I accept it, smiling and trying to appear pleasant and not like I want to stab her in the eye with said ballpoint pen. I set the items on my lap and refocus on my text conversation.
Syd has sent another message. I remember what Christmas morning used to be like when I was young and my father was alive. That's the same feeling I get every time I see the little glowing icon now.
The woman next to me says, “Is this your first time at one of Doctor Ballantyne's conferences?”
My head snaps up to her. She jumps, and a small line forms in her forehead.
“Oh,” she whispers, “I'm sorry for bothering you.”
She turns back to the podium.
Crap. I need to focus on the job.
With a stifled sigh, I silence my phone and stuff it back in my pocket. I take a moment to collect myself, then size up the woman.
She has short hair and oval, wire-framed glasses. She's wearing a blue suit and a scarf with purple splotches.
I have seconds to make her real and likable, so I can pretend to be the same.
She's a single mom to two children, I decide. No, three. Balancing a career and a family. Terrible divorce left her emotionally fragmented. Her children are everything to her. The reason she puts in the long hours. The reason she attends these lectures.
“No,” I say. “I've never been to … Doctor Ballantyne's … conferences before.”
Doctor Phillip Ballantyne. Hope he doesn't have a middle name, because I don't know if it will all fit on his tombstone.
She glances at me and gives a polite, but uninterested, smile. I try to focus on what Dr. Phil is saying.
“ … were the original inhabitants of the Canary Islands, the Berber said to have migrated to the islands between one-thousand B.C. and one-hundred B.C. Now, the Guanches have since died out, primarily through intermingling, but many cultural aspects alive today on the Canary Islands are attributed to them. For example, the Silbo Gomero, or el silbo. Silbo is more commonly referred to as the whistling language. It developed as a means to communicate long distances … ”
The projector screen behind him reads: The Polytheistic Beliefs of Pre-Islam Arabia.
Maybe I should have paid more attention to my studies because I have no idea how any of this relates to each other.
I pick up the pen and legal pad to take notes and nod along … for about three minutes. Then I can't pretend to care about blending in anymore, and I pull out my phone again.
I read Syd's message: No name for my condition, but the doctor orders a firm fucking every twelve hours.
Grinning like a dork, I type, I'll fill your prescription when I get back.
I wait for her reply, but she has apparently moved on to something else. I imagine she has an active social life, between her band and the fact she has a personality. Those aspects tend to attract attention, especially from guys.
The thought turns to despair and sinks from my chest to my stomach. Syd is, in reality, a player. That's why I let her stick around. One day, she will run off with her opening band and live the life of a B-list celebrity. Her fans will adore her. Maybe I'll get lucky and see her on YouTube sometimes.
The despair morphs into something resembling contentment. Syd is going to leave one day, but she'll never be completely gone from my life. I'm good with that.
At least, I can pretend I am.
***
Doctor Phillip Ballantyne prattles on for a quarter past forever, but the clock lies and shows it has only been two hours. My ass is numb. These conference seats could get a confession from the innocent.
I head for the door, then realize I'm a moron. No going back to my hotel yet. I pat my pockets like I lost something, though most people are busy politely shoving through the crowd out the exit, and make my way back to my Guantanamo special edition chair.
Phil—I hope I can call him Phil—is standing to the side of the podium conversing with some women from the audience. They are talking in rapid excitement, even giggling. My boy here is a regular Tommy Lee.
He glances up and his gaze lands on me. His grin is so wide he looks like a damn Jack-o'-lantern.
“Hello, hello!” He comes toward me, arm outstretched.
I pull to my feet and shake his hand, squeezing a little too hard accidentally on purpose. His flinch is quickly subdued.
He talks like every sentence ends with an exclamation mark. “I hope you found my conference enlightening! I haven't seen you at the others! If you enjoyed it, I will be holding another one next month in Houston!”
I give my temple a short rub with my palm and try to vomit up some sunshine right back. “It was excellent, uh, Phil.”
“Doctor,” he says, with a reprimanding raised eyebrow.
“Doctor. Yes, Doctor.” I struggle to find the next words. “Your piece on the Canary Islands was quite . . . brilliant.”
The women have gathered around us, and they nod and move in until we're all such close buddies. Wouldn't be surprised if we started holding hands and singing Kumbaya.
“Have you read my work?” He's still grinning at me.
I have an urge to shove the barrel of my gun into his mouth.