Chapter 10 #2
I give him my most impressive glare. “You’re not here with me. We’re supposed to be friends, remember?” I glance around again. “Oh, for the old gods’ sake, you’re right. They are thinking you’re with me, aren’t they?”
Adam winces. “Yeah. I didn’t consider that, actually.”
I shake my head. “You definitely did not.”
Adam glances at his own menu. “Would it help if I stood and announced that we’re just friends?”
I consider it for a few seconds, then shake my head. “I imagine it would seem like we are protesting too much. Better to just—” I gesture to the menu. “Eat something and then run out before we end up in all the local Facebook groups.”
Adam chuckles softly to himself.
“What is it?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Nothing. Just, you saying what’s on your mind, as usual. It’s…” He takes a sip of the ice water from his goblet. “It’s refreshing.”
I stare at him for a long moment, wondering if he’s being sarcastic.
Usually people really don’t like me saying what’s on my mind, as he puts it.
This trait isn’t new. I didn’t wake up in the woods with a random penchant for sucking at socializing.
I’ve always sucked at it. Seems to me that everyone else got a handbook called How to Correctly Interact with Other Humans at birth, but I lost my copy real early on.
By the time I was in high school, I had a group of friends who seemed to appreciate my “quirkiness,” as they called it, but they all refuse to speak to me now, so I can’t let myself hold on to that momentary acceptance of my personality as proof that I’m actually likable as a person.
Taking all this into account, I assume that Adam is just being nice to me with his comment.
“What a kind thing to say,” I respond robotically, and then promptly call the nearest server over, because I’m so hungry, I’m certain my stomach is about to eat itself.
Adam orders brisket with corn bread and macaroni and cheese. I get the blackened mahi mahi with coleslaw and hush puppies.
As soon as the server rushes away, an older white woman in a peach suit and pearl earrings approaches. “Adam! Why, I haven’t seen you around here in ages. How are you doing, kid?”
Adam stands to greet her and shake her husband’s hand.
He introduces me (emphasizing the word friend), and they are both kind enough to pretend like they hadn’t heard of Sky Flores the Town Liar before.
They seem to be really obsessed with him, but given he’s the closest thing Cranberry has to a celebrity, I guess this is probably normal.
They don’t even leave when the server brings our food.
Adam redirects their attention to the clock, announces that he and I don’t have much time and have to get to eating, and then once they leave, he sits back down and it’s as though they’d never arrived.
Adam and I eat in blissful, quiet peace for a little while, and then he puts down his fork and claps his hands together while staring intently at me. “So how do you want to do this?”
“Do…this,” I repeat. It’s not specific enough, and my mind wanders and settles on a conclusion as to what he’s referencing that sounds unlikely, but I say it anyway, lowering my voice to a whisper. “You wanna dine and dash?”
Adam snorts so loud, I’m pretty sure an elderly woman behind him clutches her pearls. He covers his mouth to hide his laugh and I take a sip of my water, smiling, trying to look like I intended the joke.
“Me interviewing you,” he clarifies finally.
“Right.” I lower my voice. This lunch has been going so well, so far.
I don’t want to ruin it by announcing I’m the weird animal girl.
Even if no one hears, it feels like it would be in the air.
Like it would surround us and somehow people would see the invisible words and remember they’re supposed to hate me.
“I’ve never been interviewed before. So why don’t you tell me what you’re thinking? ”
“Well, I was thinking it would be good to set up maybe three to four appointments. For the first one, I’ll just ask you about your background, and your family. Nothing invasive, just light conversation— What is it? What’s the matter?”
I must be making a face of disgust at the idea of a whole appointment made up of what sounds just like small talk. “What? Nothing.” I smile. “That sounds great.”
“Right.” He eyes me, clearly disbelieving. But when I don’t respond, he narrows his eyes.
“It’s getting kinda late, isn’t it?” I ask, pretending like I don’t understand his nonverbal communication to explain why I seem so uncomfortable with this appointment.
Adam checks his watch. “Shit, you’re right. I should probably drive you back to work soon. Are you working tomorrow? Why don’t you stop by Gramps’s afterward?”
I blink. That doesn’t feel like enough time to prepare, but could someone like me really prepare for anything related to acute socializing? “Oh sure. Tomorrow. After work. That sounds perfect.”
We talk a bit more as we finish up our plates and wait for the check, with Adam driving the conversation like in the car. Which I appreciate this time. It’s not that I don’t want to talk with him anymore…it’s that I’m…well, completely overwhelmed.
I went out in public. To the damn country club.
Two days ago, if anyone had asked me, “What’s the one place The Girl Who Lied mustn’t ever go, ever,” I honestly would have said Gilded Cranberry, maybe tied with accompanying Amá Sonya to one of her HOA meetings.
Country clubs—and HOAs, for that matter—think they’re some kind of hallmarks of civilization.
I am a wild witch who speaks with crows.
I always imagined I would get the most verbal abuse in a place like that, even if it were disguised in polite, Southern hospitality, which is often worse than anything direct, because I never know that people are being mean to me until well after the fact.
But nothing like that happened at all. Because of Adam.
I stare at him hard as he chuckles with the server, noting that the freckles on his left cheek look a little bit like they’re in the shape of a crescent moon.
What must it be like, to be so admired and likable that people even obey your unannounced rule of Don’t be mean to this weird woman I’m with? Can I speak with Carolina wrens? Yes. Can I even begin to imagine the kind of power Adam wields? Not in a universe’s lifetime.
After lunch, when we reach my work, I can’t help myself. I turn toward him, put a hand on his forearm, and say, “Thank you for being nice to me today.”
He slides his hand down my arm, over my wrist, until he’s cupping my palm, my fingers resting gently against his skin.
The sensation is alarming in a way I find intriguing.
I decide that’s probably a good sign to let go.
He’s watching me so closely, his eyes as sharp and glittery as seaside rocks, and I don’t know what else to say, so I end with this fine farewell: “Um. Bye.”
He doesn’t leave until I’m safely in the building, and it’s sincerely disgusting how much I like it.