Page 18 of Follows with Intent

Nico sat, looking straight ahead. He took a long drink of the beer, his throat moving with each swallow, his Adam’s apple prominent against his slender profile. I’ve got to get out of here, Jadon thought. The music got louder and louder until it seemed like the only thing he could hear. He couldn’t tell Nico this was a mistake, but he could say—what? He had an emergency?

But he heard himself ask over the din, “How was your seminar?”

For a moment, he thought Nico hadn’t heard; he stayed as he was, unmoving, the glass hovering at his lips. Then he turned, the movement abrupt, almost hostile. “We talked for two hours about whether Augustine could be called a Sartrian existentialist or if that was anachronistic.”

Jadon took a drink. Augustine. Sartrian existentialist. Maybe ask a question, his brain suggested. Maybe say, Tell me more.

But before he could, a mocking little smile raked across Nico’s face, and he said, “How was your seminar?”

“Good.”

Nico cocked his head.

“Good,” Jadon said again more loudly.

Annoyance streaked across Nico’s face and was gone again as he nodded.

“It’s important,” Jadon said.

“What?”

“It’s important!”

Again, that slight tightening around Nico’s eyes and mouth. “I’m sure it is.”

Before Jadon could ask what that meant, though, the bartender was back, asking for their order. Nico turned his attention to the menu again, so when the woman looked at Jadon, he said, “I’ll do this house salad, no dressing, add chicken.”

Nico’s head came up. He must have heard him over the music because he turned slowly toward Jadon and said, “You don’t have to get a salad.”

“Huh?”

“I’m not getting a salad.”

“Okay?” It shouldn’t have sounded so much like a question, but it did.

“I can eat whatever I want.”

“I know—”

“I want the Western burger. Can you add an extra onion ring? And what are toasted ravioli?”

The bartender began, “You’ve never had toasted ravioli? They’re a St. Louis thing. It’s like a regular ravioli, but—”

“They’re deep fried,” Jadon said. “Delicious, but super unhealthy, so—”

“Perfect.” Nico shut his menu with a snap. “We’ll have those.”

Jadon took a drink of his beer. A long one.

After that, neither of them had much to say. Jadon tried a few more times to start a conversation—he had no idea who Augustine was or what Sartrian existentialism might be, but he asked how school was going, and he asked about work (one of the things he’d picked up on, during those late-night texts, was that Nico loved his job and loved his boss and still managed to complain about both of them). Nico parried the questions, or answered with scything sarcasm, or—more and more as the meal went on—simply ignored them. By the time the check came, they were both facing forward, and Jadon had ordered a second beer.

“My treat,” Nico said, handing a card to the bartender.

“No, I invited you.”

“I insist.”

They went outside. The street was all closed doors and bleached light, and the cold cut at Jadon’s cheeks. When they got to the car, he went to open the door, but Nico got there first. He yanked on the handle. It didn’t open.

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