Me: Octopus or bear?

Me: Why do people have to have the last word? What’s the point?

Me: Why can’t people vacation in their own homes? That’s where all your stuff is.

Me: When global warming melts all the snow, will Antarctica have to change its name?

Me: Was I wrong for cheering in Aquaman when they tossed the trash back on the land?

Me: Stupidest advice you’ve ever gotten?

Me: What constitutes being nosy versus probing?

Me: Why do we call it a refrigerator and not a food-cooler?

Buzz.

Reese: Stop. Jesus, woman.

I giggled. Normally, I hated giggling, but in this instance, that’s what it was. I’d just gotten back to his cabin, and I was curled up on the couch, my phone in hand and what I could only imagine looked like an unhinged smile on my face.

I was buzzed, gloriously—a let’s-forget-reality kind of buzzed. It was the bestest.

The phone rang instead, and I hit accept. “When people work the midnight shift, are they nooners instead of a morning or night person?”

“Fuck’s sakes. I’m tired, woman. Stop. Turn the brain off.”

“Reese,” I whispered. More laughter. A hiccup now.

“What?” But he knew. I could hear his smile. “Ah. You’re buzzed.”

“I am. Did you use a one-use girl tonight?”

“Who is that?” a voice asked from where he was.

“Sorry,” he said to them. “It’s a chick. Hold on.” He was moving around. I heard a bunch of static sounds until a door closed, and his voice came back, dropping low, “Give me a second. I’m actually going to the lobby to have a conversation with you.”

“I’m a chick? Why not ducklings? Little ducks? Too close to little dicks?”

He barked out a laugh, then smothered it. “Chill. Give me a second to regroup.”

A ding.

“Are you on the elevator?”

“I am, and yes, there are people here.” He said to them, “Nice night, huh?”

A woman laughed. A guy said something. Then I heard, “You’re Reese Forster, aren’t you?”

“No.” I shot upright on the couch. “I’ve got him now. He’s mine.”

Reese snorted, but said to them, “I am.” To me, “One second.”

The elevator door dinged again, and I could hear Reese stop to take a selfie. He signed a couple things for them, and then the phone came back to his mouth. “Hold on. I’m moving somewhere more private.” He asked someone else, “My roommate’s sleeping, and I know you guys don’t like people to hang out in the hallways. Is there somewhere I can take this call?”

A sudden burst of laughter and yelling came from where he was, in the background.

“Oh yes, Mr. Forster,” someone said. “Of course. One moment, please.”

It was another two minutes before I heard a door close and Reese said more clearly, “Okay. I’m in a back office that I’m pretty sure some dude was hoping to take a nap in for his thirty-minute break just now.” He yawned. “And shit. Why am I talking to you at two in the morning?”

I forgot he was an hour ahead where he was. “Why would you not talk to me when I’m buzzed?” I felt a belch coming and stifled it. “I’m hilarious.”

He laughed quietly. I heard creaking on his end. “Maybe. So entertain me, woman.”

“Stop calling me woman. I have a name.”

“Gnat.”

“You call me a gnat again, and I’ll start taking pictures of your dirty boxers. You have some here, you know.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Stop calling me a gnat. It’s insulting.”

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. You’re right. Just…names felt a bit personal, Miss Don’t-Ask-Me-Any-Real-Questions. Thought a nickname, made in jest, was the right way to go.”

“What do you usually call your female friends?”

He grunted. “I don’t have female friends.”

“Right. You have one-use girls?”

“Or multiple-use girls.”

“That is disgusting.”

He laughed. “Sorry. I don’t really date, so I don’t label anyone anything, but would you rather I say fuck buddies? I have a few of those.”

I wasn’t feeling a burning in my chest. Not at all. A gnat hadn’t nestled there and started digging even deeper.

I scowled. “When’s the last time you dated?”

“Really? We’re going this route?”

“What?”

“Don’t be a jealous chick. I don’t like that.”

“Don’t call me a chick either.”

“Shit!” He was silent a second.

I bit my lip. What was I doing?

“Are you seriously jealous?” He was quieter now.

Was I? “I don’t know.”

His voice was strained. “I thought we were friends. I mean…we are, aren’t we?”

Had I just messed that up? I swallowed, pushed down a lump, and sagged back on his couch. “I have no idea. I mean, I’m a mess.”

“Certifiable.” He sounded relieved.

I relaxed, stretching my legs over the cushions. “You know about Stupid Tragic Guy, but you don’t know about the ex-ex, the most recent ex.”