“Because that’s how French Bulldogs give birth.”
“Even if they’re not having more French Bulldogs?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I thought it was because they have big heads.”
“Andnarrow hips. Apollo has a huge head.”
“He’s two years old,” I say. “I’m kinda with Evan here. I don’t see how Apollo could have done it.”
She sighs, exasperated. “Can I come in?”
“No. I’m expecting someone soon.”
She looks at me like I just told herIimpregnated Manon. “What? Who?”
“A guy.”
All true. I am expecting Evan to come back eventually.
“Like a date?”
I don’t say anything.
“Are you gay?”
I nod, not sure anyone’s ever asked so bluntly.
“Oh.” This doesn’t seem to bother her. “I love that. But tell Evan it’s forty-five hundred for a scheduled C-section. And eight hundred for aneuter. I asked.”
“Okay.” Message received, but I might hold onto that for now until I know how Evan is doing with all the other bad news he got tonight.
In a rare show of social appropriateness, Millie says good night and goes back across the hall to her apartment.
Evan seems like he’s going to ignore me again when he gets home, but I step between him and the bedroom hallway. Apollo keeps going like I’m not even there, but Evan stops and looks up at me.
I go through his facial tells trying to match them with a corresponding emotion. He would probably tell me if he’d run into Millie—she’s the topic of most of our conversations, but I don’t think he did. I would have heard them. He’s not smiling. No smile doesn’t always mean anything. Most people don’t smile all the time. He’s got a blank expression. Might be expectation. Might be boredom. Might be hiding something. Not my favorite.
Intense stare. Bright, bright blue eyes open enough to see the outline of his irises. I don’t know what that means, but it’s almost like he’s trying to push a thought into my head. “Is there anything else you want to talk about tonight?” I ask.
The blankness disappears, morphing into something entirely different. Same stare, but lines form between his brows and his lips part. Confusion? I’d rather not guess. I get it wrong more often than I get it right when I try to guess, but in this case, it’s worth a try. In an attempt to alleviate what might be a lack of clarity in my question, I say, “I only ask because I feel like I did everything wrong at dinner.”
“You didn’t,” Evan says. “You were honest.”
“I know, but?—”
“And I was honest, too. Probably too honest. Deacon, there’s nothing else I need to say. I feel like I should shut up for a week or two to atone for some of the shit I said.”
I start to respond, but he holds up a hand. “I’m sorry. I’m not expressing myself clearly. This was a lot tonight.”
I frown.
When he reaches out and takes both my hands, small shockwaves move up my arms and re-polarize my brain. The picture of him in front of me comes rapidly into focus. His eyes soften—emotion, caring. He takes a deep breath. Patience. Control.
He squeezes my hands. Intimacy. Connection.
“I’ve always had a crush on you,” he says. “Kind of a big one. I wish you invited me to that restaurant tonight for literally any other reason, but now I understand why you did, and I appreciate you being open with me about what’s been going on with you. And Isaac. Obviously I’ll stop messing around with him.”
