Page 7 of Missed Exit

I manage to force my eyes up to the drill in his hand, hoping to confirm that’s the only tool I was referring to. This all feels so awkward and obvious, but I’m sure it’s one of those moments where you think everyone else is noticing something, but you find out later that they weren’t paying a bit of attention. It was all in your head.

This is all in my head.

Which is exactly where the image of his dick originally came from. Of course, it wasn’t really his dick because I’ve never seen that part of him, except through his pants. Not that I have x-ray vision. I mean, I can’t actually see through his pants—

Oh, God. Now I’m looping:

Imagine his dick. Look in its general direction. Peel your eyes away. Tell yourself you absolutely do not want to see that. Clearly see an image of it in your head again. Catch yourself staring at its zipped-up fort. Force your eyes—

I shake my head. “Sorry. I’ve had a lot of caffeine today. It makes me a little spacey if I have too much.”

“How long was your drive?”

“Seven hours.”

“What are you running away from?” He examines the screws in the little bag the movers taped to my headboard, and then he opens his little plastic box and chooses a drill bit.

“Nothing. I just needed some peace and quiet for a while.” I help him set the headboard into position, centered on the wall, but about four inches away from it.

“Ah, a change of scenery before the new school year starts, huh? You here for the whole summer?”

“I’m here until Christmas break. At least.”

“So, you’re taking a semester off?”

“At least.”

“Got it.”

We work in silence until the bed is whole again. He uses head nods and hand signals to let me know if he needs me to move anything. I’m weirdly grateful he’s stopped talking. Stopped asking questions.

“What exactly do you do?” I ask as we hoist my mattress into place. My own curiosity can only take so much silence.

“What’s your best guess?”

“Oil field, probably.”

“Sweetheart, if I was working in the oil field, I’d be able to afford a much nicer place.”

I normally hate when men call me sweetheart, but there’s something so unassuming in the way he says it, no discernible condescension to piss me off, so he gets a free pass. This time.

“Well, I know that’s an expensive truck you’re driving, so you’re probably not asking people if they want fries with that.”

He laughs, and I can tell I’ve caught him off guard. I guess he didn’t expect me to have a sense of humor. Rude.

“I’m an A & R rep,” he says, as if that answers my question.

“Okay, I give up. Does that mean you do legal work for the oil industry?”

“Again, if I was a lawyer for the oil industry—”

“We wouldn’t be neighbors.”

“Exactly. A & R stands for artists and repertoire. The industry is music.”

I stare at him, waiting for him to continue his explanation because I still have no idea what he does.

“Would you recognize the phrase talent scout?”

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