Page 82 of Finding Jack
“There’s a bug in the new update that rolls out in two weeks, and my lead developer melted down which threw the rest of the team off their game. It’ll be fine. I’ll sit down with her tomorrow and talk it through, come up with a game plan, fix the issues.”
“Sounds like it’ll be okay.”
“It will. It’s just that we left work without any of that resolved and now I feel...” I shrugged, at a loss for how to explain it.
“Like you have an emotional pebble in your psychic shoe?”
That made me laugh. “Exactly like that. How did you think of that?”
“Easy. Watch.” He made his game play. It was “pebble” for 30 points.
“You’re supposed to be making me feel better. That doesn’t make me feel better.”
“Sorry, not sorry.”
“Then I’m not sorry for this,” I said, playing from the end of “pebble” to make “pebbled” and “dryer” for 31 points. “But in other news, I feel better about work.”
He gave me his best stank face. “That’s it. No more Mr. Nice Guy. I was going to let you win by a little but now I’m going to crush you.”
It only made it more satisfying when I squeaked out a win by twenty before we called it a night.
Wednesday night he texted,Want to hate watch that new medical drama with me?
I saw the first two episodes. I liked it,I texted back.
You won’t when I’m done with it.
He was right. We watched it while on the phone, and he dismantled every unrealistic element of the show, making me laugh the whole time.
“Wow,” I said when the end credits rolled. “Did they get anything right?”
He thought for a second. “The ER doctors do wear scrubs. That’s about it.”
I went to bed smiling again.
Thursday I texted him that my team worked out the bug. He sent me a picture of Transcendent Seagull eating a giant cockroach. When the doorbell rang about fifteen minutes after I got home that night, Ranée looked up at me in confusion. “Why is someone ringing our doorbell? Did you order take out? Can I have some?”
“I didn’t order anything.”
“It’s obviously a murderer then. Don’t answer it.”
“How about I check the peephole?”
She shrugged. “It’s your funeral.”
There was a delivery guy on the other side. “Wrong address,” I called through the door.
“Delivery for Emily Riker,” he called back.
“Just so you know, it’s a bad sign when you can’t even remember ordering food for yourself. Do I need to put you in a home? Also, can I have some of whatever you got?”
I ignored her and opened the door. “I didn’t order anything.”
The delivery guy shrugged. “You got food. It’s paid for.”
“Was there any kind of note?”
He sighed like it was a massive imposition, but he fished his phone from his pocket and checked. “Oh. Yeah. It says, ‘Congratulations on showing that bug who’s boss.”
