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And maybe a nice movie to watch to chill out a little before Juniper comes back.
Chapter 7
“You seem off,” Juniper says, stirring her chopstick around the plastic bowl of noodles from the takeout place down the street. It’s by far some of the best noodles I’ve ever had, though I doubt Jun is that impressed. She always says her parents make way better Chinese food, and since she spent half of her life in Hong Kong, I’m sure she’s right. But for me, anything that isn’t out of a plastic-wrapped container from the local supermarket is normally great. Tonight’s meal feels like a step above.
I don’t answer her right away. My fingers drum against the table, and I frown. Is it possible to still be so wired from the show I’d done over a day ago? It definitely feels strange, and I’m not about to tell her about my new source of income. Not yet, anyway. I love Juniper.
But this is something that I don’t know how to bring up to her. Or at least, not easily.
So I sigh and scrunch up my nose, looking at her from under the stray hair in my face as I stir my own noodles thoughtfully. “I justhatephotography,” I admit at last, knowing if I usesomething that’s true, then I won’t sound so forced. I’m barely a good liar at the best of times.
Which is why I want to tell Oliver as soon as possible that I know it’s him.
Right?
Every time I think of how that conversation will go, I cringe. How do I bring up the fact that I watch him get off in front of an audience? I certainly won’t go so far to say he’s inspired me to do it as well, though I’m sure I’ll never net the audience size he does.
But there’s no way in hell I can keep watching him. It feels like some kind of invasion of privacy, now that I know. Like it might be wrong and dishonest, since I have to face him three days a week in class. I’ll tell him, eventually, that I know it’s him and promise I don’t watch him anymore. That’s the right thing to do, in my eyes. The friendly thing, I think.
On the other hand… not telling him could be fine, too. If only because my mind cringes and squirms every time I think of how I’ll bring it up to him or what I’ll say. Worse, I can’t even begin to imagine whathe’llsay.
Will he find it funny?
Will he brush it off and make a joke, like he normally does when I find myself in an uncomfortable situation regarding class?
Or will he be upset? Maybe he won’t believe me that I didn’t know it was him the first time I watched. Maybe if I don’t tell him straight away on Monday, he’ll think I was trying to hide it or something else that’s less than honest.
“Drop it,” Juniper suggests with a shrug. “You’ve got two more days to drop it, don’t you? Take the loss and next semester, double down since it’s that bad. You don’thaveto suffer, Blair,” Juniper points out wryly. “I’ve never known you to be such a masochist.”
Maybe I’m just a masochist. Her words bring to mind Oliver’s chuckle from that day in class I’d questioned him about Professor Solomon’s wrath. He’d looked up, as if waiting for a response, and I’d thought for sure our professor would end him then and there.
Of course, thinking of his smile, and the sultry tone of his playful banter during his streams does nothing to quell the way my insides squirm at the thought of coming clean with him.
Thanks a lot, Juniper.
Stirring my noodles faster, I rest my head on my hand and shrug. “I need the credits,” I remind her, for what feels like the tenth time this week. “I don’t want to be slammed next semester before I graduate.”
“Then suffer.”
The words make me snort, and I can’t help but roll my eyes up at her. “Thanks,bestie,” I say, and she swipes my near-empty bowl that I haven’t taken a bite out of for a few minutes now.
“You want to keep the leftovers? They’ll suck if we try to reheat them,” she says, already heading for the trash.
“Nah, I don’t think so.” I tap my chopstick on the table that I hadn’t lost to her clean-up, though I eye the dark brown drop of sauce that falls to the fake-wood with a sigh. Surreptitiously, and so she can see, I swipe my sleeve across the mess and toss my chopstick onto the napkin with hers before she dumps into the trash a second later. “You’re going out with the band tomorrow, right?” I ask, referencing her small friend group that takes Sunday to find the weirdest, most off the wall places to hang out and do something out of the norm.
Like live poetry readings.
It’s not that I judge it, or that I wouldn’t want to go, exactly. Except I have gone, and fallen asleep, because appreciating the finer things in life, as Juniper likes to call them, is not for me. I’m boring, simple, and easily amused by reality tv.
“We’re not a band.”
“You could be. Can’t you play the recorder?” I ask, being purposefully facetious when I know full well she’s a very accomplished flutist and semi-proficient violinist. It’s always seemed like a weird combo to me, but what do I know? Finer things in life, and all that.
She doesn’t respond, but I don’t exactly expect her to. I’m not being serious, and she likely has better things to do and think about. But I do want to knowwhenshe’ll be gone. Normally on Sundays she leaves at three or so, and is never back before nine. Hopefully that’s what will happen tomorrow, since I’d said I’d be streaming then.
“I’m leaving earlier than usual,” Juniper replies apologetically. I try to look like I’m put out, even though I’m anything but, and nod along with her as she outlines her plans with the band that will put her out of the apartment for at least seven hours. And it’ll give me more than enough to stream and wind down from it, since when I’d done this yesterday, I was so nervous that afterward I’d still been jittery when Juniper had gotten home and had to make some excuse about why.
All in all, I don’t want to do that part of it again. Though my heart pounds nervously in my chest at the general idea of streaming again, after how things went yesterday. Not that it was bad. And I’d made more than I’d ever thought I would.
