“What?” he asks.
“I thought your hair looked like a Halloween cat.”
“You …” He peers at me. “You were going to pet me?”
“No! I mean … that was in my head, I guess, but I wasn’t really going to.”
He thinks a moment. Then he combs his fingers through his hair to make it stick up. He leans toward me and tips his head down.
I reach out slowly and pass my hand across the tops of the spikes. He closes his eyes.
I’m free to look around: at his sharp cheekbones, his dark eyebrows, his lips. I run my hand through his hair, deeper now, fingertips on his scalp. I smile. I don’t think this is what they mean by heavy petting.
He shows no impatience but I stop after a few strokes. I don’t want him to think … except it is what I’m thinking. It’s just not something that can happen.
He opens his eyes and leans back. “Does this mean you like me too?”
I laugh.
“What?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Do people talk like this? About whether they like each other?”
“We can stop if you want to.”
I nod. “Yeah, I like you. The whole one percent.”
“Not the part that yelled at you.”
“Especially that part. You were protecting her.”
His hair’s still sticking up. I reach out and smooth it down, watching his reaction to make sure it’s okay. A voice in my head tells me to stop but I can’t seem to obey it.
When I finish, David says, “No, most people don’t talk like this. Most people are boring.”
“Is that number five on your list of why you like me? I’m not boring?”
“No. It—”
“Wait, I am boring?”
“No.” He laughs. “You’re way too moody to be boring.”
And there it is. I feel my face wincing and I force it to become a frown. Maybe I won’t have to keep him at arm’s length. He’s figuring it out on his own.
“Sorry I’m moody—”
“Don’t be,” he says. “It’s why I think I’m seeing the real you, not some show like people put on, trying to look cool or above it all.”
“Huh?”
“It means I can see you’re down right now, but you’re the same person you were last night when you were happy. And even though you’re down, you’re helping Ms. Arguello, and you’re smiling, and somehow it’s not fake.”
I rest my head against the sofa. “I don’t know, David. Sounds like bullshit to me. If I’m smiling and it’s not fake, how can you tell I’m down?”
“I’m very good at reading faces. Especially eyes.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah. It’s my superpower.”
I laugh. “What?”
He grins. “Dr. Jordan told me your theory. My superpower is I can tell when people are being fake.”
“Oh really? Did Dr. Jordan tell you mine?”
“No. He said something about doctor-patient confidentiality. But I think I know what it is anyway.”
“Please,” I say. “I’m all ears.”
He leans against the back of the sofa. “When I first came in here I could tell you were down but glad to see me. Then I started upsetting Ms. Arguello. To save her from feeling upset now—even though in a couple hours she’d forget it ever happened—you told me to leave. And you were nice about it.”
“You didn’t know about her memory.”
David laughs.
“What?” I say. When he doesn’t answer right away, I say, “Tell me.”
“When you’re happy,” he says, “you’re the light in the room. And when you’re sad, you’re still the light in the room. Most moody people take it out on everyone, dragging them down or snapping and being bitchy, but not you. I don’t think there’s a single bitch-bone in your body.”
I swallow.
“That’s your superpower,” he says. “You’re an uncommonly good person.”
His face is close and getting closer. I want to glance down at his lips but I can’t look away from his eyes. He’s going to kiss me, and I’m going to let him, but I shouldn’t, but I want to, I really want to, and I see out of the corner of my eye the back of the sofa moving and David’s staying still and oh my God it’s me—I’m the one leaning in!
I blink and pull back. I exhale and turn to face the window.
“That was close!” David laughs. “Remember, not till our first date.”
My face is heating up. I’m pretty sure he’s covering. He was making no signs of stopping us. It’s up to me.
“I’ll have to remember that line for later …” David is saying. “What was it? I said you’re a good person? That’s all it took?”
“Uncommonly good,” I say, like bantering is my autopilot. “That’s the important part. I’m good, but I’m also not common.”
He laughs.
I don’t. I think about all the people who know I’m not as good a person as he thinks. Not just Zumi, either. The number of people who know what I’m really like could fill a movie theater.
“David,” I say. It feels weird that I can’t bring myself to look at him. I stare out the window at the dark. “You don’t know me as well as you think.”
“Good. I’d hate to think I already knew everything.”