The truth in his question makes me laugh. “I’ve been going there for years, so I aged out of my contract a long time ago. But what I really had on my side was the greater part of a bottle of Baileys, a sugar high, and a drunken coworker cheering me on. I was not someone who was going to take no for an answer.”
“Are you ever?” He says it flippantly, but it brings to mind all the noes I’ve absorbed over the years. No indulgences, said the mirror. No mistakes, warned the experts. No, you’re not enough, said all the men who made and broke promises to my mom and me.
“I suppose not,” I say to the sky blue wall past his cheek.
“And dates?” His lip curls gorgeously when my head jerks back toward him. “I know you go on lots of those. How do they fit into your schedule?”
My eyes narrow as I search him for signs of mockery, but he gazes back at me with the easy attention of someone merely making conversation. Slowly, I relax, turning onto my side and lifting my hand to my shoulder to prop up my head. “They’re for the weekends.”
“Never during the week?”
“Weeknight dates mean the man isn’t that into you. Unless it’s a committed relationship, women should hold out for the primetime nights.”
Deiss looks intrigued by the insight. “But what about someone like me, who puts on shows for work on Saturday nights?”
“You’re proof of the point,” I say confidently. “Notice how you’ve just managed to ignore the existence of Fridays. You want to pretend that you can’t ask a woman out on a weekend, but really you don’t want to. Because you don’t take women seriously. You’re never that interested in them.”
“I take women seriously.” Deiss manages to sound adamant without a hint of defensiveness.
“But you don’t want one of them to be your girlfriend.” I say this equally adamantly, and he flips over on his side to mirror my position.
“True,” he says, shrugging his shoulder.
I knew this. Still, his confirmation settles in my stomach like the dried-out carrots I was choking down earlier. I’ve always accepted the fact that Deiss doesn’t care about much, but I hate the idea that he doesn’t care about anything. Except music, of course. Always music. Someone else’s emotions poured out in song. Never his—possibly, disappointingly, because he doesn’t have any.
“What?” His eyes search my face. “You look . . .”
I lift an eyebrow.
“Like you’ve tasted something foul,” he says.
“Have you ever had a girlfriend?” At my question, I see that same look from yesterday flash across his face. This time, I don’t just wonder if it’s reluctance. I’m certain of it.
Once again, he answers in spite of it. “When I was younger. She was my neighbor, which was convenient.”
“Because you were too young to drive?”
He shakes his head. “I had a ’75 Bronco, Brook Blue Poly with a white roof cover. It was the first big thing I ever bought with my Family Fun money. I didn’t have anywhere to go in it, but that didn’t stop me from cruising with the windows down for hours, finding back roads and hitting the gas so hard I’d go up on two wheels when I rounded the curves.”
“Sounds perfect,” I say. “So, why did you need someone who lived next door?”
“Because there was no one else.” His eyes darken, the blue turning from sapphire to midnight. “It had been years since Family Fun ended, but I was still nervous to go out in public. If my secret got uncovered, that was it. Maybe it would’ve been okay if I’d started high school with everyone else, but I hadn’t been ready to trade in my freedom for scheduled days. Once I realized there might be benefits to attending—like friends and girls and parties—it was too late. Showing up after everyone had settled into their roles and formed friendships would’ve brought me too much attention. It would only take one person to spot the Brendan Davis in me.”
“That makes sense,” I say, being careful to keep my face blank. I know Deiss will retreat at any sign of pity, but I can’t help feeling it. I can’t imagine what it would be like, hiding away for all that time. Especially as a child, when every day feels like it stretches out for an eternity. “Did she know who you were?”
“No. Catherine knew I couldn’t be around other people, but she thought my family was in the Witness Protection Program.” He bites down a smile, and I copy him unthinkingly, nibbling at my own lower lip. “I didn’t tell her that, but I might’ve dropped bread crumbs that led her down that path.”