“I know that, Brad. You’re doing it right now.”
This feels like a ludicrous compliment. I actually blush. “It’s just hard to notice, sometimes, what’s a reasonable train of thought and what’s, um, not.”
“Okay,” she says calmly.
The elevator glides to a stop and the doors start to open. Already. Crap. Celine glances at me, then hits the close symbol and pushes button number eight.
I blink at her. “What are you doing?”
“You don’t have to talk to me,” she says, her eyes on the mirror. “Take your time.”
“Your appointment is in—”
“Relax, Brad.”
I splutter, laughing. “You’re telling me to relax?”
She rolls her eyes. “Do as you’re told.”
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.
Only we will remain.
By the time we reach the top floor, I have a firm grip on my endless store of worst-case BEP scenarios and have dismissed the idea that this elevator will crash to the ground unless I step on every floor panel. It won’t. That’s not how engineering works. We glide back down again while Celine adjusts her black dress in the mirror. I put an arm around her waist and bury my face in her hair, just because. Because I can. Because this feels good, and she’s soft and solid, and I want to say—
“Thank you.”
“Deeply unnecessary,” she mutters.
I grin, squeeze her again, step back. “Your hair smells amazing.”
She cuts her eyes at me. “Don’t start.”
“Start what?” I ask, all innocent. “I’m just telling the truth. Speaking of, you look pretty today.”
“So do you,” she murmurs, then freezes. “I meant…you look…”
I am 100 percent positive she’s blushing. “Gorgeous?”
“No.”
“Stunning?”
“No—” laughter in her voice.
“Like your next boyfriend?”
“I don’t do boyfriends.” Celine snorts, and the elevator dings.
I frown as I follow her out into a cavernous cream hallway. Now, this is one hell of a distraction. “What do you mean you don’t do boyfriends?” I thought she just didn’t do me. Because we’ll change, or whatever, which we won’t—but I am, believe it or not, trying to respect her decision, so I heroically don’t bring that up. “You had a boyfriend before. Didn’t you?”
Her expression is appalled and astonished. （Appallished.） “Are you talking about Luke?”
“He wasn’t your boyfriend?” If that’s true, why the hell did I have to spend months watching him pant after her? Were they not making out in every dark corner like feral rabbits? Did I not once see him give Celine his scarf? I most certainly did.
Ugh. The fact that I’m jealous of Luke Darker right now? I may never find my dignity again.
“No,” Celine says firmly, “Luke wasn’t my boyfriend.” She starts walking faster, like she’s trying to outrun this conversation, her footsteps muffled by thick blue-and-gold patterned carpet.
“So what was he?”
“A guy.”
Luke Darker was just a guy. Somebody needs to stop the press.
Wait—there’s something more important going on here. We pass a wall of paintings with gold plaques underneath, which I ignore. “Do you not plan to date anyone? Ever?”
Celine gives a too-casual shrug. “Never thought about it.”
“Why?”
“Hasn’t come up.”
I’d bet my left ball it came up with Luke and it’s definitely come up with me. She’s avoiding feelings again. Hard.
I know she likes me—she said she likes me—so I thought the anti-relationship issue was just a lack of trust. We’ve only been friends again for five minutes, and last time we broke, we shattered, so for her to doubt my feelings, or even her own—that is understandable.
But is she telling me she doesn’t trust anyone?
I want more than this for you.
How do you tell someone a thing like that without coming off monumentally rude?
While I’m trying to figure that out, we reach an ornate door. There’s a golden plaque above it that says the blue conference room. Celine exhales and smooths down her skirt. I bet, for once, she’s panicking even harder than I am, what with her Lord and Savior Katharine Breakspeare being in the next room.
Yet she still makes the time to grab my hand again. “Brad. You know you’ve got this, right?”
God, I want to kiss her so badly, but instead, I say, “Back at you, Bangura.”
The door opens.
“Thank you,” a familiar voice says, all easy confidence. Katharine. “I’m so glad we had the time to make this work.” She’s the one who opened the door, but instead of walking through, she holds it and steps aside to let out a stream of people. Not Explorers; adults in suits and wool coats. Celine and I move back, hands parting, and I nod politely at everyone who makes eye contact. Never a bad time to make a good impression. I hope she remembers not to glare.
The last man out looks vaguely familiar—he’s tall, though not as tall as me, with brown skin and a bald head and silver-framed glasses that flash in the light. There’s something about his dark, dark eyes that gnaws at my memory, but I can’t quite grasp it, so I just nod and wait for him to pass.
He doesn’t pass.
He jerks to a stop as if he slammed into a pane of glass. I hear his inhalation. I see the color leave his cheeks. His eyes widen and he chokes out, “Celine?”
Oh.
Shit.
It’s Celine’s dad.
I’ve only seen him a handful of times, years ago. There are no pictures of him in the Bangura house. I turn to look at Celine so fast I feel the creak in my neck—but her exterior is the exact opposite of my explosive panic.
She stands there in front of her father, shoulders back, gaze steady, expression polite but blank. And she says, so, so calmly:
“I’m sorry. Do I know you?”
Mr. Soro looks like he has just been stabbed. I am suddenly having the time of my life. This moment could only be improved if he had a sudden bout of catastrophic diarrhea and shit himself in front of Katharine Breakspeare and had to waddle all the way home.
“I…，” he stammers. “I…”
Amazing. He can’t collect a single word. What a sad excuse for a human being.
I am suddenly, monumentally furious. This slug is the reason why Celine—Celine, who is so much, when he is so little—second-guesses so many things in her life? Unbelievable.
Mr. Soro clears his throat and finally gets himself together. “I…ah…sorry…I’ll just— Good seeing you.” He makes an awkward motion with his arm, then follows through, scuttling off like a roach.
I watch him all the way down the corridor with what is probably an expression of sheer disgust on my face. Then I notice Katharine Breakspeare observing the scene with interest and plaster on the best blank mask I can. No way Celine wants this drama playing out in front of her hero.
I can’t imagine how she feels right now. What do I do? I have to do something.
“Right, then,” Katharine says. “Celine Bangura?”