Page 27 of Faking the Heat

“Good story,” Robert grunts. He reaches out and refills my glass, deliberate, and respectful. “A man who stays in the rain with you when things are broken is a man you keep, Mandy. I’ve always said that. Character shows in the downpours.”

Mandy manages a shaky laugh, her fingers twisting in the linen napkin under the table until her knuckles are white. “He’s definitely a keeper, Dad. He’s very good at navigating the rain.”

The rest of dinner passes in a blur of heavy pasta and heavier weather. I move through the motions of eating and talking, but I’m aware of every single thing Mandy does. When she laughs at something her mother says, her chest vibrates against my arm. When I reach for my water, my bicep flexes against hers. The physical proximity has stopped being a strategic choice for the benefit of an audience. It’s a gravitational pull I can’t get out of. I find myself leaning into her, my shoulder finding the familiar hollow of hers, taking the warmth she’s giving off in the chill of the room. I’m supposed to be the anchor, but I feel like a dingy drifting further from shore by the minute.

When we finally stand to leave and the cool Chicago night hits us at the entrance, Mandy’s arms come up across her bare shoulders before she can stop them. The Petersons are beaming with a satisfaction that borders on dangerous. They look settled. They look like people who have finally checked a difficult, long-standing item off a very high-pressure list. They look at us and see a future, and I feel like a thief who has stolen something he didn’t realize he wanted to keep.

“We’ll see you for brunch Sunday before we head back?” Carol hugs Mandy tightly. She smells like lily of the valley and triumph. “Sterling, you’re coming, right?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Carol.” My voice is smooth and convincing.

And then I do it. The final flourish. I reach out grabbing Mandy by the waist to pull her firmly against my side, and press a kiss to her temple. Her skin is soft, and her breath comes hot against my neck, and for a second the entire bustling street just stops. It isn’t a performance kiss. It isn’t for the audience. It’s the way I linger, the way my mouth stays against her skin a heartbeat too long, the way I breathe her in, and the cement tilts very slightly under my feet.

We walk back to the truck with her hand tucked into mine, in a heavy, charged silence. The city noise is muffled, filtered through the blood going in my ears. I open the door for her and watch her climb into the passenger seat. I get in and start the engine. I turn the heat up without saying anything about it.

“You were good,” she says, small and breathless in the quiet of the cab. “I almost believed you myself.”

I don’t look at her. I can’t look at her, because if I do, the lie comes apart in my hands. I put the truck in gear and pull away from the curb, hands steady on the wheel, eyes on the road. I think about the bakery awning. I think about the way the rain would have looked in her hair. I think about the way I felt when I said the word beautiful, and how it did not feel like a script at all.

“Who says I was lying, Sparkles?”

I don’t wait for an answer. I keep my eyes on the skyline, the steel and glass of a city I’m no longer sure I understand. I catch her mother’s beaming smile in the side mirror as they pull away in their own car, and a cold, sharp thing goes through the haze of the evening. I’m not just lying to her parents anymore. I’m losing the ability to tell myself the truth, and I’m afraid that when the performance ends there won’t be anything left of the man who walked into that restaurant, and everything left of the man who never wanted to let go.

Chapter twelve

The Logic of Hands

Mandy

I am currently wearing a gray t-shirt that could double as a tent and a pair of boxers that aren’t mine and have no business being this comfortable. At least I have my own underwear on underneath which is its own strange victory. My hair is twisted into a knot on top of my head with a pencil I found behind the toaster, and I'm pretty sure I have a smudge of graphite on my cheek from a late-night sketching session. I am a walking billboard for professional collapse, yet I'm standing in Sterling's kitchen, in Sterling’s clothes, like I belong here, watching him crack eggs with one hand while the morning sun aggressively highlights every defined area of his bare back.

It's the efficiency that gets me. He doesn't fumble. He doesn't hesitate. Every movement is a study in calculated grace, the kind of muscle memory that comes from years of high-stakes precision and living in a space that doesn't permit clutter. He slides the shells into the trash and reaches for the whisk, his forearm flexing, the white line of a scar on his tanned skin catching the light filtering through the massive warehouse windows. It's a quiet, domestic display of competence that unleashes those traitorous butterflies into my stomach.

“You're staring again, Sparkles,” he says, not even looking up from the bowl. “I'm starting to think you're just here for a free show.”

“I'm assessing,” I counter, leaning against the cold granite of the island, trying to look far more composed than I feel in his oversized sleepwear. “Assessing. That's what I'm calling it. It's part of my process. I have to analyze the structural integrity of the omelet before consumption.”

Sterling pauses, the whisk mid-rotation, and finally cuts his eyes toward me. There's a ghost of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, the kind that suggests he knows exactly how much he's distracting me. “Assessing. Right. Would you prefer I provide a detailed visual inventory of my technique, or are you just hungry? Because you're oscillating at a frequency that suggests low blood sugar or a looming panic attack.”

“I'd prefer you not be so good at it,” I mutter, looking down at the counter where my phone is currently buzzing with the persistent energy of a small, angry insect. “It makes my inability to boil water without a manual feel like a character flaw. And it makes it very hard to focus on the fact that my life is still a logistical nightmare.”

I pick up the phone. It's a text from my mother, followed immediately by a call. The timing is impeccable, as if she has a sensor calibrated to the exact moment I feel even remotely settled. I sigh, the sound heavy and resigned, and hit the green button. I know better than to let it go to voicemail; Carol Peterson views an unanswered call as a personal challenge to her authority and a sign of imminent kidnapping.

“Mandy, darling!” her voice chirps with a level of caffeine-fueled enthusiasm that makes my teeth ache. “I was just talking to your father about how wonderful dinner was. Sterling is such a find. Truly. Your dad said he hasn't seen a young man with that kind of posture since the Bush administration.”

“He's right here, Mom. I'll tell him he has the Presidential Seal of Approval for his spine,” I say, watching Sterling slide the eggs into a hot pan with a flick of his wrist. The sizzle fills the silence of the loft, a domestic soundtrack I'm becoming dangerously used to. The scent of butter and herbs begins to drift upward, warm and grounding.

“Well, tell him he's invited to the gallery opening on Friday,” she continues, her tone shifting into that high-pressure executive register she uses when she's already made a decision for me. “It's the new exhibit at the Steiner. Your father and I wouldn't dream of going without our favorite new couple. It's a formal affair, so tell him to wear the suit I'm sure he owns. Firemen always look so dashing in suits, don’t you think, it's the shoulders, really.”

I should say no. I should tell her we have plans, or that Sterling is on shift, or that I've suddenly developed a rare, localized allergy to abstract oil paintings. But I'm watching his hand on the pan handle—the knuckles, the tendons, the way the heel of his palm catches the light—and I'm thinking about how those same hands would feel if they weren't on my waist like last night but actually on me, sliding up under the hem of this enormous t-shirt, his thumbs tracing the ridge of my hip bones, his mouth somewhere near my collarbone, and I would make a sound I've never—

"—the Steiner, Mandy, are you listening?"

"Sure, Mom," I say. "We'll be there."

I set the phone face-down on the granite. Sterling tilts the pan. I watch his wrist. I can still feel the ghost of it—not even the real memory now but the invented one, the one I just made up in the space of four seconds, which is somehow worse. I just agreed to another evening of his hand at the small of my back, his jaw against my temple, the performance of a closeness I keep setting up accidentally on purpose.

“Gallery opening?” Sterling asks, sliding a plate of perfectly scrambled eggs and toasted sourdough in front of me. “Should I start practicing my 'thoughtful art critic' face? Or should I just nod at things and say 'the use of negative space is bold'?”