Page 112 of Cookout Carnage
TABI: Come on, man. Bax and I have survived worse. Don’t give up.
TRISTAN: She’s not going to be in Chicago. She’s accepted a job in another office, 7,377 miles away.
TABI: Where?!
TRISTAN: Guam.
SABRINA: That always sounds like a made-up place to me.
TRISTAN: It’s not. Gotta go. Someone’s at the door.
SABRINA: It might be her! Give her a chance!
Tristan opened the front door, his heart pounding. Then it sank. Standing outside was Lynne Bodean, her husband behind her, hands thrust into the pockets of his jeans.
‘Tristan?’ Lynne asked.
He nodded.
‘May we come in?’
He nodded again before manners kicked him up the arse. ‘Yes, please come on through,’ he replied stiffly.
They followed him into the family room and he gestured to one of the couches. ‘Please, take a seat. Can I get you both something to drink?’
‘Gotta beer?’ asked Ford, his voice short and scratchy.
‘Er, not sure, let me check.’ He found one at the back of the fridge and opened a cupboard to get a glass.
‘Don’t need one of them.’
‘Ford!’
Tristan twisted the cap off the bottle and handed it to him.
‘Mrs. Bodean?’
‘Just some water please.’
‘Ice?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
He fixed her drink and one for himself, then sat opposite them.
‘How do you know my name?’ he asked.
‘Clara and Emmett found us,’ Lynne replied.
‘Are they even a couple?’
‘Ha!’ barked Ford.
‘Shush!’ Lynne scolded her husband. ‘No, son, they’re just real good friends. Emmett has a little theatre on his farm and they run the drama club together.’
‘They seemed very nice people,’ he replied. His voice sounded as hollow as his heart.
‘They are,’ said Lynne. ‘And they spoke real highly of you.’
