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Holy crap. How can I have a degree in communications if I can’t communicate like a normal person around an attractive guy? I’m going to have to start speaking in ad slugs if I want him to not ask me to leave. To my surprise, he doesn’t seem put off, though.
“My parents have a couple in their orchard stand. I can get you another one.”
“Your family runs an orchard? That’s so cool. Did you grow up on a farm then?”
“An orchard, technically. We…they don’t have livestock.”
“Oh, right. I bet you miss it. I’d love to be out in the country and just go pick apples right off a tree whenever I wanted.”
This may be the point where I’ve taken small talk too far, judging by the way he’s gaping at me like I grew a second nose. Still, the thought of Pete on a farm…orchard, Cam—get the fantasy right—well, it’s such a vast difference from the office god I know him to be. Now I know why his shoulders fill his suits so well.
When the silence lingers on, my insecurity gets the better of me. “I’m sorry. This probably isn’t what you meant when you said that we should talk. It’s just nice to know something about you other than—”
“I have obsessive-compulsive disorder,” he blurts out like he was holding his breath and stares at me like he’s awaiting a bad reaction.
“Oh. Um…okay. Do I need to do anything? I mean, differently? Or have I done something that bothers you?”
The tension in his brow softens. He shakes his head. “No.”
“Will you tell me if something bothers you? I don’t mind. I’m easy,” I reassure him, but that sounds a bit too descriptive of my behavior for my disaster plan, so I add quickly, “going. Easy going.”
“Maybe.”
Is he staring at my mouth? Do I have food on my face? Why would he only maybe tell me if something bothers him?
A flicker of a smile crosses his face, and he gets up from the table. I hadn’t even realized that we’d finished. Collecting my plate and the empty bag, I follow him, trying not to get lost in the domestic feel of the moment.
I just had dinner with another man, in his house, in our socks. If he asks me to curl up on the couch and watch a movie next, I’ll have to seriously consider scrapping my disaster plan for a make-Pete-Carver-mine plan.
CHAPTER 10
Pete
I did plan to talk. Not about his family or mine. Not about his love of muffins or surprising zeal for apple orchards and the country. I planned to talk about how we shouldn’t rendezvous in elevators or bathrooms anymore because I’m not gay and only four days into possibly being bisexual. Therefore, I am highly unqualified to help him with his problem.
Except, somewhere between setting the dinner table I never use, his futile servitude under the iron fist of his father, and his unfettered acceptance of my disorder, I realized I want to hold on to the label I need to be at his disposal a little longer. I had every intention of coming clean when he made another self-deprecating apology, like he thinks his social skills are subpar.
Rather than confess my past sexual preferences, though, what did I do? I unloaded my other secret. Putting it out there felt like a necessary warning; a public service announcement that he needed to know.
Here. This is what you’re dealing with. This is who you picked to trust with your sexual and emotional journey.
But he didn’t run.
He didn’t laugh or make jokes. He barely batted an eye. He’s not acting awkward around me or treating me like I’m different. Instead, he basically asked what to do so that he doesn’t look like the one who’s different, as though he wants a ticket to my messed-up world.
Washing my plate, I try to remember the last time someone offered to amend their behaviors for me rather than insisting I just get over things, like my idiosyncrasies are an act. Only parents do that. Good parents, at least, as much as they can. If John Fairway doesn’t want a son that’s an artist, he certainly would’ve shipped me off to Siberia or for electroconvulsive therapy.
“Is it someone’s birthday?”
“What?” I find him standing next to me, handing me his dinner plate.
“You keep humming the Birthday song.”
Shit.
“They say you’re supposed to wash your hands for as long as it takes to hum the Happy Birthday song twice—twenty seconds,” I explain, wanting to shrink an inch.
I can’t believe I’m actually vocalizing this. I’ve lost track of how many times Jesse has asked me where the party is when he’s caught me doing it. He could at least come up with a new joke. That I might enjoy.
