His head tilts to the side and he studies me for what feels like a century but in reality is three seconds before chuckling. “I don’t tell them about Cal, so they have no opinion on the matter.”
I cannot look at him straight on. I mean, he can feel everything in me for the most part, but it’s worse when I know he can see the emotions on my face, too. I feel fully exposed, helpless to do anything. I focus on the embroidery like it’s the most important thing in the worlds. And then I find myself asking another question I probably shouldn’t. “Did he make you come here?”
There’s that quiet laugh again. “He asked, but he didn’t make me. You should know me better than that.”
Why does that make me so happy to hear? But I clearly have little control over my mouth, because I continue on, “You don’t have to be here if you don’t want to be. I mean, if it’s babysitting. I’m sure you have better things to do than babysit me. If, uh, that’s what it is.” His forehead crinkles so I add, “Uh. Babysitting, I mean.”
His fingers drum against the arm of the chair. “I’m not here to babysit you, C.”
It makes no sense, but all of the weight saturating the room dissipates. “I’m glad,” I tell him, and smiles overtake both our faces.
We sit and talk.
And talk.
And talk.
At least half an hour of pure words and questions dart between us. Things we haven’t been able to ask each other in eight months are now said freely.
It’s exhilarating.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I say.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought about leaving, you know. Once.”
“What?” I ask. “When was this?”
“When Jonah left, when he got to the lobby downstairs.”
“Why?”
“He was freaking out, leaving me here. With you. Alone.”
“No,” I gasp.
“Yeah.”
“No!”
Kellan tries not to laugh. “Yes?”
“He said he was okay with this.”
“He is, for the most part.”
“What part isn’t?”
“I know he’s easy going and all,” Kellan says, shaking his head like he can’t believe I don’t get it, “but even Jonah has his limits.”
“Let me guess. He thinks we’re having sex.”
Kellan chokes on the water he’s sipping. “Urgh?”
“He’s predictable, you know.”
He sets his glass down. “Well, in his mind, I mean, it’s a valid question.”
“What, because of last year? In the hotel?”
“Yeah. Wouldn’t it be for you?”
I ignore that. “So, how’d Callie feel about you coming here?”
Blank look. “Callie?”
I nod.
“Ambivalent, I guess?”
“She likes me,” I tell him.
“I know. She bought you crap. That’s like her stamp of approval.”
I finger the edge of my dress again. “But even Callie has her limits.”
One of his eyebrows quirks up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Do you think, even though she likes me, she hates me too?”
He gives me a blank look.
“You know, I’ve got my grubby mitts on her two favorite boys.”
“Oh. Well, I don’t know. No?”
I wag my finger at him. He’s an Emotional. He knows better. “Yes.”
“Okay then. Yes?”
I laugh.
“I’m told you will take me to lunch.”
I am inordinately pleased that he’s visibly more relaxed. And amused. “We can do that, if you like.”
“I don’t cook,” I admit, like this will somehow shock him, despite our history. “I try, but I fail miserably every time. Just last month, I wanted to cook some pasta, thinking I’d be all Betty Crocker for your brother, and I put a pot of water on, right? And then I went and took a shower and got dressed and when I came back into the kitchen, there was no more water. I ruined water, Kellan. It was all gone.”
He tries not to laugh, but it’s obvious he’s struggling. “How long was that shower anyway?”
I try to arch an eyebrow up, but I probably look like I’m having a muscle spasm. “The point being, everything I have here is prepackaged food, which isn’t good for me, or so I’m told. I have to smuggle in tasty food.”
He’s clearly perplexed. “Why smuggle?”
“My mother hates junk food.”
He glances around the apartment. “Your mother doesn’t live here.”
I will myself to ignore the twinge that comes with this. “Old habits die hard, I guess.”
He catches my sadness, though, and diverts me quickly. “So, tell me what kind of food is smuggle-worthy.”
I tick off the items on my fingers: “Candy, sugary cereals, white bread . . . hot dogs! I love hot dogs. There’s a little stand, run by Gnomes down by the campus. Do you know it?” He nods, so I confess, “I hit that up probably three times a week.”
“And you smuggle these hot dogs home?”