Page 118 of These Secret Years

“To do what?”

“Make documentaries.”

“That’s smart. To do journalism along with the film major, huh?”

“She’s pretty smart,” he says.

“Just two?” the petite, pretty hostess asks.

“Yes,” I say.

“This way.”

We follow her to a booth along the wall and sit opposite each other. Sullivan takes the seat facing the door. The small restaurant isn’t slammed, but there are other people here. Plenty of college-aged kids, more than one who I can tell recognizes me when they see me. That took some getting used to last year, but now I smile as pleasantly and nonchalantly as I can, trying not to act like it’s weird as hell every time.

Sullivan barely glances at his menu. “You want me to get noodles, too?”

“You like noodles?”

“I’m starving. I don’t care.”

I bite back the smile I want to unleash on him. I’ve watched him starve before, and he’s doing the opposite of that now. So yes, I will continue taking this assignment seriously. I have my own goals I want to reach, too. Increase my muscle mass by ten percent, improve to a six-minute mile, and get eight hours of sleep a night. The six-minute mile seems the furthest away by far. I can sprint, but I’ve never been much of a runner. I’m not sure whether more muscle will help or hurt with that.

I take a minute to look at the menu, make my suggestion for drunken noodles, and he agrees. We guzzle the glasses of water our waiter drops off and place the order. Now I have to look at Sullivan and pretend like I know exactly how to go about just being friends with him.

“How was your summer?” he asks.

“Not as good as last summer.”

His cheeks, which were pale from the cold A/C, heat with color.

“Were you in town at all?” It’s something I wanted to know but was afraid to ask the whole time I was home.

“I came back for a couple of days in July before my classes started. Otherwise, no.”

I know better than to ask him where he was before that in case it was the thing he doesn’t want to talk about—whatever place he called me from when he sounded so lost, I was afraid I might never see him again.

I think I might need to get over that at some point. The fear of asking about it. If it’s something that could hurt him—or worse—maybe it’s better if I put something on the line and get him to talk about it with me.

I don’t want to do it today, though. There are other things I need to know first. “Are you feeling better about school this semester?”

“Yeah. I like having a class with you—and D,” he adds. “Whoever’s idea it was, it was a good one.”

It was his idea. “Why’s that?”

If it’s possible, he blushes more, but he also rubs his face with his hands and looks down before glancing around at the other diners. “Don’t flirt,” he says quietly.

“I’m not.”

“You are, Knight, and you have to stop. You can’t make this feel like a date. You need to be cracking jokes or something.”

“Why don’t you crack a joke then?”

“Because I don’t know any. And stop looking at me like that.”

I have no clue what he means. “I’m not looking at you like anything.”

“Then just stop looking at me.”