Page 7 of Light Up The Night
He does not respond immediately. "I mean, I wasn't doin’ much anyway. You're cool."
Cool. Like the F-word he uses with such variance and frequency, "cool" seems to have many meanings to him. This usage seems to indicate that I am welcome to stay.
I think.
"I would not like to be an imposition."
"You're not. Promise." He takes a sip from his bottle, the liquid glugging quietly. "Honestly, it's nice having the company."
Curiosity burns. "May I ask you a question?"
"Sure. Shoot."
"What is your job?"
"I was expecting something more personal," he says. "I do demolitions."
"As in with explosives? Implosions and things of that nature?” I ask, a conversational tangent already taking over my brain.
"No, I wish. Boring demolitions, unfortunately. Nothing that cool. I told you my brother Felix builds and renovates houses, right?"
I nod. "Yes, you did."
"Well, with the renovations, we buy an old house that needs to be fixed up. I rip out the interior and clean it up so he can do the updates.”
"Oh!" I say. "You flip houses." I sip my beer, finding a certain pleasure in the sourness, now, and the way it commingles with the carbonation and the yeast and the malt. "My formerroommate at Harvard flipped houses with her cousin to pay for her degree. Or, rather, to help defray the costs."
Riley coughs, choking. Once he has regained his breath, he gives me a wide-eyed stare, clearing his throat obsessively. "Harvard? You went toHarvard?"
I nod. "Yes. Why?"
"Well…I…" he clears his throat again. "Choking on beer sucks, fuck me. Um, so, you graduated high school at fifteen and got your MD from fuckingHarvard? Attwenty-two?"
"I am uncertain as to the reason for your shock."
"Because that's fuckinginsane. You're, like, wicked smart, huh?"
"I…" I consider carefully how to phrase this so as to not seem braggadocious. "I have always been…academically advanced, yes."
Riley shakes his head. "So let me get this straight, Cadence. You're crazy smart, you're a freaking certified medical doctor at twenty-four, went to Harvard, did medical missions in Africa…andyou're a fuckin' smokeshow?" Another head shake. "Man, I am way the hell outta my league with you, Gorgeous."
"I do not know what a smokeshow is, but the rest is accurate, yes. I also do not know what you mean about being out of your league. I do not play sports.” I feel my breath catch in my lungs, as it has every time he refers to me asgorgeous. "Why do you keep calling me that?"
He arches an eyebrow at me. "Calling you what? Gorgeous?"
“Yes."
A laugh—dry, perhaps sarcastic, although sarcasm is often lost on me. "Um, because you are?" He sips. "Smokeshow is just another way of saying you're fine as hell."
"Fine as hell" is not much clearer to me, but I understand his meaning.
I just do not believe him.
I cock my head and look in his direction. "What do you hope to gain from flattery?"
He laughs again—this time it seems laden with discomfort. "Gain? Jesus, babe, it's not flattery. Well, I mean—I guess it is, but not in the sense of buttering you up for a selfish reason. You're beautiful." He shrugs, makes a face. "Just callin' it like I see it."
He says this utterly shocking, devastating statement with such ease, so offhandedly casual, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
