We Are Inevitable Gayle Forman (simple ebook reader TXT) 📖

He searches his pockets for his bandana, not finding it because it’s up Richie’s nose. I hand him a box of tissues and he honks out a few trumpety blows before he looks up. “You know what’s the biggest threat to wood? Not fire. Not water. But termites. They get into a perfectly healthy house and gnaw away until there ain’t nothing left. I might not have been the only one, but I was one of the termites that weakened your foundations, and I’ll be darned if I’m gonna let it fall down on my account.”

“But Ike . . .” I say. “What if it’s too late? What if the termites have eaten away so much of the wood that there’s nothing left to save?”

Ike dabs his eyes as he contemplates this, but before he answers, the door swings open and Bev emerges, Ira and Richie trailing behind her like wayward children.

“They’re both fine. No broken bones.” She points to Richie, who glares at me, like he’s even more pissed off that I didn’t give him a legit injury. “And no strokes.” She gestures to Ira.

“I had a panic attack,” he announces cheerily.

“Are you sure?” I ask Bev. “He’s never passed out before.”

“If you’d seen your only son covered in blood, you’d have passed out too,” Ira says with a dopey smile on his face.

“Panic attacks can manifest in all sorts of ways,” Bev says. “Scary but not life-threatening, unless you’re driving.”

“She gets them when she’s driving. And you’ll never guess what she does to calm herself down.” When no one guesses, Ira says, “She sings!”

“What can I say?” Bev shrugs. “Singing calms me down.”

“She’s going to help me get a handle on my depression and anxiety!” Ira chirps gaily.

“Seems like she already has,” Richie mutters.

“She gave me Ativan!”

“I did,” she says. “And we discussed other options.”

“Support groups!” Ira says. “Bev’s going to take me to one. Her husband died.”

“Condolences,” Ike says.

“Thank you,” Bev replies. “And yes, support groups can be very helpful.”

“You gonna put him on them drugs?” Ike asks.

There’s an awkward moment. Bev smiles mildly and says, “Like I said, all options are on the table.”

“Because Beana tried Zoloft but it gave her headaches,” Ike says. “We switched her to Wellbutrin. Works like a charm.”

“My dad takes Zoloft, no problem,” Richie announces, then remembers he’s mad at me and glares anew.

“I’m really sorry, Richie,” I tell him.

“We’re all sorry,” Ike adds. “And we’re all friends now.”

“Oh good!” Ira beams. “Now we can go back to work. I told Bev all about how we’re fixing up the store and I promised her we’d have Lit and Knits.”

“Knit and Lits,” Ike corrects.

“Those too,” Ira adds. He looks at me. “See, Aaron, I told you, it’s not too late.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell him,” Ike says, swinging an arm around my shoulder.

The average dinosaur supposedly lived between seventy and eighty years, which is basically the average life span for a human. I think back to those thirty-three thousand years after the asteroid hit and before the last dinosaur disappeared. Some of them must’ve carried on, right? Chewing plants, eating turtles, having sex, playing with their hatchlings. Some of them must have been the dinosaur equivalent of happy.

And so when I tell Ike and Ira, “Maybe it’s not too late,” I kind of even almost believe it.

The Art of the Deal

Penny Macklemore keeps a couple offices in town—one in the back of the hardware store, another in the car dealership—but the place you can reliably find her is at C.J.’s Diner, where she eats lunch every day. Cindy Jean won’t let anyone else sit in the corner booth between the hours of eleven and three.

“Aaron, what a pleasant surprise,” Penny says as I approach her booth.

“Mind if I sit down?”

“Please do.”

I slide opposite her.

“You look pale, like you could use a bit of iron. Cindy Jean, let’s get this boy a burger.”

“It’s fine. I just came to talk to you.”

“Have a fry, at least.” She dips a limp spear in ketchup and holds it up to my lips. I have no choice but to accept it. “Good. Would you like an order of fries?”

“No, thanks. I’m really not hungry.”

“Suit yourself.” She dabs her lips with a napkin and then bares her teeth at me. “Do I have lettuce stuck anywhere?”

“What?”

“When you age, your gumlines recede and food gets stuck. Gerald used to point out if I had anything in my teeth, but he’s passed on now so there’s no one to warn me.” She bares her teeth at me again. “Do I have any gunk?”

“Nothing that I can see.”

Not quite trusting my response, she takes a knife and holds it up to her mouth like a mirror. When she’s reasonably assured there is no loose vegetation there, she puts down the knife. “I take it you’ve come to talk to me about the work going on at your store.”

“You know about that?” I let go of the breath I have been holding since I decided to back out of the deal. If Penny knows, Ira will never have to. Everything might turn out okay after all.

“I make it my business to know everything that happens in this town. How do you feel about pie?” Before I answer she calls, “Cindy Jean, what kind of pie do you have?”

“Cherry and apple, same as always,” Cindy Jean replies. “And pumpkin for the holiday.”

“Do you have a preference?” Penny asks me. “Aside from pumpkin, which I never cared for.”

“I don’t really want pie.”

“Oh, share a slice of pie with me. Otherwise I’ll eat the whole thing. Which do you like better? Cherry or apple?”

“Cherry, I guess.”

“Cindy Jean,” she calls. “We’ll have the cherry.” She turns to me. “Now what is it you need, dear? You want to back out of the sale?” She says it so breezily, like she expected it, that my limbs go rubbery with relief.

“I do.”

“Why’s that?”

“Our