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“Oh, if only I could get you on the stand.”
“I’d perjure myself,” I say. “But it wouldn’t happen. You don’t go to court.”
“I can still use the expression,” he says. “You’re making me think the absolute worst right now.”
His curiosity feels like a gift. It’s been a long time since I’ve been this interested to anyone. Since someone cared and wanted to get to know me. Since secret-sharing was a thing.
And then, I spot a way to leverage it to my own advantage. “Well,” I say slowly. “Maybe there’s something you can barter for that information.”
His lips twitch. “You’re thinking like an attorney.”
“From you, that’s the highest of compliments.”
“Yes,” he says. “So let’s negotiate.”
My heart feels heady in my chest, beating like the bass in a club. “Why do you want to know what I write?”
“Is that one of your questions?”
“We’re counting them now?”
“There’s a limited amount of time allowed for a deposition. Choosing the right questions to ask is paramount.”
I clear my throat and look at him like he’s on trial for murder. “Okay, then. A question for a question. If we veto we have to drink.”
“All right.” He glances down at his drink like he’s already thinking of all the lovely times he’ll just drink instead of answering any of my questions.
“Wait a second,” I say. “We can’t veto all the time. Let’s say we can only pass every… third question.”
“Mmm. Good stipulation.” He sets the glass down on the small table between our chairs and folds his forearms over his chest. “Does your family know about your writing?”
“Yes,” I say.
He utters a low humming sound as if that’s an interesting nugget of information. It makes his voice sound deeper.
“Right. My turn.” I roll my tumbler slowly between my palms; the glass is cool from the ice.
“Well, you know me,” he says. “I’m an open book.”
I laugh, and satisfaction flashes in his eyes. He likes making me laugh. The knowledge settles like a hot stone in my stomach. “You might be the least forthcoming person I’ve ever met,” I say. “All right, here’s one. Tell me more about your sister.”
“Really?”
I make a keep-going motion with my hand, and he sighs like I’m subjecting him to waterboarding. “She’s younger than me,” he says.
“Are you two close?”
“Is that your next question?”
There’s a towel hanging over the back of my chair. I grab it and lob it toward him. He catches it with a chuckle, that half smile on his lips threatening to break out in full force. “Fine. She lives in Chicago, too. We grab lunch every now and then.”
“You said she’s a dentist?”
“Yes, so I see her regularly at my check-ups, too. I think she makes them extra painful just for me.”
That makes me smile. “What’s her name?”
“Tess.”
