Though…I wouldn’t call what Truett did to me “just a hand job.”
“Maybe I don’t understand things like ‘just a hand job,’” Sy says, echoing my thoughts. He grabs a hand towel and takes the pot full of boiling artichokes off the stove. “I tend to obsess.”
Understatement. Silas had a girlfriend in high school who moved to New York after they graduated to pursue her actingcareer. He didn’t take that well. Nor did he enjoy theStar Trekoriginal series reboot, especially the actor they cast as Spock. I believe he’s still sending letters to the studio.
Then again, I might be guilty of a minor obsession myself.
“I kinda know what you mean.”
He tosses the boiled artichokes with olive oil, salt, and pepper. He places them all cut side down on the grill while I flip the breasts.
After another moment of silence, I admit, “Don’t tell anyone, but we did cross a few lines. Me and Truett.”
Sy turns his face before meeting my eyes—one of his moves that makes it impossible for him to pass as normal.
“Is that why he kicked you out? Because you crossed lines?”
I shake my head, then switch my answer to the so-so gesture. “Maybe? He told me to find another barber after I basically begged him to let me…you know.”
Confusion tightens Sy’s brows. “Why would you beg?”
“I was desperate and feeling low. I thought it’d make me feel better to be with him.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. And now the whole thing is messing with my head. Like, why can’t he still do my hair?”
“Isn’t he a one-night-stand guy?”
“Exactly.” I throw up my hands. “Why wouldn’t we be able to go back to being barber and client?”
“Can’t you just ask him?”
“Let’s just say that the way he told me to leave left no room for ambiguity or follow-up questions. He said no, so that’s that. And now it’s just going to humiliate me every time I think about it until the day I die.”
I am so dramatic.
Sy grimaces, then hands me the big pan. “I hate it when I know I’m missing something. It sits like a splinter under my skin until I know the truth.”
“Same,” I say, prepping the creamy spinach sauce for the chicken.
He moves on to the counter, silently wiping down the already clean surface.
After a moment, he gives me a sideways glance. “They say a crush is just a lack of information. You could always dig into his online footprint, or if you were feeling adventurous, you could follow him. It might help you figure out what he’s all about. That’s usually enough to kill a crush stone dead.” He looks down, then lifts a shoulder. “Usually.”
Huh. I grab the colander and strain the tortellini in the big sink while wondering if Silas has a new crush.
Just as I realize I’ve let the silence stretch on for too long, Sy grimaces. “Sorry. That’s probably one of those consent things.”
Refocusing, I answer, “Yeah, buddy. It is.”
I mean, is it the worst idea in the world? Not… No. I won’t be doing that.
I add the tortellini and the crème fraiche to the wilted spinach while Sy checks the chicken. He grabs a clean cutting board and the chef’s knife from my roll, carefully setting them on the counter.
“I don’t know if you want to hear this,” he says to the cutting board, “but I think I know at least one reason Valentine doesn’t feel he can continue a professional relationship with you.”
Silas learned the hard way that most folks don’t react well to his blunt observations, and it impresses me that he’s trying to give me an out. Then again, I was raised by Anders Bash.
