“I didn’t even think of that…” I grab my half of the sandwich, unwrap it, then split it open to check whether the restaurant removed the pickles as I asked.
They didn’t.
As I pinch them out and dump them inside the takeout bag, I say, “I hear you live in your car.”
Cillian chews, jaw moving deliberately as though he were trying to delay answering. Finally, he says, “Not many people want to put you on the payroll when you’ve done jail time.”
“Except juvie records are sealed, aren’t they?”
His pupils seem to grow smaller, sharper, as though I’ve caught him in a lie. “You want the truth?”
“No, tell me another lie. I’m such a die-hard fan of those.”
He lowers the sandwich, hovering it over his lap, and turns his head to look at me. “I don’t like the system. I don’t trust the system. Not after what they did to me. I live in my car in order to leave at a moment’s notice and take my salary under the table so it remains mine, and mine alone.”
I study his face, scanning for the telltale signs of deceit. This time, I spot none. “You’re a surprising person, Cillian Lowry.”
“Do you like surprises, Miss Serran?”
What he’s really asking isn’t lost on me. He wants to know if I like the face he’s just revealed.
“Positively loathe them.” I take another bite of my sandwich. After I swallow, I ask, “Where do you sleep? In the backseat?”
“If you give me a few minutes to get dressed, I’ll show you to my living quarters.”
“Sorry to break it to you, but I don’t tour parking lots with strangers.” I chomp off another bite of my lunch.
He rests his head back against the wall, the neon pinkening the tips of his ears and the prominence of his abs. “How much more do I have to share before I graduate from stranger to friend?”
“Friend? You’ll never get there. You might hit acquaintance, though.” I toss my bread stump into the paper bag, then dust my fingers and stand. I feel his eyes on me. “Are you wearing contacts?”
“No.”
“Do you need glasses?”
“If I want the edges of things to stay where they belong, yes.”
“So I look like a watercolor right now?”
“You look like the woman I want to drive off into the sunset with.”
My eyelids spasm. “Does that line ever work?”
“Not a line.” He smiles, a curve of lips that isnotshy.NotCillian Lowry. “A dream.”
“Best lay that one to rest.” I start toward the lockers, my skin feeling tight. “When I need you, I’ll call.”
And then I press out of the locker room doors, marching right past Carlos and his coach buddy who did as I compelled them to do. Right past the receptionist. It’s only once I reach the pavement that I realize I’ve been holding my breath.
I haul Malachi’s earlier words into focus. Lowrymusthave an angle, for no one could be attracted to an unfriendly bitch like me.
As I snap my sunglasses in place, a theory emerges and strengthens into a certainty—Cillian must be playing a long con, acting disinterested to better extort me down the road.
My theory grows claws.
By the following evening, I’m so riled up that, before dinner at Lisa’s, I stop byLogan’sacross the street for happy hour. The crowd there is always lively and always eclectic—a mix of grad students, future suburbanites, and finance guys.
Most men wear button-downs and bespoke suits, the kind that suggest real closets—not a car trunk. And yeah, Cillian wore a tux at the gala, but that was probably a rental.
