Chapter 7 #3
Another laugh erupts out of me. “That one works sometimes. Probably better in the Pretty Pretty than with a nice, respectable co-ed. You’re this sweet, responsible straight guy, though, so maybe a polite compliment, or something you noticed about them.
You can ask questions too. Actually, that’s a big part of it—asking questions, paying attention, responding.
People get hung up on the endpoint, like if they don’t take this person home, they’ve wasted their time, or there’s this desperate need to score.
People can sense desperation. So, you’ve got to enjoy the conversation for what it is.
If it leads to something else, great. If not, have fun anyway. ”
Now the look is downright skeptical. “That’s what you do when you’re trying to pick up a guy.”
“Well, I don’t pick up guys anymore, for the record, because I’ve cleaned up my act and I’m a model citizen now.”
Sammy actually snorts.
“If you want to hook up, there are apps for that. Why waste your time and money coming to a bar?”
Shaking his head, Sam sits back and takes another, slower drink. His Adam’s apple moves in his throat. He’s got a nice neck—not overdeveloped, like a juicehead, but strong and defined and masculine.
“I like that sweatshirt by the way,” I say. “It looks good on you.”
He frowns like he’s waiting for the trap to spring shut. Then he says, “Thanks.”
“The understated look works for you.”
Again, that wariness, like he’s expecting—I don’t know, for me to make fun of him. Which actually makes me feel surprisingly shitty for a moment. But he says, “I copied Mr. Somerset.”
“He doesn’t wear that brand.” I grin. “Emery wouldn’t let him buy it because it’s too expensive. I know because I was there for the argument.”
A startled smile breaks out, and Sam touches the sweatshirt like he’s just noticed it. “I wanted something that looked, you know, nice.”
“It’s a good pick.”
He says, “Thanks,” again, but this time it’s softer.
“You didn’t grow up here, did you?”
Sam shakes his head. “Iberia.”
“God, what was that like?”
“All right, I guess.” But then he says, “Too small. Everybody knows everybody’s business.”
“You might be the first person who ever moved to Wahredua for the big city experience.”
“I like the size. I know people still know most of each other’s business, but it’s big enough you can have your own space, if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I get that. I grew up in Springfield. Wahredua is smaller, but not too small.”
“Do you like it here?”
“Even after I got my face blown off?” I ask.
Sam sits up straight, a flush running through his face. “No—no, I didn’t—”
“I’m kidding. I know that’s not what you were asking.
Yeah, I like it. I mean, would I move if I had a chance?
” I try to think about it, but I can’t. “Maybe. I don’t know.
I guess it’s home now in a lot of ways. There’s something about—about everything that’s happened, I guess, that makes me feel like I’m invested. It’s my town, you know?”
It sounds stupid as soon as it leaves my mouth, but Sam is already nodding, face brightening. “I know, I know. Me too.”
“Sorry,” I say, “hold on, you’ve got something—” I reach out a hand.
Sam doesn’t pull back, but in the last instant, he must realize what’s happening because he braces himself.
I brush an invisible—okay, imaginary—something from his cheek with my thumb, and then I smile and say, “Got it.” And before he can do anything, I add, “You have gorgeous eyes.”
God, if you want to see a boy turn red.
And then—in what I would have called, in a police report, belligerent confusion—he says, “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Flirting with you.”
He grips the edge of the table with both hands, and it takes him longer than I expect before he says, “Why?”
“Well, the fake dating thing. But also because it’s fun.
We’re having fun, right? This is probably the best conversation we’ve ever had.
You were relaxed right up until I told you I was flirting with you.
You were making me laugh. You were even being a little bitch, which let me tell you: it’s my number one favorite thing.
I was getting to know the real Sam Yarmark and not Mr. Somerset’s mentee who does everything by the book.
And also, you do have gorgeous eyes, and I get the feeling you don’t get enough compliments. ”
He sits there. His hands are still locked around the table, and he doesn’t do anything but breathe.
“Where are you at on a freak-out scale?” I ask.
“I’m not going to freak out.”
“Is that a one? A two?”
He doesn’t answer, but he does loosen his grip, and then his hands slide into his lap.
“All right,” I say. “There you go. Your first lesson in flirting. All done, and nothing bad happened to you.” I push my chair back. “I guess I should say sorry.”
It looks like it costs him something to say, “No.”
I wait.
“We were just talking, right?”
“Right.”
“And that’s the whole point. You just talk and have fun and see where it goes.”
“Yep.”
The struggle in his face would be funny if it weren’t so serious. And then, in a tone straining for casual, he asks, “Do you come here a lot?”
I’m surprised to find myself smiling. A big smile, one that stretches my cheeks until it hurts. “Not really. I don’t do the bar scene anymore. Not much of a player.”
The look Sam levels over his glass is frankly disbelieving. “That sounds exactly like what a player would say.”
I shrug. “I guess I’ll just have to prove it.”