Page 9 of The Refusal

Jo sinks back into her seat. “Brought us coffee without ordering. This is Manhattan. People are the most demanding I’ve ever come across. If you did that too often, people would throw it at you.”

I like the visual of a coffee fight. “But there’s something appealing about cutting across all that. The ease of not having to make a choice? We’re too obsessed with having all these options; I think it makes it much more difficult to decide. I want someone to decide for me.”

Jo’s lips tip up in a half smile, and she tilts her head sideways. “I love it actually. I wish someone turned up at our office every day with my lunch like a random potluck exercise.”

Her finger picks away at some flaw in the wooden surface of the table. She has tiny hands—the freckles almost perfectly matching the ones on her face.

“Yeah, someone to decide about all the trivial things,” I say.

“And to do them all, too: washing, cooking …” she says.

She must see something in my face because she snorts.

“You have someone to do all that, don’t you?”

I nod and make a face at her, and she bursts out laughing. May appears again like a genie twinkling at us like we’re two cute kids she’s matched herself, and gives me a knowing smile. It occurs to me that I’ve never been in here with a woman before. She’s worse than my mom. In her outstretched hands are two plates piled high with quiche and salad. We didn’t even order.

“Sorry, I always eat the same thing here.” I grimace. Oh, God, most women are so picky about their food … I’ve listened to endless conversations about the merits of different kinds of diets. But Jo just nods, beaming at the plate in front of her. Christ, could she be any more low maintenance? She is fucking perfect.

“Someone in the tech industry—possibly Steve Jobs?—used to have like six sets of identical clothing because he didn’t want to spend time deciding what to wear,” I say.

“Yeah, Zuckerberg did that too. And it was always jeans, sneakers and a black T-shirt or turtleneck or something.”

“That sounds great actually. I could totally get on board with that plan.”

She waves her fork at me, chewing. “You’re always well kitted out.”

I am? But as soon as I remember why, I wrinkle my nose at her. The backstory behind this doesn’t paint me in the best light, and sharing stories like this comes later—months later. I’m trying to act cool here. But, of course, Jo is way too sharp to let this go.

She draws a circle around my face. “What is this expression?”

I sigh, staring over to where a team of Thai baristas are making coffee behind the counter, and inhale the familiar smell of grounds. Can I avoid answering this question? I don’t want to be looking at Jo when I tell her this. She taps my hand and, keeping my gaze fixed at a point on the wall above her left shoulder, I start to talk.

“I wasthattech guy: awful hair, band T-shirt and jeans—and not trendy ones either—often filthy. I think I didn’t wash much actually.” I shrug, heat creeping up my neck. I’m not sure she needed that particular detail. “I got marginally better at college, but when I graduated and set up Janus Industries, at some point we appointed a PR firm.” I take a forkful of quiche and chew thoughtfully. “After a few interviews where I turned up unwashed after days of coding and it got some press comment, they decided to take me in hand. They arranged to have a company come every quarter and basically turn over my wardrobe and give me a new set of clothes.”

My eyes drop back to hers to find her open-mouthed and staring at me.

“Seriously?” she says.

I nod, grimacing. That’s not all of it, though. Something about Jo makes me want to spill my innermost secrets.

“Someone also comes and styles me for events.”

“No way!Like they come and do your hair and makeup and stuff?”

“Yep.”

Her eyes scan over me, snag on what I’m wearing. “I thought you looked a bit different from the photographs I normally see.”

Ugh. I’m vain enough that this comment makes me wobble.

“Don’t tell me that! Tell me I look as amazing as my press shots.”

She ignores my plea entirely and waves at my hair. “Okay, tell me about this.”

This has gone way farther than I wanted it to.

“I’m not sure I—” I start, but she gestures impatiently at me. Why am I being so open with her? No one knows about this shit.

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