Page 43 of Something in Between

“Why do you ask?” I say coyly, feeling warm all over.

When he runs his knuckles down the side of my arm, I feel goose bumps underneath my sweater sleeves. “Just wondering if they speak in riddles like you.”

“Like you?” I counter, because he plays the game as much as I do.

“No way. I’m an open book.”

“They’re like me and not like me, I guess,” I tell him. “My parents grew up in the Philippines, in another culture. They’re very strict. But we have the same sense of humor. We get each other.”

“You’re lucky.”

“I know I am. I’m always thankful for that.” I lean against him, thinking of what he said the night before and at the Jefferson Memorial. “Can I ask you something? How come when you talk about politics you always get this look on your face?”

“What look?”

“This look,” I say, trying to imitate him. “Like it’s repulsive.”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I guess maybe it’s because my dad expects me to go into it like he did. His dad was a politician too. He was a congressman, and my dad took over his seat.”

“Old money, huh?”

“I guess. My dad’s family does all right, but it was my mom’s side of the family that funded my dad’s first campaign. My grandfather came from Mexico and started a steel company.”

“So he was an immigrant,” I say, smiling to learn that his grandfather wasn’t too different from me.

“Yeah, he started out selling oranges by the highway, is the family legend, but in his lifetime became one of the biggest industrial manufacturers in the state,” he says proudly.

A waiter comes by and we just order drinks, since there’s a group dinner with Suzanne later on.

Royce reaches for a piece of warm bread and tears off a piece. He chews thoughtfully. “Anyway, yeah, I guess I’m not into politics. All that dirt, all those compromises, the bubble of big spending.”

“Still, it’s still a way to help people outside of that bubble. There are other people out there who get forgotten, and they need a voice too,” I say.

“Haveyouever thought about going into politics?” Royce asks. “You definitely have the willpower and intensity. I’d believe anything you say.”

He’s so sweet that I can’t help but smile at him. “You don’t have to go into politics to change the world. You just have to work hard.” I wonder if that’s my father talking now, or maybe my mother. I’m not sure.

“You really believe that?”

“Is it naive of me?”

“No,” he says thoughtfully. “It’s idealistic. Optimistic. That’s cool.” He removes his hand from my shoulder, and I’m a disappointed for a minute until he places it on my knee.

I used to look at couples snuggling in restaurants who couldn’t keep their hands off each other and wonder what that was all about. Now I understand. I can’t stop touching him either. I run my fingers through his soft hair, pushing it out of his eyes like I did last night.

We disengage a little when we finally get our drinks—iced teas—green for him, black for me since I need the caffeine. When the waiter leaves, Royce has a different look on his face—more determined, but not as self-assured as usual.

“I thought more about our conversation last night, about how I want to go into journalism. But my parents will never go for it. Probably ’cause I’m not smart enough. I think I could be good at it though. When I want to find out something, I don’t let up.”

“Stop putting yourself down. You’d be great at it, and you’re more than smart enough,” I say. Then I change tack. “But the thing about journalists, though, is that they have to tell the truth, right?”

“The facts, I think. Truth is relative.” He can tell I’m testing him. He’s clever and has his guard up, an eyebrow raised.

I guess Iamtesting him. “Okay, the facts, then.” I move a little away from him to take a sip of my drink so that he has to remove his hand from my knee.

“What are you getting at?” he says, although I have a feeling he already knows.

“You never explained how you know Carrie,” I say. “Or why she would say that about you.”Royce Blakely isn’t what he seems like. I’ve been there. He’s a total player.

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