“I don’t know.”
The waiter drops off some more food at the table. Neither of us have touched the hummus. Evan orders another beer.
“Am I like—not your type or something?” he asks.
His subject change is jarring, and my mind struggles to keep up with it. “My type?”
He makes a face I can’t interpret. It involves biting his lips and shifting his jaw. “Never mind. Stupid question.”
“Okay.” I attempt to revert back to the other thing we were talking about—my old friends. “This is all pretty new,” I say, and I’m almost positive I said that before. It probably sounds like I’m broken.
He looks confused, too. “Do you mean me or Isaac or just—not hanging out with your friends?”
“All of it, I guess.”
“Do you consider me a friend?” he asks.
“You’re my roommate.”
“Right, but I guess I’m asking what you think of me because I can’t always tell.”
“I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel uncomfortable.” It’s my standard apology for myself.
“You—” He shakes his head. “It isn’t that.”
It would help so much if he just said what he meant. I can’t tell what’s on his mind, only that there are things he’s holdingback, and I only know that because I’m getting tense. That’s what usually happens when I’m around a tense person. I’m like an energy mirror. “What is it?”
“I just like you, Deacon. That’s all.”
“I like you, too.”
“Right.”
My mask slips a little without my permission. “Was that the wrong thing to say?”
“I don’t know.” He reaches for a shrimp skewer and starts nibbling on the top shrimp. His tongue darts out to lick it like a lollipop. It’s something I would do if I were tasting the seasoning. The way I suck a pistachio shell.
“Is it good?” I ask.
He looks at me, blue eyes sharp and tongue on the shrimp. He composes his face. “Yeah.”
“What would have been the right thing to say?” I ask.
“It doesn’t matter,” he mumbles.
“I didn’t intend to upset you.”
“I know that,” he says. “But maybe youshouldask me to move out.”
11
EVAN
Ididn’t mean to say that. Did I mean the words? Probably. Because what he’s telling me right now about himself and Isaac feels like the equivalent of being thrown out on my ass. At least if the eviction were literal, there would be concrete steps I could take to remedy my situation. But this?Fuck.
My mind’s been in a tailspin ever since Millie walked into the hallway. I sincerely didn’t want to tell Deacon all of mine and Isaac’s business, but he should know—shouldn’t he?Iwould want to know if the guy I was dating was regularly dicking down his secretary.Wouldn’t I?
Or maybe the sex lives of men and dogs should stay private.
