Page 4 of Smitten Pucking Orc

And the gesture. That vague, dismissive wave of his hand, one you’d use to brush away a fly. As if I were something to be swatted aside before I got any ideas.

The other guys had gone quiet. That told me everything. If I was misreading this, someone would’ve laughed. They would’ve spoken up. Mikael would’ve made a joke to cut the tension.

Instead, they looked at their drinks, their beer fascinating.

My laugh came from somewhere. My mouth, probably. It sounded almost real. I’d learned it at sixteen, when a boy I liked told his friends I was pretty enough for a big girl. It had been reinforced when I was twenty-two and a potential date looked me up and down and suggested we skip dinner and go back to his place, like he was doing me a favor. I relearned the same lesson every time someone acted surprised that I was smart or capable or funny, because how could I be those things and also be fat?

So I smiled.

“Noted,” I said. Or maybe I said, no worries. Something with consonants. Words that fell out of my mouth while my brain got busy adding to my walls.

I turned and walked back to the picnic table.

Crim was still there, not looking at me, which was its own kindness.

I sat. Picked up my drink and sucked in air through the straw, because the cup was empty.

My brother told a joke. I laughed loud enough that no one around us would suspect a thing.

I stayed at the picnic for another forty-five minutes, where I perfected the art of looking unbothered. I did not note the exact angle of Brashe’s shoulders across the pavilion or memorize the fact that he didn’t look at me. Not once.

Leaving early would’ve shown it mattered, and if nothing else, I had my pride.

Crim drove me home. He didn’t ask if I was okay or say I told you so, which I appreciated because I might’ve cracked if he had.

“You defended your dissertation,” he said as he pulled onto my street.

“I did.”

“We should celebrate.”

“We are celebrating.”

“I mean really celebrate. Dinner. That place you like with the chips.”

“Mexican,” I said. “Yeah, sure.”

He slid his truck into a spot in front of my apartment building, which was old and brick. The radiators clanged, and the neighbors played music too loud. I was renting it while finishing up the work I needed to do after my degree.