Tell that to Godzilla.
I take a breath and try to put a smile in my voice. “What kind of eggs do you like?”
He says flatly, “I hate eggs.”
Of course you do. I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose between my fingers.
After a moment, he seems to realize the conversation has fallen off the edge of a cliff and offers a mumbled, “I love bacon, though.”
It’s a miracle: Mason Spark and I have something in common.
“Crispy or chewy?”
He hollers, “Chewy is disgusting!”
Gee, have an opinion, why don’t you? I say calmly, “I prefer crispy, too.”
He exhales. Even that sounds aggravated. I can’t imagine what it must be like to go around like that, with so much pent up anger you can’t even talk about breakfast foods without exploding.
After an uncomfortable pause wherein all I hear is the sounds of his footsteps thumping back and forth as he paces—or at least I imagine he’s pacing, it seems like something he’d do, but for all I know he’s on his way to the cellar with the dead body he needs to dispose of—I say, “Would you like me to tell you why I called now, or do you have more shouting to do? If so, I can wait. Just checking.”
There’s a noise—a chuckle?
No. Impossible.
He blurts, “What’s with the pink?”
And we’re off. “The pink what?”
“All the fucking pink at your office. It’s really fucking weird.”
Now I understand why pious Catholics are always crossing themselves. They’re praying to God to come and take them to heaven, because they’ve got their own Mason Spark in their lives and they’re this close to sharpening that hatchet in the garage and burying it in his skull.
I feel so, so sorry for all those girls I set up with him on the phone.
“Mr. Spark—”
“MASON!”
When my hearing returns and the dishes in the cupboards have stopped rattling, I say, “Mason, I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t curse at me. It’s a pet peeve of mine. If we’re going to continue working together, I need you to show me a certain level of respect. Agreed?”
The footsteps on the other end of the phone stop abruptly. “I wasn’t cursing at you. I was just cursing in general. There’s a difference.”
His voice sounds subdued. I think that’s as close to an apology as I’ll get, but it’s good enough.
“I see. So the reason for the call—”
“Is your problem with all cursing, or just the F-word? Because honestly, the F-word is so useful for so many different situations, I don’t think I’d be able to speak a full fucking sentence without it.”
I lower my head and bang it gently against the kitchen table.
“Hello?”
“Still here.”
“You sound weird.”
“That’s because my brain is leaking out my ears.”
“Probably ’cause of all those poached eggs. The yolks are never cooked enough. You know what’s in runny eggs? Salmonella. You’re probably dying from a brain infection as we speak.”
Already exhausted by this conversation, I exhale in a huge gust. “Salmonella affects the intestinal tract, not the brain.”
“Really? Hmm. What bacteria do you get from handling kitty litter?”
I actually know the answer to that, but I realize he’s baiting me and won’t give him the satisfaction. I say sweetly, “Probably the same bacteria you get from sweaty jockstraps.”
There’s a moment of stunned silence before Mason starts to laugh.
It’s a big, beautiful sound, open and honest, unselfconscious and deep. I lift my head and simply listen to him laugh until the guffaws taper down to chuckles and my shock has lessened to somewhere south of total organ failure.
He says, “For such a librarian, you’re funny.”
I sniff. “Librarians are smart and essential in helping kids develop critical thinking skills and guiding them through media literacy, so I’ll take that as a compliment.”
His voice gets low and gruff again, all the laughter gone. “It was. You’re very...”
I lean forward, holding the phone tighter, my ears pricked and my pulse ticking up, until Mason blurts, “Prim.”
Prim. Ah yes. How every woman longs to be described.
Romeo, O Romeo, where in the F-word art thou?
I enjoy a brief but vivid image of myself with a handful of darts and Mason strapped to a board several yards away with a target painted on his bare chest, hollering curses at the top of his lungs as I smile, take aim, and let the darts fly, one after the other, hitting a bull’s-eye every time.
Really, who could blame me?
Before he can interrupt me again, I say, “I want to be your dating coach.”
Silence.
I’ve never met another person who can make it seem so loud.
Then, sounding like I’ve called his manhood into question, he growls, “Believe me, I don’t have a problem finding dates.”
I roll my eyes. Athletes and their egos. “But you want a wife—”
“Need. Not want.”
The vehemence in his voice stalls me for a second. “Mason?”
“Yeah?”
“You know a woman can’t fix whatever’s wrong with your life, right?”
“Dick thinks it will.”
“What do you think?”
There’s another of his signature silences, then a heavy sigh. In a low voice, he says, “I think there are some kinds of broken that can’t be fixed. But Dick’s the only thing close to family I’ve got. I don’t wanna disappoint him.”
I remove the phone from my ear and stare at it in disbelief. He’d make a lifelong commitment just so his agent wouldn’t be disappointed in him?
That’s either the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard or the saddest.
When I don’t say anything for too long, Mason snaps back into wild boar mode. “I can hear you judging me!”
I say soothingly, “I’m not. I promise. But it does occur to me that you could find a woman all by yourself who’d be happy to go along with a sham marriage to you.”
Like quicksilver, his mood changes again. His voice grows quiet and intense. “Why? You think it would be good to be married to me?”
Dear God in heaven, I’d rather be sentenced to life in prison. “What I meant is that you’re rich and famous. The world is full of women for whom that would be more than enough. Couldn’t you just find one of them and make some sort of arrangement?”
He laughs, only this time it sounds unnerving. Dark, as if I’ve said something funny but also incredibly naïve.
“The kind of woman I’d pick would steal all my money, burn down my house, and fuck all the guys on my team. Er, sorry—screw.”
I make a face at the phone. “Forgive me for saying this, but you don’t need a matchmaker to work out that particular knot. You need a therapist.”
“Got one.”
You can’t be paying him nearly enough. “And what does he have to say about this marriage scheme?” I know it’s none of my business, but honestly, I’m fascinated.
“She. And she doesn’t know about it. Nobody does, except Dick.” Loaded pause. “And you.”