Page 36 of Follows with Intent

“It’s good, but I think I like the regular ones more.”

“Try it with this sauce.”

Nico did. And now that he wasn’t—what? staring into Jadon’s eyes, his whole body responding to that casual brush of skin on skin like it had been an electric current?—he could taste the brisket, the smoke, the vinegar and garlic. He nodded. “It’s growing on me.”

“And I got all the best stuff. They’ve got popovers, and pulled pork, and oh God, I’m going to have to run a marathon to burn off this mac and cheese, but it’s like crack.”

“What’s a popover?” Nico asked, grabbing a plate.

The conversation moved easily after that—although Nico still didn’t have any idea what a popover was besides buttery, airy, carby goodness. Nico asked about Jadon’s day. Jadon asked about Nico’s. Nico surprised himself by talking about his frustrations with the seminar, and it was oddly gratifying to make Jadon laugh. And when Jadon talked about how frustrated he felt, unable to make progress on his investigations while he was stuck at the symposium, Nico nodded and made understanding noises and, before he realized what he was doing, put a hand on Jadon’s leg, the muscle warm and firm under his touch. And Jadon didn’t even blink; he put a hand over Nico’s, like it was supposed to be there, and kept talking.

This is the place I was telling you about. Jadon’s words echoed in the back of Nico’s head. And then, a voice like Nico’s saying, This is a do-over.

This is a date.

Instead of the rush of dismay or panic or, frankly, annoyance, Nico found that it didn’t seem to change anything. He was here. He was sharing a meal with someone who was funny and generous and kind. And, with a kind of wonder, Nico realized he was happy. It was like something loosening inside his chest. It wasn’t the kind of manic restlessness and hilarity he remembered from his undergrad days, when everything had been going a hundred miles an hour, and happiness had seemed to mean something like screaming with laughter and drinking and parties and yes (he sounded a little defiant as he addressed the inescapable Emery-voice that had taken up permanent resident inside his head), even a little coke. This felt more like what he had with Emery, when things had been good. This felt—it came with a wave of heat that rose in his body—better.

Nico’s phone buzzed, and Jadon stopped in his description of a woman he’d had to arrest for taking a dump in the middle of a Dollar Tree.

It was a text from Clark: Whare are you?

Nico shook his head, and Jadon started to speak again.

The phone buzzed again.

“Sorry,” Nico said.

Jadon opened his mouth, and the phone buzzed again. With a sheepish smile, he said, “Are you sure you don’t need to handle that?”

Nico shook his head, but he did check the phone:

Where are you/

Where are you??

He stared at the screen, his heart hammering in his ears. And then he silenced it and turned it facedown on the tablecloth.

“Everything okay?” Jadon asked.

Nico gave a frustrated toss of his head. “Clark.”

“Ah.”

“We’re not together. Or hooking up. Or anything.”

“You told me.”

“We did hook up. Once. It was over a year ago. And it was stupid, and I’ve regretted it ever since. I mean, God, I don’t even like him. And now this bullshit.”

“Nico, you don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

“No, I’m sorry. I—we were having such a nice time, and now it’s ruined.”

“I’m still having a nice time.” Jadon leaned back on his hands again. The darkly sandy eyes made Nico think of water, the sound of the surf, the way the sun caught grains of mica and spent them like matches. “Tell me about this big paper you’re working on.”

“Working on might be a loose description,” Nico said. “I don’t know. At this point, I might be banging my head against a wall.”

“It’s a big deal?”

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