How to Repair a Mechanical Heart - By J. C. Lillis Page 0,15
different from Nigh?”
“Uh, I guess because she’s always an optimist. Even when it’s incredibly, unbelievably stupid to be.”
“Who does Nigh belong with: Cadmus or Dutch Jones?”
“Whoever doesn’t dick her over.”
“What’s your favorite episode?”
“Eh. What’s the one where Xaarg sends that swamp monster after us and I almost die?”
Someone yells out, “3-16!”
“Yeah, that one. I got to scream a lot.” She throws back her head and releases an unholy screech, loud enough to chill the collective blood of the Social Media conference two ballrooms over.
Everyone freezes. The guy chatting up Bec breathes holy shit.
Abel leans close. “Omigod,” he hisses.
“I know.”
“We were there, Bran. We were there when Bree LaRue melted down in Cleveland. Historic.” He puts his hot hand on my back and my body goes stiff, like metal bolts are tightening all my joints.
Onstage, Worried Guy’s talking to Bree in the low soothing tone that cops use when someone’s about to jump off a ledge. His hand reaches out for her mike. She snatches it back, squints into the crowd: “More questions! Cough ‘em up, come on! How much did you guys shell out for this?”
“Should I ask?” Abel mutters.
“Just wait.”
“Come on, pry me open, people!” Bree LaRue crows. “I know stuff, okay? Tom Shandley has a third nipple! David Darras fucking hates Lenny Bray! The writers stole the whole plot of the season finale from a fanfic writer and didn’t give her credit!”
Someone behind us whispers career suicide. I just stare. I can’t close my mouth.
Abel grabs the question paddle.
“Not yet!” I tug his sleeve.
“They might shut her down, Bran.”
Worried Guy points. “Guy in the vest. Go!”
Abel touches his chest. “Me?”
“Yes. Come on.”
“He’s cu-ute.” Bree LaRue stumbles sideways, shielding her eyes with one hand. “Aww, look at his hair. And the chin! He’s like Laurence Olivier, and a cockatoo. Like if they had a baby?”
“Hurry it up,” Worried Guy tells Abel.
Abel clears his throat a million times. Bec leans closer with the camera. His hands quiver, just a little. Stage fright? Unexpected.
Sort of cute.
“Hi Miss LaRue I’m Abel and this is Brandon and we’re here representing the Screw Your Sensors fan vlog at screwyoursensors.blognow.com?”
“Super, honey. Ask the question.”
“Okay, so we’re having this debate with some other fans—”
“Oh. Perfect.”
“—and we wanted to ask you.” He takes a deep breath. “That scene in the season finale where they’re trapped in the crystal spider cave and Cadmus is like ‘it’s so quiet in here it could swallow up all your secrets’ and Sim is like ‘yes Captain…quite’ and then Cadmus puts his hand on his arm and they look at each other and it fades out, do you think they did anything in the cave for real or is it all just fanwank?”
I have this sudden sick vision of losing the bet with the Cadsim girls; Abel’s lips coming at me with a camera pointed at us. I cross my fingers tight.
Bree LaRue cocks her head. “Cadmus and Sim.”
“Yes.”
“Were they…” She claps her hand to her heart and bats her eyes. “…together.”
A female voice in the crowd goes, “So cute it hurts!”
“I said that once, didn’t I?” Bree LaRue shoots the girl a rueful smile.
“Yeah.”
I scan the crowd. The girl’s wearing a fake sunflower in her hair and a homemade Cadsim shirt, a manip of them holding hands above the words YES, CAPTAIN…QUITE. Bree LaRue rolls her eyes and makes a jacking-off motion. Abel jabs my ribs.
“You think it would work? Like for real?” Bree scratches the back of her head like she’s trying to make it bleed. “’Cause here’s what I’m thinking would happen, like, it looks good on paper ‘cause they’re both beautiful and everyone loves to see pretty with pretty, but then Sim wouldn’t know what to do like, mechanically or anything, and Cadmus would get bored in five seconds because that’s who he is and guys like that never ever change and one day Sim would be at some stupid convention at some stupid hotel and Cadmus would call him up at six a.m. and say hey, you know that girl I said was just a friend? Yeah, well, we’re in Barbados right now drinking rum-frickin’-swizzles in a hammock, and when we get back can I come by and pick up my things? Sorry baby. You knew this would happen.”
I see this is all about Cash Howard dumping Bree LaRue and I should be sad for her, but I picture him shirtless in a hammock and oh God. Once I was watching his Husband Hunt season with Mom,