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He opens his sketchbook to a new page and begins helping himself to my pencil case. “I’m so glad you’re not on a date,” he declares quite cheerfully.
I can be selfless and encourage him every step of the way as he saves for his share in the studio, but for me and my goals he won’t do the same. “At some point soon, I’m going to be having a romantic candlelit dinner. At the same time, you’re going to be sitting in your very own tattoo studio writing Live Laugh Love down a girl’s back in Comic Sans.”
“That’s the most disgusting thing you could possibly say to me,” he splutters.
I try another french fry; finally, this food volcano is safe enough to eat properly. I raise my fork. His protests die and he leans forward like he is anticipating something.
This mix should be wrong. But every forkful is a prism of salt and flavor, the textures alternating between crispy and velvet. Luxe, melty macaroni blends into the gravy. Childhood flashbacks from smoky hot dog chunks.
I don’t know how long I’m in this haze. All I know is, nothing in life feels that bad when I’m eating carbs and fat. Everything will work out, because of cheese. Every time I glance up, he’s smiling at me, his cheek resting plumply on his fist. The smattering of freckles across his nose are cinnamon-sweet. I’m in a pleasurable dream. He has a white haze of light around his head.
I am possibly having a food-related stroke. I scrape up more. “What is happening to me?” I feel a wet line on my face; it’s a tear.
“My angel, that’s heaven on a plate. I told you.” He hasn’t taken a single fry or sketched a single line during my endless gorge. “When you enjoy yourself, you really do.”
I really should do some work. I dig through my supplies. “Actually, I might need that pencil back. It’s my only one. I need to be able to erase off the worksheet.”
He starts sketching with it, declining the request. “I think you need to write in ink. You know who you are. Thanks in advance for the Live Laugh Love nightmare tonight, by the way. You’re going to hear me crying through the wall.” He regards me with curiosity then bursts out laughing. “You know you’re funny as hell, right? Everything you say is so on point.”
I’m surprised and want to change the subject. “Oh thanks. So did you design all your own tattoos?”
“You think someone else designed me? You don’t recognize talent when you see it?” He’s grinning. “I drew them, Alistair did them for me. Sometimes when he was pissed off with me he’d press extra hard. So all of it was agony.” There’s truth in the joke.
“Do they all mean something?” He just smiles at that. “How many do you have?” It slips out before I can censor myself. How many girls have asked that same question? I get my answer.
“I don’t know. You can count them for me if you want.” (Insert here the predictable eyebrows, sparkling eyes, sinful smile, my heart fluttering, etc.) He unhinges his jaw to eat more fries. Chewing, he says, “Tidy girls like to be nice and organized, huh?” He reaches over for my hand and begins padding my finger up his arm. “One, two . . .”
I want to keep going and have to cover it up. “All seductive with your mouthful of mush. Hold me back.” It’s intensely gratifying to make him snort-laugh like that.
“Want help with the worksheet? I’ll write in all your facts. We’ll circle back to your time of birth. What was your college degree?” He’s poised and ready.
My smile fades. “My parents couldn’t afford to send me to college. I did a business administration course.”
“Must have been some wild parties.”
“It was one long orgy.” I’m lucky he wasn’t drinking because he would have sprayed me. “I was the youngest by twenty years, easily.”
“Kinky.”
I notice a woman at the bar watching us. Well, she’s watching Teddy. I guess I’ll have to get used to that, but I can’t say I’ll ever like it. “Most people were retraining for new careers. I could finally relax.” I’ve said too much there, and the memory twinges too close to a nerve. I push the plate at Teddy. “Here, eat more.”
He won’t be distracted. “Why could you relax?”
“I’m just more comfortable with older people.” I twist my fingers together as he just sits and stares at me, wanting more. “I got bullied a lot at school, obviously. But being in a class with adults I felt safe again.”
“Is that why you ended up at Providence? Elderly people can’t hurt you?” He thinks on that. “That’s not true. Renata isn’t strong enough to use a pepper grinder, but she’s also more lethal than a cage fighter. I’ve been studying her for scientific purposes.”
“My parents knew my boss, Sylvia, through the church. You know how women in the eighteen hundreds just got sent to be a governess? It was like that. I didn’t apply; they basically sent me here. I really need to work out how to repackage that for when I’m telling some guy about it on a date.”
I look over at the bar again. That girl is still watching us. I think she knows Teddy.
Teddy’s a little indignant. “You described it just fine. Why do you need to repackage anything?”
“That’s the whole point of this exercise. It’s interview prep.”
“I guess you could say that you used your connections to get the job,” he suggests. “Sounds like Sylvia is a hard-ass. She wouldn’t have taken you if you were useless.”
“I guess,” I admit. “I’m really good at my job. Please mention it when you’re talking to your dad.”
