The Glimpse Trade (A Silas Sharp Metaphysical Mystery): Chapter 3

 Chapter 3: Boyfriends, Am I Right?


Boyfriends come in two varieties: defensive and performative.

This one was both. That’s why I don’t like dealing with boyfriends. But Dr. Calico Verde recommended I speak to what Avery referred to as her “growth companion” and “alignment ally” who provided a “narrative support system” and stabilized her “emotional infrastructure.” All I could think about was how I wanted Calico to stabilize my infrastructure. Duty called, though.

He met me at a minimalist coffee bar that charged extra for emotional authenticity but offered a 10% discount for anyone in a thrift store cardigan. His name was Benedict, though his online presence called him “Bené,” which felt like a decision made during a personal rebrand crisis.

He shook my hand like he’d practiced it. Firm. Measured. Influencer-adjacent.

“I’m not sure how I can help,” he said, sitting down. “Avery’s fine.”

He said fine the way people say the market corrected itself.

I let the silence work. Silence is underrated. It makes people rush to fill it with edits. A little trick I learned from Calico, who I was trying not to thing about it while talking with the empty vessel that was Bené.

“You mentioned a fight,” I said, opening my notebook but not looking at it.

He blinked. “We didn’t have that fight.”

Not we didn’t fight. We didn’t have that fight. Interesting. I wrote that down.

“Which fight did you not have?” I asked.

His smile arrived a half-second late. I noted that in my journal.

“The one she told people about. On her stream. It was exaggerated. We had a conversation. A productive one.”

I’ve seen this before. When reality becomes optional, couples start issuing press releases instead of apologies.

“She cried,” I said.

“She was tired.”

“She said you questioned her pivot.”

“She was joking.”

“She deleted the clip.”

“That was an algorithm decision.”

There it was. An operational decision.

I made a note: Rehearsal fatigue present.

It shows up when someone has told the same version of an event too many times. Their story starts to sound laminated. Smooth edges. No splinters.

Bené leaned forward, his navy blue thrift store cardigan hanging lose. “Look, she’s optimizing. That’s what she does. If something isn’t serving her narrative, she trims it. That’s the gig.”

“Narrative,” I repeated.

“Brand narrative,” he corrected.

Of course.

“Did she seem… different this week?” I asked.

He hesitated. A real one this time.

“She’s been recalibrating.”

“From what?”

He swallowed. Something was weighing on Bené and something told me it wasn’t the shame of his beard, which was certainly a choice.

“She’s been talking weird. Not her usual weird. It’s hard to explain. Sounds crazy, really.”

“Crazy’s how I get paid. Lay it on me.” I stopped writing. I’ve been down this road before. I’ve dealt with a guy who tried to delete Tuesdays. Doors that open to unlived lives. A coffee cup that dispenses existential advice with oat milk foam. I knew I could handle whatever Bené and his unfortunate beard offered. The espresso machine behind us screamed like it had seen something it couldn’t unsee.

“She anticipates when engagement dips or might catch bad comments. Something that could hurt a launch. Anything that could throws off her momentum. At first, I thought it was a sixth sense she had developed. Jesus, she’s been at for so long. But, something happened this morning that really blew my mind.”

“Tell me more.” That’s another trick I learned from Calico. Invite the other person into more conversation.

He rubbed his temple. “It’s better if I show you.”

He pulled out his phone, swiped a couple of times and slid it to me. It was a video of Avery monologuing about her relationship with Bené. She started with “I wasn’t sure I was going to post this” and talked about “energetic misalignment” and how “conflict doesn’t equal collapse.” She was sounding like a sentient LinkedIn post. It was all mumbo-jumbo raised to performance art. But I didn’t see what the issue was.

“What am I missing here?” I asked.

“Look at that date of the post,” he said, pointing at the phone.

Posted Thursday, March Fourth,” I said.

“Today is Wednesday. March Third.”

 


*******



My new comedic sci-fi novel, Someone Else's Book Club, is available on my website or through Amazon! 


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