Page 47 of Talk Nerdy To Me
“Eugene Cornelius Masters is my full name,” he tells me, staring at me with what I think is supposed to be stern eyes, even as he seems to battle a smile. “Base was the clear choice. It sounded much more badass.”
When I laugh, he winks, leaning back.
“What was your last name before Sterling?” he asks absently, as though he sees it to be no big deal.
“It’s a name I won’t say again,” I state quietly.
“Why?” he asks, turning toward me again.
“Because it no longer has anything to do with the person I am. It’s not a name that deserves recognition for the person I’m trying to become. And it’s not a name attached to fond memories.”
“But it’s your name. Your past is still a part of you,” he argues.
“It was my name,” I agree. “And my past is a part of me. It can be a part of me without it getting any attention from the people who didn’t know me when I had that name.”
He wants to argue. It’s his nature. He always wants people to see things from his eyes, and he passionately expresses that in a way that could cause someone to get caught up in his path.
But he also knows I won’t engage in spontaneous conflict.
“I’d rather my past be left out of most questions.”
“That’s…complicated,” he says, frowning, seeming as though he’s fighting with his instinct to argue.
“It’s part of the dark undertones that don’t matter after the happily-ever-after,” I remind him.
Blowing out a breath, he sinks down on the couch, getting comfortable as his arm brushes against mine.
“Compared to you, my story sounds fucking peachy,” he says softly, tugging me even closer.
“If you start to pity me, I’ll stop sharing things.”
He laughs under his breath. “Pity is only there in the absence of admiration,” he says, then gestures to the screen as his eyes return to it. “I’ll spend my pity on these guys in tights who have to be embarrassed by the short tunics when it looks like there’s a deer knuckle in the front of their pants.”
My mind tries to process what he’s saying, until I finally see the less-than-abstract comparison. There’s an eye-widening sort of realization.
It’s rare that I ever burst out into an actual fit of laughter. So rare that it startles me when I make some hideous noise and bray the rest of my laughter through pained and starved lungs.
He…snaps a picture of me. I can only hear it instead of seeing it since my eyes have been forced to screw shut with the painful hilarity.
I resent the joke by this point and don’t find it funny anymore, but he’ll snort, and I’ll do that terrible braying thing all over again.
Never again will I be able to keep a straight face during those very serious moments on the battlefield.
My eyes open as I try to stifle the rest of my laughter. “What good will that picture do when your central focus is the eyes?” I ask, gesturing to the picture that hasn’t started appearing yet.
He smirks as he shrugs, fanning the picture—which is actually not a good thing to do. “That one’s just for me.”
The remaining tendrils of laughter taper out, fading into the abruptly silent room. He walks the picture back toward his room, his eyes on it like he’s waiting on it to develop.
At the very least, it was a picture he took for a non-muse reason. It’s really, really unnecessary to be feeling the urge to blurt out something that will likely make him very uncomfortable.
I keep my mouth shut and try to remain as self-aware as humanly possible.
When he returns, he gestures back at the TV, and I hit play.
“So what’s the point of these trials?” he asks.
“Unity. The community is expanding, and it’s easy for that love to get spread too thin. Harley says she enjoys her girly touch on things, and she adds in the romance with these—”
