“But the other stuff I got right.”
He looked to the heavens for inspiration. Then backto her, quite clearly empty-handed but willing to give it a go anyway. “No, of course not. I’m not a maniac surrounded by guns and manifestos. And I’m not rusty, either. Rusty implies something once ran smoothly and then fell into disrepair. But there was never any smoothness with me. I’ve never had the kind of nature that lends itself easily to company. Or to making people comfortable. Or even to saying the right things so they don’t think you hate them,” he said, so bitter sounding it kind of jolted her.
She’d never thought he really minded being the unpalatable person he was. Instead, she had always imagined that he was this way because he simplywantedto be. That he wasn’t like her, with her own unpleasant qualities—curbing excitement so it wouldn’t bother people, turning down the volume on her voice, pretending to like things they did.
He was happy being ornery and annoying.
But it seemed like she was wrong. And in a way that echoed in her so strongly she couldn’t help saying. “Me neither, Miller,” she told him, intending matter-of-fact but hitting sort of soft, and sad. The sound of it seemed to make his face drop, just a little.
Though he covered it well.
“Oh gimme a break. You’re great at it.”
“Because I pretend. Not because I really am.”
“So when you were with those girls in college—”
“Ninety-nine percent doing what I had to to fit in with them.”
“And that organizer back there. The interviewer, Joan.The actress, whatever her name was. When you were so easy with them and got everything to go right and made everything work.”
He gestured behind himself, as if they were all standing right there. Then sort of mimed all the things he obviously thought she’d gotten right. But all she had for him was a shrug. “Just bullshit,” she said, and oh, the look on his face. The whole thing didn’t just drop, this time. It almost slid right off his skull.
And his voice when he spoke was hoarse. Dark, somehow.
“Show me,” he said. No—hedemanded. Like she’d said something miraculous and impossible, and he needed to see it now before it disappeared. Then he did it again, when she just looked at him, flummoxed. “Show me how you do it. How you know what to say. Pretend you don’t know me, pretend I’m just some guy you met. Get along with me right now, in whatever way you usually would.”
So she did. Like flicking on a light switch.
She stepped forward, one hand out.
“Caleb Miller? It issucha pleasure to meet you,” she said, and she actually heard his breath catch. It took him a second to gather himself, and respond in a way that definitely suggested he wanted to test this weird ability. He wanted to put pressure on it, and see if it would crack. First with a snort of derision. Then with words.
“Not sure why. I feel like shit and usually act like it to anyone near me.”
“Oh, I bet you’re much nicer than you think youare. And even if you’re not, well, that’s okay. Life gets the best of all of us sometimes. Not everybody has to be sunny and happy and satisfied with their lot.”
“I’m rich and famous enough that I should be.”
“So you love being rich and famous, then? It’s all you ever wanted?”
“Dear god, no. I wanted to live in the middle of nowhere with a fam— My dog, I would have gotten a dog. I wanted a dog, just a dog. Small one, you know, that wouldn’t need much from me,” he said, but she could tell he knew he’d slipped up. He looked away, eyes almost rolling, a curse almost slipping out under his breath.
Then he looked back at her, almost accusingly.
Dirty pool, his eyes seemed to say. As if what she was doing was a trap, instead of something she would never have thought would work on him. What did he care if someone was genial with him? He didn’t. And yet there it was. “You were going to sayfamilythen,” she said, and he couldn’t seem to stop himself wincing.
“No, I wasn’t. Shut up. Go back to the thing.”
“Thisisthe thing. Pleasantries about our lives.”
“Well, that isn’t my life, is it. And it never will be, so.”
He folded his arms across his chest.End of story, he seemed to say.
Even though he had to know she could never let it be now. “What on earth could make you think it won’t be?” she asked, with as much incredulity as she could muster. But he just glanced at the thing that was still between them, and practically drawled his answer, dry as ten-day-old toast.
“The fact that I can’t even shake that hand you’ve had out for five minutes.”
