16
Taylor
Eric and I were back at his place, reading in bed. He was churning through a thick tome about eastern philosophy, while I was reading one of my favorite Michael Crichton novels.
“I do not understand how you can read fiction,” Eric said from behind his book. “It doesn’t stimulate you intellectually.”
“That’s not why I’m reading,” I said curtly. “I’m reading to relax before bed.”
He gave a dismissive shake of his head. “Still. There are better authors out there.”
“Crichton is the reason I got into paleontology,” I said.
“A fact which you never cease to remind me,” he muttered.
“I’ve told you, like, once,” I replied.
Eric put down his book. “Why are you so prickly tonight?”
“I’m fine.”
“Is this about the trivia game?” He chuckled. “I told you it was just some friendly teasing. Brody was fine. And I’m sure he hears much worse from his teammates. You know how athletes are.”
I buried my face in my book rather than respond to him.
Eric’s ringtone, which was Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto, rang on the bedside table. He waited an annoyingly long amount of time before answering it.
“Hello, Lamar. No, I was just doing some light reading before bed. Oh. Is that so? Okay, thank you.” He hung up and turned to me. “Let me see your phone.”
“Why? What was that about?”
He smiled smugly. “Apparently our trivia friend embarrassed himself in public tonight, and there are videos on Twitter. But I do not have the app installed.”
He tried to take my phone, but I elbowed his hand away and opened Twitter myself. It didn’t take me long to figure out what he was referring to, because it was all over my feed.
The video showed Brody and Isabella on the sidewalk in downtown Salt Lake City, mere blocks from where we had played trivia. They were having a heated argument. Isabella looked like she was throwing a tantrum.
Eric chuckled. “Fighting with his cheerleader girlfriend. Typical.”
“What do you mean, typical?” I asked.
“Don’t be offended. I am merely pointing out that athletes typically do not have long relationships, nor do cheerleaders. Perhaps this is the reason he performed poorly at trivia. His mind was elsewhere. He might not be such a Neanderthal after all.”
His comment was too much for me. I got out of bed and began changing out of my pajamas and into street clothes.
Eric blinked at me in confusion. “What are you doing?”
“You,” I said, “are an asshole.”
His face was annoyingly calm. “One, that is very rude of you. Two, you are not answering my question.”
I let out a frustrated groan and walked out into the living room. By the time I got my shoes on, Eric had emerged from the bedroom.
“Taylor, what is your problem?”
“You are my problem!” I said. “Brody was nothing but nice to you at the bar, and you spent the whole night making underhanded insults. And you’re still doing it. You’re acting like he’s beneath you.”
Eric smirked. “He is a professional athlete. I have two doctorates from Ivy League schools. Of course he is beneath me.”