Page 8 of The Refusal

When we emerge from the tunnel, he takes a sharp left into a double doorway and yanks the door open with more force than necessary. His hand is an irritated flap as he gestures for me to go first. Ugh, I’m messing all this up. But my churning stomach vanishes when a small round Thai lady bustles up, all waving hands; then she spots Janus behind me and her face breaks into the widest smile I think I’ve ever seen.

“Mr. Phillips, Mr. Phillips!”

She jostles me to one side, and all I catch is his tousled hair and delighted grin as he bends down to have his cheeks kissed and rubbed.

“May, call me Janus,” he mumbles in such a way that I get the impression that this is a conversation they have every time he comes here.

I tear my eyes away to look at the stripped brick walls, mismatched furniture, and the room full of hipsters, and raise my eyebrows. I’ve never been to a Thai place that looks anything like this.

He grins at me … Jesus, he needs to stop with the stuff that makes my insides swoop and dive. Finding him cute is going to break me. May turns to take me in and, if anything, her smile gets wider.

“Who is this?”

“May, meet Jo—a friend of mine.”

“Ah, you are a lovely lady!” she exclaims, pulling me in for an assault similar to the one she gave Janus. “Come with me!” she says as she pivots on her heel to head off across the floor.

Janus dips his head. “May used to run a traditional Thai restaurant, but it was old-fashioned and struggling, and she asked me what ‘all the young boys with money liked in a place to eat.’ So I told her”—Janus waves his hand around—“and she created it. She and her husband ripped the place to pieces and did this. She’s packed now, and her coffees are the best in Manhattan … and her muffins!” He laughs. “If I came here too often, I’d have a gut like a bear.” His stomach makes a hollow thud when he pats it like there’s no spare flab there at all.

I glance down at where his hand is resting, and his wet shirt is transparent and sticking to his body; I can see the outline of muscle and a trail of dark hair. Jesus. I jerk my head up instantly, pursing my lips, looking around for anything to distract me from the body beneath those clothes.

“I love it. The only thing that gives you a sense it might not be totally hipster is the lucky fortune nodding cat.” I inhale a deep breath and incline my head toward the counter.

Janus laughs. “Yeah, but I kind of like the quirkiness of that. I like the fact they still have that.”

“I’ve always wanted one of those. I like the waving thing.”

“The what?”

“Someone wrote this poem: ‘Not Waving But Drowning.’ About a man who’s sinking underwater, and he’s moving his arms to signal for help, but nobody realizes that’s what he’s doing. Sometimes I see that cat and I wonder whether it’s desperately waggling its paw and actually inhaling water.”

My chattering voice bounces around my head. So much nonsense has been coming out of my mouth today, honest to God, I could slap myself. But Janus is still smiling, and his eyes hold a question as they meet mine.

“Do you think about stuff like this all the time?”

He’s thinking I’m a crazy cat. Definitely. He’s going to regret giving me this security contract, never mind anything more personal. Which you absolutely don’t want, Jo.Jesus. My head sinks into my body, shoulders drooping, but he shakes his head, nudging my shoulder with his.

“You should know I like it. It’s all kinds of cute.”

He thinksI’mcute? I’m saved from having to respond coherently to this by May waving us to a table in the back, and we squeeze past packed tables to where she’s standing, still beaming. The distressed pine tables are as clean as a pin, the floor some wonderfully aged patterned tile, the chairs a battered metal. Heads turn as Janus moves past: Is it because people recognize him or because he looks good enough to eat?

Once we’ve sat down and tried to shake the water from our damp clothes, I lean toward him over the table. “I think I’d rather be hot, not kooky and cute. How else am I going to pick up all these guys when my company grows enough to give me some kudos?”

It’s a ham-fisted attempt to circle us back to our earlier conversation and settle us into a more friendly vibe, but my brain can produce nothing more coherent.

Janus’s brow creases as his Adam’s apple bobs. “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” he says.

5

Janus

Ifiddle with the leather strap on my wrist, cold sinking into my skin. Somehow, I don’t think Jo’s going to have to try too hard to find guys who are interested in her, but what woman asks a guy about other dates the first time they sit down together? Usually, this is the last conversation anyone wants to have. The only thing that swims up in my consciousness from previous dates is sour eyes and bitchiness. Maybe she’s so involved in the tech world she hasn’t experienced a lot of that, but it strikes me that she doesn’t have much of a filter, and my heart goes out to her. I like her openness and the way she says every thought that pops into her head, but the world will treat her brutally for being so open and honest.

Tendrils of red hair are escaping from her bun, dark with the rain. Her face is completely bare, and a slight sheen from the wet and the warmth in the restaurant makes the pale freckles sing across her face. Eyelashes brush her cheeks as she peers down at the coffee that May has magically produced in front of us. When she brings her head up, all I can do is stare at her lips. They’re tiny and candy pink. A faint flush starts to build on the side of her face, jerking me out of my reverie as I clear my throat and focus down on my espresso, running my hand around the edge of my T-shirt.

“I can’t believe she did that,” she says in a hushed tone, leaning forward.

“What?” I whisper back, even though speaking quietly is totally unnecessary given the racket around us. I grin, bending my head toward her so my nose is inches from hers, glad to have the distraction of some intrigue.

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