Perfect Fifths_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [46]
“Yawn. If his last name were Babycatcher, then I’d be amazed. And I’ve heard that one already, anyway.”
“An American woman was shopping in a used bookstore in Paris. She spotted a copy of her favorite book of short stories from her childhood—”
“Yeah, yeah. She opened it up to the front page and found her name written on the inside in her seven-year-old handwriting. Gimme something else. And don’t insult me with the JFK–Abraham Lincoln connection, or how the twenty-dollar bill predicted September eleventh.”
“I wouldn’t dream of insulting you, Jessica. Not on purpose, anyway, and not so early into this reunion.”
“Quit stalling. I’m still waiting to be amazed.”
“Why is it that we’ve all heard these same strange-but-true stories?”
“It’s like a form of religion, Marcus. The existence of unbelievable possibilities make us believe in the impossible.”
“Ha! And you’ve accused me of spouting pseudo-philosophical bumper-sticker wisdom!”
“That was painfully bad, wasn’t it? I’m sorry, it must be the pseudoephedrines talking … Or, uh, the Midol. I’m sorry.”
“Jessica!”
“What?”
“You don’t even realize you’re doing it.”
“Doing what?”
“Apologizing all the time.”
“I’m—Oops! I did, didn’t I?”
“For the rest of this conversation, I’m charging you a dollar every time you say ‘I’m sorry.’”
“A dollar? How much money do you think I have?”
“Then you better mind your tongue.”
“Mind your tongue?”
“Oh, man. Now, that sounds like a badly translated tattoo.”
[Pause.]
“That was a joke, Jessica. I was making a joke.”
[Pause.]
“I was just thinking that if you got ‘mind your tongue’ as a tattoo wrapped around your other arm, it could also be read as ‘tongue your mind.’”
“‘Tongue your mind.’ That’s certainly evocative. I can just picture someone licking a brain, can’t you?”
“I can. It’s gross—yet oddly …”
“Sensual.”
“Right.”
“More provocative than evocative.”
“Ow. Ow. Ow.”
“Another wave of cramps?”
“Oh yeah. It’s a menstrual tsunami in my uterus. Oh, I’m being totally gross, right? TMI! Ewwwwwww!”
“Not at all. The female reproductive cycle is a beautiful thing. A wonderful, miraculous—”
“Are you stalling, Marcus? Because I’m still waiting.”
“For what?”
“For your best strange-but-true story.”
“Oh, right. Hmm… How about this one? Seventy-year-old Finnish twins were hit by cars while riding their bicycles. Two separate accidents on the same road. They lay comatose in adjoining hospital rooms, then died seventeen minutes apart—exactly the same amount of time between their births.”
[Violent coughing fit.]
“Are you okay?”
[Still more coughing.]
“Your bullshit detector is whoop-whoop-whooping. You’re right, Jessica. You got me. I made up that last part about the seventeen minutes, but the rest is true.”
[Cough.] “No, that’s not it.”
“What? Are you okay? Did I say something wrong?”
“No. Just. This cold. And. Ow. These beautiful, wonderful, miraculous cramps.”
“Are you trying to get me to apologize so I have to pay you a dollar?”
“Oh, so it goes both ways?”
“Of course it does. That’s just fair play. So I’ll ask again. Did I say something wrong? Because I won’t apologize even if I did.”
“You didn’t say anything wrong.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“You don’t seem too sure.”
“I’m sure. Uh. I was just trying to remember something.”
“What?”
“A quote Mac shared with me. ‘’Tis strange—but true; for truth is always strange.’”
“Point taken: The Finnish twins story was strange but true enough as it was, without embellishment. I won’t exaggerate the truth again.”
“And if that quotation sounded like a bumper sticker or a bad tattoo, don’t blame me.”
“Who’s to blame?”
“Lord Byron, I think.”
“Aha! Byron is the fall guy! The scapegoat! Jessica, for the rest of this conversation, let’s blame it on Byron.”
“Blame what on Byron?”
“All of it. Anything. Everything.”
“On Byron?”
“Yes, Byron.”
“Why Byron?”
“Because he’s the one to blame.”
“For what?”
“All of it. Anything. Everything.”
“I see. So Byron is the de facto asshole of assholes.”
“Now you’re getting it!”
“At least our nonsensical non sequiturs