“I know, but your chatting won’t do anything to this situation besides make it worse. So just focus on picking an invite and try not to say much.”
“That seems so cold.”
“This is a cold situation,” Breaker says. “After you burned her heirloom veil in effigy, this is no longer a lovey-dovey time. This is war, and if you don’t want to be pushed around, you’re going to have to hold your head high, shut the fuck up, and pick out what you want.” I go to respond, and he adds, “You know how you are so perplexed by the way Huxley can not say a word but get everything he wants? It’s because he’s silent, and people buckle under the silence. Don’t buckle. Make her buckle.”
“You’re right. Be like Huxley, make her buckle.”
“Precisely. Okay, ready to go back there?” I nod. “And no talk about paper journeys and the mechanics of how it’s made.”
“My lips are sealed,” I say.
“Good.”
We head back to the table, and once again, Breaker holds out my chair for me. “Excuse me, I have to use the restroom. I’ll be right back,” he says right before heading to the back toward the restroom sign.
Okay.
Focus, Lia.
You are quiet. You are strong. You are not buckling.
Without saying a word, I pick up a folder and start flipping through it. Every so often, I can feel Beave’s eyes on me, but I continue to look through template after template. All of them are far too fancy to even consider. I don’t want something super stuffy. It can be pretty, but gold filigree seems a bit much.
Lifting my head, I ask the owner, “Do you happen to have anything that isn’t as fancy?”
“Excuse me?” The Beave asks. “What do you mean not so fancy?”
Do I answer?
I was told to be quiet.
Would Huxley answer?
Or would he just stare?
I think he would just stare.
So that’s what I do. I stare at her.
“Ophelia, I asked you a question.”
I know, but I’m supposed to just stare, so . . . that’s what I do, as sweat creeps up my neck, because this staring thing is hard.
The Beave must pick up on what I’m doing because she folds her hands in front of her and stares back.
Oh God!
It’s a stare off.
Breaker did not prepare me for this.
Why did he choose this moment to go to the bathroom? He had a chance when we went back to the apartment to change. This is poor peeing management on his end, leaving me here like this, all alone with a teaspoon of confidence in what I’m doing.
And boy, is she good.
Really fucking good.
Those beady eyes stare back at me. She recognizes it’s a showdown, and if I know this woman like I think I do, she won’t back down. Huxley might be the king of not talking, but man, oh man, it looks like The Beave can run a master class on it.
Just look at the way her eyes remain steady.
Not a twitch.
Not a fidget.
Meanwhile, over here, I’m a party of one, heading straight into the fiery pits of hell as I attempt to hold steady. But I’m wilting.
I can feel it.
There’s too much silence.
It’s killing me.
I’m going to break.
I’m going to snap.
I’m going to . . .
“Paper was invented by the Chinese back in 100 BC,” I blurt, feeling an overwhelming sense of relief. “And now, one single pine tree can create over eighty thousand sheets of paper. Can you believe that? Wow, what a dedication to the journey of paper, which is of course, quite the tale in and of itself, but I won’t bore you with that other than to say that paper really can transport us from world to world, and sure, some people might say it’s the author who is transporting us, the words are just on the paper, but you can’t print words without paper. Although I guess you can read electronically, ehh . . . either way, I think paper is a journey, and don’t you think we should appreciate that journey? I mean, look at this piece of paper,” I say as I pick up a thick cardstock. “Where do you think it came from? What part of the world did this traverse? For all we know, this used to be part of a tree that once housed a sloth or maybe a gibbon. And to know that it was a house at one point and is not going to offer its—for lack of a better term—body to us so we can invite people to the start of a new journey in life . . . do you see the full circle here? Just marvelous.” I pick up a pile of paper and run my fingers through it. “All marvel—ouch.” I chuckle and then shake out my hand. “The paper didn’t like me stroking it like that. Bit me right on the finger.” I shake my hand again, but this time, a line of red dots splatters across the paper and right across The Beave’s face.