Page 11 of Only and Forever
“Well,” Viggo says, before taking a sip of coffee, eyes back on the dawn, “if you aren’t scared, you certainly have the time this morning. Youcouldanswer my questions right now if you aren’t too afraid.”
“I’m not afraid of your questions.”
He glances my way, smiling. “Prove it.”
I roll my eyes and slump back in my chair.
“C’mon, Lula. Give me a chance. You might even have fun talking to me.”
That’s what I’m worried about, I think, sipping my coffee.And then I’ll leave, and you’ll leave, and I’ll have a happiness hangover when my life shrinks back to being sad and stressful.
“Fine,” I grumble. “Do your worst.”
Within five minutes of agreeing to Viggo’s questions, I am deeply regretting my decision. He now knows my favorite food (seafood risotto), my first pet (Gertrude Stein, a sheepdog whose death I have still admitted to no one absolutely gutted me), my favorite color (blue), and the last country I visited (Iceland). Each answer I’ve given is harmless, except it doesn’t feel harmless at all. It feels like Viggo is building a stockpile, an arsenal of Tallulah facts stored up to use against me, to draw me in, to know me, like I’ve never wanted him to. And now he’s on to asking the weirdest stuff. The latest question is a bridge too far.
“I’m not telling you the last time I cried,” I mumble into my coffee mug before draining it.
Viggo’s eyes widen innocently. “Why not? That’s a great question.”
“It isnot. Besides, I barely ever cry.”
“Why?”
“Because I hate crying.”
“Really? I love it,” he says. “Crying is so cathartic. I mean, I never love it in the moment, but I always cry when I really need to, and I always feel better afterward. Come on, now, tell me.”
“Nope.”
Viggo growls quietly in his throat, perturbed. It’s extremely satisfying to see his smile slip and watch him get annoyed, too. “Fine, then. I’ll guess.”
“Viggo—”
“When you finished your next book.”
“No.” I wish. I’d give anything to have finished this book already.
He narrows his eyes at me, like he’s trying to read my mind. “When your sister scored the game winner in their final match of the season.”
Charlie, like Ziggy, plays for the LA women’s professional soccer team. I felt a fierce surge of pride and happiness when she won the game for them, right before the end of stoppage time. But I didn’t cry.
“Nope.”
Viggo scratches his beard, peering out at the trees, mouth pursed in thought. “When you hit the bestseller list.”
I make a wrong-answer buzzer noise. “Three strikes, you’re out. Move on.”
He sighs. “Fine. Where do you live these days?” he asks, before draining his coffee, too.
My stomach clenches. I think about the Culver City house that I’d been living in since our friend group graduated college and wegot a place that we all agreed to live in. The house that became emptier as people paired off, got jobs, moved on, until it was just me and Clint. I think about the night Clint told me off and left me there, with a warning that I’d better be gone when he got back. “Pass.”
Another sigh. “Where’s the last place youstayed, then?”
“If Charlie hadn’t bombed my Seattle staycation plans, an adorable condo right on the bay, but thanks to her, the last place I stayed was a bungalow Airbnb in Escondido.”
Viggo chokes on his coffee. Eyes watering, he whacks his chest and sets down his mug, then spins and faces me fully in his chair. “Escondido?”
I frown at him and answer slowly, “Yes. Why? What’s the big deal?”