fish? They live on land.”
“They are a mollusk.” Artie says sadly.
I wrapped her in a hug and kissed the top of her head. “He laughed. It was funny. No one will even remember a year… or twenty from now.”
“Gryff, I'm acting like I was raised by caffeinated wolves.” She muttered against my chest.
“You're not?—“
“I tried to pour his wine and nearly flooded the table. I ordered a salad that was just... lettuce and sadness.”
“The egg was also sad,” I offered.
