“She was depressed, you asshole!”
“Hey, c’mon.” The teen girl at the grill takes a few uncertain steps toward them, the burger spatula in one hand. “It’s all cool.”
“It’s not fuckin’ cool,” London grumbles, slumping back in her chair and gulping her seltzer, silver rings flashing on all her fingers. “She almost died. They had to pump out her stomach.”
“But she did it to herself,” TJ counters, sitting forward in his chair with the air of an exhausted college professor who’s given this speech too many times. “It’s a series of bad choices. No one wakes up one day and randomly picks up the Tums. If you’re having problems, you should do the deep work on fixing your psyche. Meditate, do yoga, see a therapist, see a doctor, get meds, reach out. Don’t take a bottle of chewable calcium. That’s the coward’s response.”
“So what, you’re a fuckin’ doctor now? A psychologist? You think people can just get fixed by doing some downward dog?” London throws her shoulders back against the chair, tossing her hair and snarling. “Jesus, what an asshole.”
Chelsea can feel it building—the goading, the denial, the insults, the body language, the tension brewing between two strangers in lawn chairs. It’s like watching a tornado coming, knowing she can’t stop it. But she has to try.
“I think we can all agree that there’s nothing funny about depression or being sick,” she says in what she recognizes as the same voice she uses when she’s breaking up a quarrel between her daughters. “But getting in a fight here, now that we all have jobs, isn’t going to help anybody.” Movement draws her eye away from the danger zone between London and TJ, and she gives a tiny smile as she notes Indigo texting on her phone, hoping she’s letting the people in charge know that there’s some weird, useless argument happening out here. Sure, tension is high, but…
“I’ve met so many assholes like you,” London continues, her voice rising. “Like, you’d think with the economy trashed and dead bodies everywhere, you could be, I don’t know, nice. Like, give the benefit of a doubt. But no, Mr. Don’t Drink here knows everything. You think you’re so great?”
“Says the girl who doctors her bikini pics to sell diet pills on her thinspo Insta,” TJ mutters. “Yes, I know who you are, and you’re obviously just here for the attention.”
London explodes from her chair, knocking it backward, seltzer can crushed in her hand. “Don’t you insult my feed, you little turd! You don’t know me! You can’t talk about me that way!”
TJ stands, arms crossed, giving her a look meant to express his disdain—and his lack of fear.
“You don’t get it, do you? People can say whatever they want. People can judge you. You can do whatever you want, but then people can think and say whatever they want about that. You can’t control other people.” He raises one eyebrow like he thinks he’s the Rock.
London stops, close enough to slap him. Steve and Matt leap to their feet, looking like they want to stop the fight but unsure who to help. Amy and Chelsea stand, too, and Indigo has forgotten the sizzling meat on the grill and is straining anxiously toward the interview building, phone against her ear.
“I’m not scared of you,” London snarls with all the bravado of a Chihuahua pissing itself in front of a Doberman.
“You should be scared of me,” TJ explains with aggressive, Zen-like calm. “I’ve got more body mass than you and I’m a brown belt in jiu-jitsu. I could literally kill you. And what are you going to do to me?”
London shoves him, and he takes a step back but doesn’t show any emotional response, doesn’t even uncross his arms. It’s weirdly fascinating to Chelsea, watching a grown man goaded by a woman, who doesn’t seem the least bit interested in hitting her or choking her, who may say cruel things—cruel, but true—but doesn’t seem to want to cause harm. London is out of control, and TJ might be an asshole, but he’s giving off the aura of a yogi.
And it’s only making London angrier. She owns some sense of safety, of untouchability, that Chelsea has never known. It’s a privilege to act this way and know you won’t be attacked.
“I’ve killed people, too, you dick!” London growls. “I beat a guy’s head in with a wine bottle at a club and went right back to dancing, so don’t you act like I’m nothing!”
“I’m not acting like you’re nothing,” he responds calmly. “I’m being honest because that’s my right as a human being and because I believe in truth and authenticity above all things. If I wanted to act like you were nothing, I wouldn’t be talking to you.”
With a grunt, London shoves him again, her hands pressing against his crossed arms, her perfect ombre nails spread like cat claws. He steps back and shakes his head sadly at her.
“Why are you doing this? I’m not your enemy.”
“You keep saying that, but you also called my friend dumb and you think I’m dumb for drinking and you insulted my feed and you’re just an asshole!” She shoves him again, and his arms uncross.
He doesn’t hurt her, though, doesn’t make a move toward her. His hands hang at his sides, easy, and he takes a deep breath and cocks his head at her.
“You’re the one acting like an asshole.”
London’s hands go to fists, and she’s about to punch him or slap him or something when a loud voice booms, “Stop right there!”
Everyone, even London, turns to focus on the figures walking briskly across the fairgrounds. It’s Harlan, Chris, Sienna, Arlene, and the tattooed brunette from the waiting room. Harlan leads them, striding across the field like an action hero, long hair and scarf blowing behind him as if he’s led by his own personal fan. London relaxes, the fight gone out of her as she focuses on the approaching group. TJ’s posture doesn’t change. Harlan steps forward, close enough that he could grab both of their heads in his gorilla hands and slam them together, if he wanted to.
“First rule of the VFR is we don’t fight for real. You want a job, you shake hands and sit back down.”
TJ immediately holds out his hand to shake. London stares at it resentfully and looks back to Harlan without shaking.
“But we’re allowed to insult each other and get away with it?”
Harlan shrugs. “I can’t make people be good. I can just set limits for what behavior’s allowed on my property. If you want this job, if you want to get paid, you’ve got to get along, just like any other job. Did he hurt you?”
“He said—”
“I didn’t ask what he said. Did he physically hurt you?”
“No.”
London’s got to be in her twenties, but she sounds like she’s five, sullen and resentful and anxious for everyone to know it.
“And did you hurt him?”
“No.”
Harlan looks to TJ.
“She shoved me. It didn’t hurt.”
With a sigh, Harlan squats to pick up London’s dropped seltzer can, which sits crumpled in a little puddle. He stands and gives her the saddest look, a look of disappointment and pity. “I guess you’re out.”
“But I—”