Page 52 of Fireworks Flame
Ilikeunderstanding what makes Deiss so uniquely himself. And I like the closeness between us ever since he picked me up from the airport. I enjoy laughing with him over a bad TV show and drinking coffee with him silently in the morning. He’s not the problem. I am.
I’ve allowed eleven years of friendship to make me stupid. It might sound harsh, but in this situation, harshness is warranted. A smart woman doesn’t allow herself to settle into a routine with a man, expecting him to be around night after night.
It’s a mistake I haven’t made since the tenth grade, when Elliot Davenport’s touch and pretty words made my skin tingle with excitement. He pretended not to know me the next day. He didn’t even brag about taking my virginity. Clearly, it wasn’tvaluable enough to be boasted about. But the experience taught me that loss of control leads straight to heartbreak.
Since then, I’ve only dated men who are attractive in a bland Ken doll way. The kind of men who are likely to reveal a smooth curve of plastic should their pants come off. When I sleep with someone, it’s because I’ve chosen to, not because I couldn’t restrain myself. It’s after the fifth date, once they’ve invested an appropriate amount of time and money into me and there’s been talk of exclusivity. Sometimes I even enjoy it. But I never, ever lose myself in it.
If I’ve allowed myself to develop some kind of ill-advised crush on Deiss, I deserve to be defined as stupid. But I don’t have to stay that way. I can control this situation.
“Not everyone has to look at you all the time, Deiss.” It’s a tricky balance, delivering an icy barb while keeping my tone breezy and light.
A flicker of hurt flashes across his face. “I know.”
“Do you?” I don’t even know what I’m doing. There must be a way to push him away without insulting him, but I don’t have time to figure it out. “You did grow up with cameras in your face. Maybe that’s why you expect everyone to be obsessed with you.”
His eyes narrow, swirling storms of blue that threaten to suck me in. I meet them, keeping mine deliberately blank. A frown tugs at Deiss’s mouth.
Then, as quick as the flick of a switch, his brow unfurrows and the storms blink out into two impenetrable seas. An easy smile stretches across his face. “You think so?”
No.I donotthink so. I know, in fact, that it was a horribly unfair thing to say to him, and he didn’t deserve it.
“Maybe.” I shrug away my discomfiture. “It makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“Perfect sense,” he says smoothly.
I blink in the face of his impassivity, feeling like he’s just performed a magic trick, transforming from my roommate into the enigma that is Deiss in the blink of an eye. I wish I could hit rewind on this conversation, lob a lighter grenade than the one I’d chosen. Actually, I’d like to rewind the entire last hour. I’d like to go back to somewhere before I started feeling like I’ve crossed a line.
Back to when he wasn’t clearly in the process of easing away from it.
—
Maybe it’s thesymmetry of designing a wine label while buzzed, but I’m pretty impressed with the outcome. I’ve managed to create something eye-catchingly bold that still feels classy, which, in my opinion, is a hard line to balance. I glance up at Deiss for the hundredth time, but once again, he’s conveniently busy.
This time, he’s talking to an older man in a business suit. The man is probably getting recommendations, looking for something edgy that will make him feel young again. At least Deiss is out of his office now. He spent a full hour in there earlier before he came out and distracted himself organizing the bins. Poor Booker has been desperate for attention, Deiss and I ruining his day by focusing on our work.
At the thought of Booker, I glance over and am surprised to discover him watching me, a knowing smirk on his face. I raise my eyebrows, and Booker wriggles his like a matador wiggling a red cape. He stands up and pulls his stool toward me. It’s so close that when he sits back down, his knee presses against mine. He smells faintly of soap and the Skittles he’s beensavoring one by one for the last hour. Deliberately, he turns away from Deiss so his back is blocking us.
“Did you guys get in a fight at lunch?” he whispers.
“No.” I lean around him to make sure Deiss hasn’t heard, but he’s taken the customer to the front of the store. “Why would you ask that? Does he seem mad?”
Booker laughs. “Deiss? Please. That man never gets mad. He didn’t even get mad when I spilled soda on the Ibanez RG5000. And my soda smelled more like Captain Morgan than Dr Pepper, if you know what I mean. You’re the one being weird.”
My hands go to my face, as if I can pat out the traces of whatever it is he’s spotted. “I’m not being weird.”
“When Deiss brought us coffees, you practically balanced the cup in your palm to keep his fingers from touching yours.”
“You’re exaggerating,” I say, even though I’m not entirely sure he is.
Booker shakes his head. “I had to double-check his hands to make sure they hadn’t sprouted poisonous claws.”
“We didn’t get into a fight,” I say.
“Then what?” He leans forward, searching my face. He’s had too much time to think. I should’ve known I couldn’t work silently for hours, leaving him alone with his thoughts, and not have to pay for it later.
“My man-whore of a boss snuck off to the coat check with the waitress, didn’t he?” he says confidently. His eyes brighten. “Did you walk in on them and see his hands somewhere disgusting?”
“Booker!” I give an audible gag.
