"Your place?" Adrian asked.
"My place."
He nodded. Still watching me with those steady eyes.
My apartment greeted us with its usual energy: aggressive disorder.
"Home sweet home," I announced, checking the door open with my hip. "Ignore everything. I cleaned before I left, but the apartment resists. It un-cleans itself."
I dropped my bag in the hallway and wrestled out of my jacket.
"So the trip—did I tell you about Desrosiers' sock thing? He has to put the left one on first, or he thinks we'll lose. I'm a convert now. I'm considering starting a religion."
I opened the fridge. Half a jar of pickles and something in a container that might have been food at some point. Three energy drinks sat on the top shelf. I grabbed two cans and turned around.
Adrian stood in the middle of my living room. He hadn't taken off his jacket and held his phone in his left hand. He'd checked it twice since we walked in.
"You want a drink?" I held up the cans.
"I'm okay," he said.
I set the cans on the counter. Slowly.
Here's the thing about being the chaos guy: people assume I don't notice things. They think the noise gets in the way.
I'd learned to read rooms before I learned to read plays. When you grow up being too much, you figure out fast how to clock the moment you've worn out your welcome. The slight squint. The half-second delay before they laugh. How their bodies angle toward the door.
Adrian wasn't angling toward the door, but he didn't relax either. He stood in my apartment like he wasn't sure the floor would hold him, bracing for something.
"Okay," I said. "You're doing a weird thing."
"What?"
"A weird thing." I leaned against the counter, keeping my voice light even as something cold started to grow in my stomach. "I have a PhD in weird things, and that—" I gestured at him, the tight shoulders and the phone-checking. "That definitely qualifies."
He exhaled. "I'm just tired. Long few days."
"Uh-huh."
"It's nothing you need to worry about."
The words were trying to reassure me. I crossed the room toward him. Slow, giving him space to step back.
"Adrian." I stopped in front of him. "I'm loud and chaotic, and I once got my hand stuck in a Pringles can for forty-five minutes because I refused to admit defeat, but I'm not stupid."
"I never said—"
"Something's going on. You don't have to tell me right now if you're not ready, but don't stand in my apartment looking like you're waiting for a bomb to go off while you tell me it'snothing."
His breath caught. Just enough to notice.
His phone buzzed. He didn't look at it.
"There are some things happening with the documentary," he said, carefully choosing his words. "The network has certain expectations."
I waited.
"I've been pushing back. Looking for alternatives." He swallowed. "I'm handling it."
