Page 82 of What We Break
"It's not Argentina," Tony argues. "It's gotta be Brazil."
They're both writing 'Brazil' on the answer sheet.
"It's Guyana," I say.
Reid stops writing. Looks at me. Back at the paper. Back at me. "Guyana? Is that even a country? I thought that was a fruit."
Angie drops her forehead into her hand. "That's guava, Reid."
"It's Guyana," I say again. "I did a clinic there two years ago. It's the only one."
Reid hesitates. He looks at Tony, who shrugs. Then he looks at Blake.
Blake finally looks away from the crowd. His eyes find mine across the table, and he holds there for a beat. Then he gives a single, sharp nod.
"She's right," he says. His voice is gravel compared to Reid's shouting. "Write it down."
Reid scribblesGuyanaon the sheet just as the timer runs out. Whenthe answers are read a minute later and we get the points, Reid lets out a whoop that turns heads three tables over.
"That is my girl!" He wraps an arm around my neck and kisses my temple loud and wet. "The brain on this woman! We are never losing again!"
I smile, heat crawling up my neck. It feels good. Not just getting it right, but being part of the win. Being part of something. Having the one weird thing nobody else at this table could pull out of their brain.
The obnoxious kiss was pretty great too.
Across the table, Blake takes a slow sip of his beer. Doesn't cheer. Doesn't react. But he catches my eye over the rim of his glass. Dips his chin — just an inch. Acknowledgment.
Then he goes back to watching the door.
Did I just get the Blake Moore seal of approval? What's next, a handshake? A firm nod at my funeral?
By round four, the table is covered in empty baskets and sticky rings from the glasses.
"I need water," Angie announces. "And a bathroom break. But mostly water."
"I'll get it," I say, sliding out of the booth before Reid can move. "I need to stretch anyway. Anyone else need anything?"
"Another IPA," Reid says, flashing that smile that still makes my stomach flip. "You're an angel."
"Stout," Blake says. He stands up. "I'll help you carry them."
"I've got it, Blake. It's just three drinks."
"Bar's crowded," is all he says. He's already moving, effectively cutting off my protest.
He's right. The bar is a mob scene. A local college team must have just finished a game, because the place is suddenly swarming with guys in jerseys who have clearly already a few beers deep.
I squeeze toward the bar counter, dodging elbows. It's tight. I have to turn sideways to slip between a pillar and a group doing shots.
"Two IPAs and a stout, please," I yell to the bartender. "And a water with no ice."
While I wait, the crowd surges. Someone bumps me hard from the left, knocking me into the counter.
"Watch it, sweetheart," one of the jersey guys slurs. He's looming over me, grinning in a way that makes my skin crawl. "You look like you need a better drink than that water."
"I'm good," I say, turning my back.
"Come on, just one shot. Don't be boring." He reaches out, his hand aiming for my arm.
