Page 45 of Holding Out for a Gyro
It wasn’t my place to share Evan’s anxiety issues. He was a dork about weather. He could have gone to work for a government service and stayed off screen, but with his looks, he’d been recruited by TV stations early on. It was a wonder he hadn’t managed to move up to a bigger market.
The commercials seemed to last forever, but then the news cut back in, and there Evan stood in front of the green screen with the animated image of clouds converging.
Graphics appeared, and a peculiar image began to emerge. Chelsea said, “Is it just me, or does that storm front look—”
“Phallic?” I said just as Chelsea said, “Oh God. It’s a penis.”
Evan’s hands ran along the projection as he spoke of the mounting pressure of a northern cold front. Then he glanced over and stuttered.
Chelsea’s hands covered her mouth. “Oh no. I can’t look away.”
I tried desperately not to laugh at my friend.
When the segment mercifully ended, and they cut tocommercial, my video chat rang. “It’s Evan.”
“Don’t answer that,” Chelsea advised.
Too late. I held the screen toward us. “Hi, Evan. You did great!”
I sounded too chipper. Evan said, “Fuck. Did either of you notice?”
“Notice what?” Chelsea’s voice had risen an octave. She was a terrible liar.
“That it was shaped like a dick. Like a big fat weather wiener.”
I burst out laughing. “I’m so sorry.”
Chelsea kept snorting. “It was brilliant. You looked great.”
Evan said, “Hell of a start to my on-air career here.”
A strange sound very adjacent to laughter escaped my throat despite my efforts to fight it.
Chelsea might have pulled it off, but her lips were already curling up, like she couldn’t contain it, and she blurted, “Don’t let it rub you the wrong way.”
I couldn’t hold back the laugh I’d been bottling up. I had to say it. “It was just a stroke of bad luck.”
Chelsea stood as the timer in the kitchen buzzed, but before she went, she added, “Don’t worry, Evan. I’m sure you’ll rise to the occasion.”
For a second, there was nothing but silence, but then Evan said, “I really cocked that up, didn’t I?”
And I doubled over laughing.
Chelsea yelled from the kitchen. “Honestly, I don’t think anybody even watches the news.”
Evan said, “I can still hear you.” And then we were all laughing again.
“Tell Elizabeth hi,” she said as she returned with a glass casserole dish, sizzling with meat, and followed with plates, chips, and shells.
“I’ll see you when you get home,” I said, though I was hoping I might notbehome.
Chelsea bit her lip like she was nervous about the food, so I turned my attention to the plethora of Mexican ingredients. “It smells incredible.”
I wasn’t lying. My stomach did flips at this kind of comfort food. Down and dirty and delicious.
And then we dug in. The casserole held layer upon layer of taco ingredients: browned hamburger, melted cheese, diced and baked tomato, sliced jalapenos, and sour cream. I grunted out my appreciation and loved seeing her blush and smile with pride, and God, she was beautiful. I reminded myself to do whatever I could to keep that joy on her face.
Between helpings, I asked, “Can we taco ’bout how delicious this is?”
