“Technically speaking, I haven’t been on my phone either.”
“It’s been buzzing nonstop.” She presses her lips together to form a thin line.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you upset like this.”
She crosses her arms in front of her chest and taps her foot.
“It’s adorable.” I try not to smile.
Throwing her hands up in the air, she says, “Declan. Come on. Work with me here.”
“Alright, alright, but admit that I haven’t been using the phone.” I move toward her purse. “It’s only fair that both of our phones go on the table by the door.”
She makes the cutest noise of frustration, grabs her purse, and slaps her phone down on the table. “Fine.”
The air is charged like lightning builds in the distance, getting ever closer. From across the room, we stare at each other intently. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that my pulse is racing. Despite our regular text exchanges, something shifts between us. I’m not sure what to do with it, or if I like it. No, scratch that. I do. Maybe a little too much.
Without breaking eye contact, as though we don’t trust the other not to go grab their phone, we both stalk back to the dining table. I want to wipe the look of frustration from her face and replace it with good-natured mirth, so I tuck my napkin into the collar of my shirt like a bib. The best friend in me wants to make her laugh. The bad-boy inside wants more of her corrections.
Her eyes widen and she marks something in the file.
I fiddle with the little arrangement of flowers between us, put my elbows on the table, and suck my teeth a few times just to see what will happen—just to be on the receiving end of her attention.
Expression impassive, Miss Byrne doesn’t break character other than when I notice the subtle tightness in her chest as it rises and falls with each breath.
“Are you holding back a huff?” I ask.
“A huff? No. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Come on. No one is watching. We can just let down our hair.”
“You’ve clearly let down your beard.”
My hand in a V-shape, I run it along the scruff. “You don’t like it?”
“It’s a different look.”
“Back in high school, I could hardly grow one. Figured it goes with the rugged Bruisers look.”
She harrumphs like she doesn’t approve. Noted.
“Hey, I’m just having a little bit of fun because you seem preoccupied since you returned from the bathroom.”
She leans closer to me. “No, I’m annoyed because my so-called best friend isn’t cooperating. Please, Declan. This is my job. Don’t make it harder than it is.”
“I don’t mean to. But I did notice that it seems like having your phone out of your possession is making you nervous.”
“Or maybe that’s you,” she fires back. “I’m starting to think you have a fear of missing out.”
“FOMO? No, Mo-Mo-Maggie,” I say, drawing from my never-ending list of nicknames for her.
But my stomach dips with a concern of my own, considering the number on the caller ID. The last thing I want is for the past to catch up with me, especially after I’ve moved so far away from it. Right now, I’d rather not be tethered to my device, and sometimes feel like chucking the thing in the Charles River back in Boston, but I suppose it served its purpose by connecting me to opportunities, social media...and Maggie. But why did Mrs. O’Mealley call earlier?
Our entrees arrive. “How am I doing so far?” I ask as I purposely shovel bites of potato into my mouth.
I’m purely trying to get a rise out of Maggie, anything other than the crisp quiet she’s slid into after her trip to the ladies’ room. I’ve broken just about every table manner rule that I can think of.
She reviews a list in her file. “So far, well enough.” She eyes me carefully.
