At twenty-seven, YouTube sensation Ben Leonards is married to his work. If he's not whipping up lasagna with a side of science experiments, he's running statistical analysis of bitcoin during explosive behavior periods.
When a friend asks him to org...
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Linda doesn't share my aversion to airplane and airport food and had no problem eating the suspicious-smelling sandwich on the flight over. I assume that's the reason why she declines her mother's offer to have some snacks brought up but accepts a glass of wine. I could eat something, but the thought of the explanations needed convince me to wait until dinner. The conversation between Linda, Mr., and Mrs. Baxter meanders around the wedding guest, an appointment for Linda's dress fitting, and an avalanche of concerns about maintaining the secrecy of the event. Minutes turn into hours and I half-listen until I hear my name.
"Ben, how did you and Linda meet?"
"At the library, Mrs. Baxter." I squeeze my teeth to stop myself from elaborating. Linda gave firm instructions not to mention she works there. It's hard to squeeze my teeth and smile at the same time. My phone vibrates in my pocket. My stomach growls. How long is this going to go on?
"Melissa. Please, call me Melissa."
"The Chicago Public Library I volunteer at." Linda looks over at Brenda, who's playing with her phone and grinning from time to time-out of sync with the discussion around her.
"Ah, you're still doing that?" says Melissa. "Did I tell you the architect of that building designed "The Hole In The Wall Gang" camp we are supporting?"
"Yes, mother, you did."
"So you know there are plenty of worthy charities for you to volunteer at in New York."
"Mother."
Melissa's smile slips for a second, but she recovers. "And you, Ben? Do you volunteer as much as our mouse does?"
"No. She wins there."
"A consolation prize, I guess." Mr. Baxter chuckles into his glass of whiskey.
"Are you a fan of books like her then?" Melissa sips her wine and flicks her gaze between Linda and me.
"Non-fiction. Fiction and poetry are still a struggle." I squeeze my teeth again as Linda forbade mentioning her love of poetry: one of the nineteen, no, eighteen topics that were off-limits. My phone keeps vibrating. I should've turned it to silent.
"She's always been our book mouse." The way Melissa smiles while talking with her top and bottom teeth on display reminds me to keep up with mine. My smile wanes if I don't resume pushing the corners of my lips apart every couple of minutes.
Mr. Baxer is nursing the whiskey I declined three times. "Such a smart girl, and such a waste."
"We're not doing this again. I'm getting another glass." Linda downs the rest of her wine and maneuvers between my knees and the enormous square coffee-table that separates our couch from the one Linda's parents are on across from us. No one talks.
Mr. Baxter swirls the ice in his glass, and Melissa adjusts her body into a position worthy of an official photo of the British Royal family. Her knees and ankles pressed together she slants her legs to the side toward the third couch perpendicular to ours.
