I blink in the face of his impassivity, feeling like he’s just performed a magic trick, transforming from my roommate into the enigma that is Deiss in the blink of an eye. I wish I could hit rewind on this conversation, lob a lighter grenade than the one I’d chosen. Actually, I’d like to rewind the entire last hour. I’d like to go back to somewhere before I started feeling like I’ve crossed a line.
Back to when he wasn’t clearly in the process of easing away from it.
* * *
—
Maybe it’s the symmetry of designing a wine label while buzzed, but I’m pretty impressed with the outcome. I’ve managed to create something eye-catchingly bold that still feels classy, which, in my opinion, is a hard line to balance. I glance up at Deiss for the hundredth time, but once again, he’s conveniently busy.
This time, he’s talking to an older man in a business suit. The man is probably getting recommendations, looking for something edgy that will make him feel young again. At least Deiss is out of his office now. He spent a full hour in there earlier before he came out and distracted himself organizing the bins. Poor Booker has been desperate for attention, Deiss and I ruining his day by focusing on our work.
At the thought of Booker, I glance over and am surprised to discover him watching me, a knowing smirk on his face. I raise my eyebrows, and Booker wriggles his like a matador wiggling a red cape. He stands up and pulls his stool toward me. It’s so close that when he sits back down, his knee presses against mine. He smells faintly of soap and the Skittles he’s been savoring one by one for the last hour. Deliberately, he turns away from Deiss so his back is blocking us.
“Did you guys get in a fight at lunch?” he whispers.
“No.” I lean around him to make sure Deiss hasn’t heard, but he’s taken the customer to the front of the store. “Why would you ask that? Does he seem mad?”
Booker laughs. “Deiss? Please. That man never gets mad. He didn’t even get mad when I spilled soda on the Ibanez RG5000. And my soda smelled more like Captain Morgan than Dr Pepper, if you know what I mean. You’re the one being weird.”
My hands go to my face, as if I can pat out the traces of whatever it is he’s spotted. “I’m not being weird.”
“When Deiss brought us coffees, you practically balanced the cup in your palm to keep his fingers from touching yours.”
“You’re exaggerating,” I say, even though I’m not entirely sure he is.
Booker shakes his head. “I had to double-check his hands to make sure they hadn’t sprouted poisonous claws.”
“We didn’t get into a fight,” I say.
“Then what?” He leans forward, searching my face. He’s had too much time to think. I should’ve known I couldn’t work silently for hours, leaving him alone with his thoughts, and not have to pay for it later.
“My man-whore of a boss snuck off to the coat check with the waitress, didn’t he?” he says confidently. His eyes brighten. “Did you walk in on them and see his hands somewhere disgusting?”
“Booker!” I give an audible gag.
“No,” he says, holding up a finger. “You got jealous, didn’t you? You realized you love him, and now you can’t touch him because you won’t be able to ever let go.”
I force a laugh, but my stomach churns at how close he’s come to the truth. Not about the jealousy or the love or the inability to let go, obviously. But Booker is right that I’ve been avoiding Deiss’s touch since lunch, just like it’s still a struggle to make eye contact with him. If a man who accidentally accepted arcade tokens as payment for a record yesterday （Booker believed the customer who claimed they were two-dollar coins） could pick up on that, I have to assume that Deiss has, too.
“I was just drunk,” I say firmly. “I always get skittish when I drink too many cocktails. But that’s it. Nothing weird happened at lunch, just like there’s nothing weird between Deiss and me.”
I stand up, determined to prove it. Not just to Booker. Not even to Deiss. To myself. I wasn’t supposed to have crazy thoughts about Deiss. It certainly doesn’t fit into my perfect version of our friendship.
But it happened.
And I can deal with that. I have quit my job, but managed to accumulate six new clients in my first week of freelancing. I’m all but penniless, but my skin is still tan from a trip to Africa and my belly is full of top-shelf cocktails. I’ve lost my home for the second time in my life, but I’ve never felt more happily settled than I have at Deiss’s.