Page 4 of The Art of Scandal

“I think Laura really likes you,” Dillon said. “She’s cute, right? All that red hair.”

“What do you think?” Nathan showed off his sketch. “New tattoo?”

The excitement on Dillon’s face faded as he focused on the actual image. He glanced at the tattoos covering Nathan’s right arm as if trying to picture greasy french fries next to corrido lyrics.

“It’s interesting.” He squinted at the killer burger. “Very… Adult Swim. But who cares what I think? You’re the artist.”

There was a whiff of pity in the compliment. They both knew that posting fan art online and doodling cartoon characters on fast-food wrappers wasn’t an actual art career. Dillon was starting to make a habit out of lying to protect Nathan’s feelings. Last week it was an apology that went on too long when Dillon bailed on plans. Two weeks before that, he claimed a food truck Nathan recommended “was fire!” with the same disgusted eye twitch that appeared when someone mentioned sushi. It made Nathan feel like a guy who needed handling, when in the past, he’d always been the handler.

Nathan stuffed the wrapper inside his jeans. “The movie’s almost over. We should probably head back to the car.” He left the restroom with Dillon trailing close behind, struggling to match Nathan’s longer, faster strides.

As always, Dillon never complained. Not even in elementary school when Nathan was a head taller than everyone else, and Dillon had to cheat on the height test to ride a Ferris wheel alone. Back then Nathan was a constant barrier between his friend and whatever bully he unintentionally antagonized that week. Despite getting his ass kicked on a monthly basis, Dillon had never met a bully in his life. He had two labels for people: best friend and God-tier ride-or-die brother. The day they met, Dillon had the brilliant idea to point out that his favorite cafeteria worker wore the same cherry-red Vans as Trunk, an ogre-sized twelve-year-old named after the place he claimed to store his alleged victims. To Dillon, pointing out that his “favorite lunch man” and his grunting buddy Trunk were “shoe twins” was just a way to bring two like-minded people together.

Dillon had smiled and turned his back, thrilled with his good deed for the day. That smile is what Nathan would remember an hour later, sitting in the nurse’s office with a busted lip and a fresh suspension. He’d instinctively known that Dillon was a guy who needed protecting. After that day, Nathan ascended to Dillon’s God-tier list, while Nathan did his best to make sure no one ruined his new friend’s optimism with another sucker punch from behind.

But ever since Dillon traded his Henley collection for dress shirts and a pharmaceutical sales job, their dynamic had shifted. Now Dillon was the one planning ego-stroking boys’ nights where he tiptoed through serious conversations like they were riddled with land mines. And Nathan couldn’t help thinking that he’d failed at some point. That as Dillon moved forward, it was obvious that Nathan was standing still.

They walked in silence, weaving through the maze of cars at a strolling pace. The new drive-in was still a novelty, which meant almost every available parking space was occupied. Like the bathroom, everything was a little too perfect. There were no potholes in the pavement. The vintage neon sign announcing showtimes sparkled in the moonlight, free of graffiti and bird shit.

Dillon glanced at Nathan’s profile. “So, you’re not feeling Laura?”

Nathan shoved both hands inside his pockets. “She’s nice. But I don’t need help getting a date.”

“Hell, I know that. It’s just been a while since you met anyone. Not since Inez.” Dillon’s voice tensed, as though mentioning Nathan’s ex-girlfriend violated some unspoken code. “I thought you might be depressed or something.”

Inez was a server at Nathan’s favorite coffee shop. He’d asked her out last year when she slipped him her number with his usual order. She was beautiful and charming, with an influencer side hustle that helped her pay the bills. They had been good together—sexy and fun, with low expectations. But the more Nathan fumbled through conversations about video likes and ad revenue, the more her eyes would dim with disappointment.

She’d dumped him six months ago. Which, yes, was depressing, but it wasn’t a heartbreak situation the way Dillon was implying. It was more like an awkward “I wish I could say it wasn’t you, but it actuallyisyou and your refusal to do anything with your life other than take up space in the world” situation.

He had always been attracted to women with ambition because it required a level of confidence that he didn’t have. The laundromat he owned didn’t require much effort to keep the doors open, so he had that covered. He owned and lived in the building, so paying a few utility bills on time wasn’t difficult either. To someone like him, Inez’s color-coded spreadsheets and annotated social media calendars seemed like sorcery. Maybe he thought it would rub off. Or at least point his life in some direction that felt more like progress and less like floating into space.

Nathan spotted his car in the distance. The interior light illuminated the women lounging inside. Laura’s bare foot was bobbing outside the passenger window, and Chrissie’s blond hair was splayed across the back seat. His Camaro had been taken hostage by two drunk 7-Eleven cashiers.

Fuck. It may not have been his heart, but Inez had definitely broken something.

“I’m good.” He turned to Dillon and added a quick smile to make it more convincing. “Just picky.”

“Yeah, well, get unpicky before it stops working.” Dillon grinned, visibly relieved to switch to one of his favorite topics. “I read that on Reddit a while back. It has to do with chronology or something.”

“Chronology?”

“Yeah, like your muscles and shit. What Stan Payton studied before he started coaching that baseball team.”

“That’s not—” Nathan paused and considered the effort involved in explaining kinesiology versus chronology to his friend. “You know. You’re probably right.”

A guy in a white Tesla honked his horn when they walked in front of his car, and they flipped him off in unison. “You talk to Bobbi lately?” Dillon asked, ducking his head to focus on an empty Coke can he kicked ahead like a soccer ball.

“Yeah,” Nathan said, eager for a new topic. He blocked Dillon with the side of his foot, sending the can skidding to the right.

“Like, a lot?” The parking lot was suddenly flooded in light. Music swelled over closing credits and a chorus of engines turning over. “People around town are saying you guys have some sort ofthinggoing on.”

People? What people? Nathan could count on one hand the number of people in Oasis Springs he’d spoken to over the past year. Even that customer with the hairless cat who used to nod on her way out the door refused to make eye contact lately. Probably because he didn’t smile as much as he used to. Being a big brown guy with ink up to his neck didn’t give him the luxury of being antisocial.

“There’s nothing.” Nathan paused at the sight of a black Mercedes parked in the distance, away from the other cars. A woman was sitting on the hood. “Why does that car look familiar?”

Dillon followed his gaze. “Everyone in this town drives a Mercedes. It’s like rednecks and their four-wheelers.” He glanced at Nathan. “Nice rims, though.”

Dillon was right, there was nothing special about a late-model S-Class in Oasis Springs. But the woman sitting on the hood gave him a vague sense of déjà vu. Her clothes matched the car—dark, sleek, and expensive—but she sat hunched over, knees to chest, periodically swiping her eyes. The whole thing looked off, like she’d gotten lost on her way to a cocktail party.

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