Something flickers across his face. I could swear it’s reluctance, but it must not be, because he answers my question.
“I guess,” he says, leaning against the wall. His arms cross loosely over his chest. “But not always. Sometimes, I’m trying to think through something, and the only way to get to the answer is to distract my brain long enough for the mess to untangle on its own. But sometimes, I guess, I just want a change.”
“I didn’t know that.” I look toward the leather couch, so worn in it’s spidered with creases. He probably chose the light brown color so it would go with any wall shade he wanted to paint.
With quick steps, I move to the kitchen, then onward, surveying his home with new understanding. A patternless bedspread. Photos on the wall instead of art. All of it deliberately noncommittal to a color scheme.
I stop in the doorway to what’s supposed to be my room, taking in the aggressively red walls （some shade between maroon and the color of video game blood） and the sofa bed. A desk sits in front of a window, a record player on top. The wall beside it is lined with stacks of records. In the corner, there’s a bass guitar. I didn’t know Deiss played music.
“I love it,” I say. This time, the honesty in my words is clear. While my home was a kind of museum, his is like a living extension of himself, shifting according to his moods. What’s not to like? “But I can’t stay.”
“Sure you can,” he says simply.
I shake my head. “I need to be close to my office.”
“You have an entire month before they expect you back.”
“I can’t wait that long, Deiss.” I sigh, reluctant to explain myself. “My savings are gone.”
“They’ll be back after the bank does an investigation.”
“I need to make money to live on until that happens.”
“You’re going to. If you needed motivation to hustle as a freelancer, here it is.”
“How does a graphic designer make money without a laptop?” It comes out snappier than I’ve intended. But I’ve never known Deiss to be such an optimist, and this does not feel like the ideal time for the emergence of the trait. “Mine was stolen. Remember? That’s how he got into my bank account.”
Deiss scoffs. “You’ll have your credit card by tomorrow. And I’m sure they’ll restore your account soon.”
A $2,000 credit limit. A good laptop will cut that in half, leaving me with a small safety net to get me through however long it might take to resolve all this. I can’t even apply for another card if things get rough. Not while there’s a security alert on my name.
“But what if they don’t? Restore my account, that is. It wasn’t the bank’s fault. They didn’t let some cyber thief sneak into their system. He came in through my laptop.” I train my eyes slightly past him and square my jaw. “I let this happen, Deiss. I broke the rules, and there were consequences for my actions. All I can do now is try to get back on the right path.”
“Hey.” He puts his hands on my shoulders, not speaking until I give in and look up at him. “You didn’t break any rules. You made a choice to go on vacation, which, by the way, is a very normal thing to do. But if you go back to your job now, you’ll be walking a very difficult path to reverse from. Right now, you have the option to try out freelancing, knowing that your boss has provided a safety net if it doesn’t work out. But he’s not going to provide that twice. If you tell him you’ve decided to continue working for him, you’re going to feel stuck there for a very long time.”
I blink at his closeness, trying to think of an argument but coming up short. He’s right. I wouldn’t dare walk away from my job again, not with the knowledge that the first try ended in such spectacular failure. And if my life felt unsatisfying before, I can only imagine how going back to the same thing will feel now.
“I’ll only stay until I get everything figured out,” I say firmly.
“Perfect.” Deiss gives me a slow, dazzling smile. “That’s exactly how long the invitation is good for.”
* * *
—
I feel silly following Deiss to Studio Sounds, but I really would like to see his shop. I haven’t made it to his part of town since the grand opening. There’s been little reason to visit. He’s certainly never asked me to come to one of his after-hours shows. In fairness, they’re open to the public, but I’ve taken his lack of personal invitation as proof he doesn’t think I’m cool enough to enjoy them.