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“I know,” he says. “Former actor, trading the stage for a spotlight at the front of a classroom. Get to have an audience all the time. I get it. But that’s not what the lines are for.” He looks around the room, possibly avoiding the pile of my delicates at his elbow.
His eyes bounce from the one photo print on my wall to the pile of vinyl records doubling as an end table to the wilting spider plant beneath the window and finally to the spot on the floor in front of my feet.
“Just a little positive self-talk,” he says finally.
I’m surprised to hear this. For someone as confident as Dexter Kaplan, affirmations seem—I don’t know—redundant.
I hum an assenting sound. “Seems to be working.”
His laugh in response is not convincing. “Sometimes.” I think he’s going to say more, but he doesn’t. I stare at his sculpted curls as he watches the carpet.
We might sit in silence for the rest of forever. I am not comfortable with that. Not at all. I resist the urge to squirm. I flex and relax my thighs, flex and release. My left leg is starting to cramp. Ouch. This cramping situation could become an event. Possibly a condition.
I can do this for probably one more minute before I lose it.
He makes a little sound in his throat.
Now he raises his eyes to mine. “I want to fix what I broke.”
Instinct tells me to deny that anything broke, to block his apology by pretending I wasn’t hurt, but something keeps me silent.
He shrugs. “I want to be your friend,” he says, and all the anger I’ve been stacking layer upon layer crumbles to dust at the candid and sincere look on his face.
I hope my sigh doesn’t sound depressed. Because he changed his mind. When he texted, he didn’t say friend. He said want. I look at him, and we watch each other’s eyes for a while. He said to ignore the text. He didn’t mean to send it. He didn’t mean what he wrote. I’m never totally confident that I can read him. He’s too good at showing me what he thinks I want to see. But we have an agreement. I’m not going to ruin my chances of keeping this job by breaking dating rules, no matter how dumb they seem.
So, friends.
“I like that idea,” I say.
That doesn’t come close to the truth. I don’t like the idea of being friends. I like the idea of sitting with him in the saggy corner of my couch, cushions forcing our sides to press together. I like the idea of his arm around me, his hand in my hair. I like the idea of his mouth on mine. I like the idea of . . .
Oh, no. There is no way I’m successfully hiding my feelings right now. Can he see what I’m thinking? My face is flaming hot. I put my hands to my cheeks, and then run my fingers under my eyes as if the only thing I care about is making sure I don’t have mascara trails.
I don’t know how much of Dexter is an act. Does it matter? Not at the moment. And if he’s decided all he wants is friendship, then maybe it won’t matter ever. I have friends who are overly dramatic, who are high-maintenance, who are surface-only relationships, and it’s fine. Completely fine. I have room for a friend who might never be sincere with me, right?
I nod my head and ask, “Are we all set for the Harvest Ball, then? Anything else we need to make happen?” I almost listen as he walks through the list we’ve already gone over and over. But something inside me twists at the smile on his face, knowing that he’s excited about the event, about the venue and the kids and the cookies. I hate to admit it, even to myself, but I wish that smile was really, really only for me.
