Page 7 of Pierced

“Jesus, man. Calm down. Maybe you need the holiday.”

“No, dumbass! Right there. That thing you just did.”

“What did I do?”

“You don’t bother to remember anything. About anyone. Ever.”

“That’s not true.”

“What’s my middle name?”

I don’t know what this game is that we’re playing right now, but I find it intensely unfair. “Um…”

“You’ve known me for almost thirteen years. You’re my best friend. I moved my company to the ridiculously-named TDH because you asked me to. I would lie down in traffic for you and I love you like a brother… What’s my middle name?”

I can feel my jaw tightening. My fingers twitch. I want to chew on them. That’s weird. “Crans… fan… dimmel… berg…?”

Fuck. I have no idea what Andrew’s middle name is. Huh.

He shakes his head, “Andrew Cransfandimmelberg Hawthorne. That’s my name? How does that even—?” He shakes his head again. Harder. Like he’s shaking something out of his brain. “Fuck it. Look, my point is that you don’t know anything about anyone. Because you’re selfish.”

“Thanks.”

“Hey, everybody’s selfish to one degree or another. You’ve just elevated it to an art form, but as an artist, I have to admire that. But my point is, dude, it took you being introduced to Eden like six times to remember who she was. But you just described what Myrtle was wearing four months ago. To the letter.”

I pause, considering this. “It might have been silver. The hairpin.”

“Jesus, man,” he says. “That. That’s how I know that she’s more than an employee.”

Touché, Andrew Cransfandimmelberg Hawthorne. Touché.

“She thinks I don’t know anything about her,” I tell him. I think a little poutily.

“Why do you say that?”

“She said it to me. Like ten minutes ago. She said, ‘I’m going to assume you don’t know anything about me.’”

He bows his head and looks up at me. “Is that actually what’s got you so upset? That she thinks you think of her—or don’t think of her—like everybody else?”

I shrug. Then, “Yeah, OK,” I say. “What’s the other thing?”

“What?”

“When I said this was starting to sound like an intervention, you said, ‘Couple things. One. Myrtle is not an ‘employee.’ What’s the other thing?”

“Oh. Yeah. This is an intervention.”

I knew it.

“And what are you intervening in?” I ask.

“Your sanity. Your wellbeing. Your fucking lifespan, man. As in, I’m trying to help you extend it.”

“I’m never gonna die. I don’t like the idea of it.”

“Yeah, well… that right there is the problem.”

I glance out the window for some reason. Something about the mountains outside catches my eye. The view from Andrew’s office is different than it is from mine even though it’s just two floors lower. I never noticed that before.