In so doing, I suspect I’ve made it all worse.
Am I doing it all wrong here, I wonder? Should I be more guarded around people? Do I give off the wrong idea? Do I perpetrate the fiction that I’m interested in more than I intend? Cordy says I’m a terrible flirt, but I don’t see it, especially as that’s rarely my intention. Plus, I don’t have the confidence to consciously flirt. Rather, I’m genuinely interested in people and maybe that comes across as something else, something I don’t mean. I’m a tactile person, always touching—do I invade other people’s personal space too much?
Perhaps I misjudged Owen’s signals. Perhaps everything was one-sided and I misinterpreted the situation. Would not be the first time. Last night on Skype, Cordy reminded me of the Alastair business a few years back. I thought he and I had been Facebook Official for weeks, always running about together...until he introduced me to his boyfriend, James. I truly thought Cody would hemorrhage from laughing so hard back then. She says I’m too na?ve for my own good.
I think the problem is me. I sigh with frustration.
“See?” Liam says, responding to my exhale. He’s still working the German accent. Christ, I’d forgotten he was next to me. “Knew you vere in for somethink bad. You vill speak or not?”
I explain, “I’ve a committed a number of crimes, apparently. First, I haven’t taken my ACTs—”
“Whoa, you haven’t taken your ACTs?” he exclaims, accent abandoned, eyes flying wide open. Brown. Huh. Funny, I’d have pegged him for having something in the blue or green category with all the golden hair and tawny skin. He seems the sporty type. He strikes me as very California, if that’s an apt way to describe someone who lives in the center of the country.
Who does he remind me of? Someone...familiar. Ah, of course. I snort inadvertently.
“You must date Mallory because you sound exactly like her.”
His lips flatten into a thin line before he rearranges them into another smile. “Sorry. Natural reaction. I’m just surprised is all. We started doing practice ACTs in eighth grade, and the real thing in ninth, so meeting someone who hasn’t taken one? That’s like running across a unicorn or someone who doesn’t have a driver’s license.”
I shrug. “Afraid I don’t have one of those, either.”
At home, I mostly take the Tube when I need to get somewhere, or I ride my bike. I rarely drive my parents’ car because traffic in London is ridic. Granted, there’s loads of free parking in North Shore and the traffic in town is kind of nonexistent, but I can walk anywhere I need and the whole wrong side of the road business makes me nervous. I need a few driving-here lessons to be comfortable. Owen was going to help me.
Sigh.
Still, getting a license is on my list. In fact, I’ve started a list of all the American Must Do things. There’s already so much on the page that it’s daunting.
Liam looks me up and down, incredulous. “What? No license? Are you from the moon or something?”
I close my book and slip it back into my satchel. “Yes. Exactly there. You’ve nailed it. Did my accent give me away? So hard to shake that Lunar Lisp.”
“What’s your name, Moon Girl?”
Pity that this one has a girlfriend as blond and lovely and focused as Mallory, because he’s a delight. While he’s not flirting with me, he is talking to me like I’m the only person in the world. He’s not glancing at his phone or looking around to see who might walk in next. He’s all honed in on what I’m about to say and that’s a lovely trait, extraordinarily polite, deeply mindful, which I appreciate.
“I’m Simone Chastain. Pleased to meet you.”
“Liam Avery.” He seems amused when I extend my hand, but he gives it a solid shake, lingering for just a second before letting it go. His palms are neither too sweaty nor too limp. While a bit rough and calloused, they’re also firm and warm, exactly the kind you’d want to hold while, say, watching a scary film or killing time wandering around a park on a chilly day. He maintains eye contact the whole time, too, which feels oddly intimate. For a second, I feel more like we’re navigating a first date and less like we’re queued up to chat with our guidance counselors.
And that is very wrong.
I quickly pull my hand away.
“Yes, Liam Avery, I’ve seen your posters,” I say. “I particularly like Liam Avery: The Man Your Man Could Smell Like, especially with that picture of you on the boat and the caption ‘I’m on a boat!’ A dated reference, but not irrelevant. Or the one where you’re on the soccer field, superimposed over the Apple logo with Beauty Outside, Beast Inside?”
Shit, is this the accidental flirting Cordy says I do? Not my intention, particularly not now.
The tips of his ears turn red. “My mom used to run an ad agency and lives for this kind of stuff. She and Mallory came up with the posters. I was their unwilling accomplice.”
“Personally, I pity the competition. Who’s going to vote Weston 4 King or Josh [who] Is ’N It 2 Win It when they can Keep Calm and Liam On? No contest.”
A guidance secretary enters the waiting area. “Miss Chastain? Mr. Gorton is ready for you.”
“That’s me.” I rise and grab my heavy bag, hooking it over my shoulder with a small oof. Liam gets up, too, even though he’s not yet been called. Bonus points for being polite.
“Good luck in there, Moon Girl. Hope you’re granted time off for good behavior.” He shoots me with pretend finger guns before he sits down again.
I find myself smiling when I enter Mr. Gorton’s office.
“Good day, Miss Chastain. Please be seated.”
I note that the chairs in here are decidedly more comfortable than the ones in the waiting area. I guess they couldn’t be worse.
“Howdy, partner.” I doff my imaginary ten-gallon hat at him, inspired by Liam’s Wild West gesture.
Mr. Gorton seems nonplussed, but doesn’t question my suddenly speaking like a cowboy. Where did that come from? Perhaps Liam made me a tiny bit bubbly inside, which doesn’t feel like my MO. Then again, I don’t have an MO.
Of course, Cordy tells me I’d be more attractive to boys if I could develop some Daddy issues.
(She truly is a font of terrible advice, but I love her dearly.)
Mr. Gorton strikes me as one of the lesser characters on Mad Men, perhaps a Ken Cosgrove–type, all tidy and buttoned-down and spit-shined, with neatly parted hair and very starchy shirts. I feel as though the clocks are precise to the second in his world.