Page 100 of Flirtasaurus
“You know, for being a scientist…” he continues, “I’d expect you to be more curious.”
“Morecurious? Ralph. You’re looking at the kid who memorized the entire Dinopedia when I was four. When I was seven, I took an entire month constructing a Cryolophosaurus out of clay. For Christ’s sake, just yesterday, I read five different articles about dirt because I wanted to understand how the soil during the Jurassic differed from the soil in the Triassic. I am curious as hell!”
“About people, though?”
That question knocks the wind right out of me.
“What?”
“Does that curiosity apply to people? To your family? Your friends? Me?”
“I don’t know what you’re…?”
“You assume you have everyone figured out the moment you meet them. You don’t allow for nuance, for surprise. And after observing things tonight, it seems like you’ve been assuming you know the inner workings of your family, even their innermost desires, for over two decades now.”
“Holy psychoanalysis!”
“Is it true, though?” he asks and patiently awaits my answer.
I struggle for a moment. “I… I’m curious about people!”
“So why don’t you ever ask me questions about myself?”
“What? Come on. I ask you questions!”
“Not really. I askyouquestions. We talk about you. If the topic ever shifts to me, it’s almost always because I’ve offered up something about myself. Not because you asked.”
Is that true? God, can that be true?
“If I’m so awful,” I say in a small voice. “Why do you even like me?”
“Who said you were awful? And for that matter, who said I liked you?”
“Oh. I just thought, since we’ve been—”
“Calliope?”
His warm hands cup my face.
“Yeah?”
“Ireallylike you.”
My eyes shoot to his. In panic? Fear? Hope? I don’t recognize this feeling.
“Before you tell me that I don’t, or I shouldn’t, let me be clear. I do. I think the world of you. And I am fully capable of liking you and maybe even someday loving you while still being true to my… ‘path on the planet.’”
I start to fidget. “Alright, ‘path on the planet’ was an overly dramatic way to describe it, I know—”
“It wasn’t. I think it’s beautiful that you feel that way. That we all have a road meant just for us. I just don’t happen to believe that road is always as straight or as mapped out as you might think,” he says. “Or that following it means cutting yourself off from love.” He watches my face for a long moment before saying, “Night Callie.”
Then he presses the sweetest, simplest kiss on my lips.
“Night,” I say softly.
With that, he switches off the lamp on his side, turns his back in my direction, and falls sound asleep on the cardboard mattress beside me.
Chapter Twenty-Two
