Page 11 of Concerted Chaos

“You’re good at this.” That’s the only flattery he’s going to get from me.

“You live here?” he responds as his eyes scan my room.

“This is my room, yes.”

“Really? It looks like a spa.”

He probably didn’t intend that as a compliment, but I’m going to take it as such. My room is my refuge from all the pressures of the outside world, so I keep the space as Zen and spa-like as possible. With the exception of a pot of green bamboo in the corner, everything is white or light wood, and I have just the right amount of candles and a sound machine.

“It’s supposed to. This is where I come to relax.”

“Rather impersonal, isn’t it? Except for that.” Oh no, now he’s walking in, invading my space, though in a less obtrusive way than Xander had. He goes over to the shelf near my bed. Other than a salt lamp and candles, it only houses two things: a framed photograph and a stuffed chilive. The chickadee was my childhood comfort toy, the one thing I retain. My dad’s wedding ring is on a chain around its neck. I’m twenty-eight now, but when I’m sad or feeling low, I still sleep with the ratty old thing. It will likely join me in my bed tonight. Once I’ve replaced the contaminated sheets, of course.

“Who’s this?” He picks up the photo to examine it.

“My father.”

“He looks different,” Tanner says. “But I like the portraiture. Good lighting.”

“Different from what?” When would Tanner have seen images of my father before? Was he stalking me online? After our run-in at the diner this morning, did he decide to do his research?

“The way he looks now. Did he have ... oh, wait, I’m sorry. That’s your stepdad out there, isn’t it?”

“My father died when I was six.” I don’t need to get into this with him. Haven’t there been enough talks about death today?

“That explains the hairstyle. His, not yours. In the picture. Because it’s old. I’m sorry, I’m putting my foot in my mouth.” He flushes red and shoves his hands into his pockets, looking everywhere but at me. Am I making him nervous?

“Don’t worry about it. In twenty years, we’ll look back at our current hairstyles and laugh too.”

“I’m ready now.” Xander’s voice and his freshened cologne waft down the hallway. Doesn’t he understand that cameras don’t capture smells? No need to poison everybody with the fumes.

“Speaking of hairstyles,” Tanner mutters under his breath. Xander used the time to re-gel his already overly crisp hair. He’s too vain to hire someone to advise him, because he holds the misguided belief that he’s some kind of style icon. Some people have the eye for that sort of thing, Xander does not. Xander also doesn’t have manners; he snaps his fingers and walks off, fully expecting Tanner to follow. Which, yes, he does, but not because of the snapping.

“Hey, Tanner,” I call after him, and he turns to look back at me. “Thank you. For everything.” Showing up unquestioningly, helping with the guests, getting foul-smelling parasites out of my room.

A smile flits across his face and he nods. “No problem.”

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