Chapter 9 #2
I study his expression, trying to decide if he can tell I’m semi-attracted to him and is trying to tease me, or if he’s genuinely unaware of what a double entendre is.
That’s the thing with Cormac. It’s impossible to tell.
“What are their names?”
He gives me a lopsided smile. “No. We both know Nora takes things too far.”
“Oh, come on.”
But I find myself smiling back. He did say he remembered everything, and in high school, I had a reputation for always taking things too far.
If someone started a food fight, I escalated it to a food war.
If someone suggested we email the principal with a complaint about the dress code’s double standard, I picketed the school.
Nora Takes Things Too Far was basically my call sign.
“That was a long time ago. What do you think I’m going to do to these guys, anyway? Stalk them?”
“The thought had occurred to me.”
“We can’t let this go, Cormac.”
“I wasn’t intending to. We’re going to get more information from her. We’ll go from there.”
“Well…thank you,” I finally say, not really wanting to let this go but also well aware that he’s the one doing me favors. “Maybe you can become a superspy in your retirement.”
“I’ll take that under advisement. I’m working on something else right now. My friend Kenji—”
“Multimillion-dollar app Kenji?”
“That’s the one. But he might be more like a billionaire now. It fluctuates.”
“And you’re still BFFs with this billionaire?”
“I don’t think you’re allowed to call it that when you’re an adult.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “You know, I can’t believe you still live in Asheville. Shouldn’t you be taking over Silicon Valley with BALL-E?”
A furrow appears in his brow. “I like Asheville. Don’t you?”
“Sure, but I’m not Brain from Pinky and the Brain.”
“You think I’m a mouse with an oversized cranium?”
I nudge his shoulder. “Yes, actually.”
“Kenji has always been on my case to move,” he acknowledges. “I’ve always said no. I like working with him, and we’re collaborating on something big now—I’ll be going out to see him in a few weeks. But I enjoy having the freedom to be myself. This is my home.”
I consider him for a moment. Cormac doesn’t lord his intelligence over other people, but he wears it, always. I used to think that meant he believes he’s better than everyone else, but now I’m not so sure.
He clears his throat and looks away. “Let me give you the rest of the grand tour. If you’ve got time. I warn you now, it’ll take five minutes.”
The tour of my overpriced, one-bedroom dump would take less, but I don’t want to point that out.
Cookie follows us into the house, and Cormac shows me the spare bedroom, where he keeps his guitars, then his office, and his bedroom.
Throughout the tour, his phone keeps buzzing. He checks it once before tucking it away. It continues to buzz, though, and after several rounds of it, he sends off a quick message and then fiddles with the volume control.
“Your other fake girlfriend?” I quip.
“She’s a woman, all right,” he says wearily. “But not one I have any desire to talk to right now.”
“Is this someone you’re dating?” There’s a twinge of unease in my stomach.
“Oh, no. There’s an age gap that would be insurmountable, and I don’t feel that way about her.”
Obviously, I have questions, but there isn’t a chance to ask, because my own phone alarm goes off, alerting me to the need to return to work.
Cormac gives me the key to his front door. “Don’t hesitate to reach out if anything goes wrong. You have my number.”
“Everything’s going to go great,” I say, even though his dog is tucked behind his leg, darting suspicious glances at me. “I’m going to bring Cookie some dog biscuits later, and her whole attitude toward me will turn around. You’ll see.”
“She only eats a certain type.”
My lips turn up. “Why am I not surprised?”
His gray eyes pin me for an extended moment, and then he gives me a big, broad grin. “What can I say? I like difficult women.”
“Are you flirting with me?” This time I can’t help myself. I need to know.
He tilts his head, and for a second I see my own reflection in his glasses. “Are you admitting you’re difficult?”
“I admit nothing.”
“Okay.”
“You’re difficult too, you know,” I say accusingly.
He points at himself and raises his eyebrows in a look of outraged innocence, prompting me to laugh again. “Yes, you.”
“Impossible. No one’s ever told me that before.”
“You did try to convince your dad to leave my mom.”
“This again,” he says, a corner of his mouth lifting in a lopsided smile. “You’ll never get over that.”
“It happened last week!”
He pushes his glasses up his nose. “You know, you got me thinking…”
“Shocking.”
His smile widens. “I know. But you did. I realized my dad marrying your mom after the way my parents’ marriage imploded was kind of like me continuing to play big shows even though I have to puke every time before I go onstage.”
“I can’t wait to see where you’re going with this.”
“It’s a leap of faith. He thinks it’s going to be different this time, and he wants it badly enough that he’s willing to try even though he knows what could go wrong.”
“How’s that like you and your band?”
He bows his head slightly, a curl falling out of alignment, and I reach forward and tuck it back—only realizing what I’ve done when I register the softness of his hair and hear his intake of breath.
I freeze, my hand suspended in the air, before I gather myself and return it to my side.
We’re silent for a moment, watching one another, a strange tension radiating between us.
“I guess I’d like things to be different too,” he says, relieving the pressure.
“I love playing with the guys, and the crowd’s energy feels great, but I don’t love the actual crowd.
Especially when it hits me that there are hundreds of people there who gave up their night to come listen to us.
It makes me feel like I’m doomed to screw up, and they’ll charge the stage. In a bad way.”
“Is there a good way?”
He considers this, then shakes his head. “No.”
“Try imagining them all naked.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Do you really want to stare at a crowd full of naked people?”
“I suppose it depends on who the people are. I tried it one time while doing this presentation at a bank with José, because he suggested it. It did make the bankers seem less intimidating, especially since I imagined the biggest asshole with a micropenis.”
“Imagining I’m about to get trampled by a horde of naked people wouldn’t make me less nervous, micropenises or not. I’d also feel secondhand embarrassment. Like the inverse of that dream where you’re running through the halls of your high school naked.”
“Fair point,” I say, my wheels already turning. “I’ll think of something that’s going to work for you.”
“Take your time,” he replies with a soft smile. “I’ve been trying to figure it out for thirty years. What’s a few more?”
It’s obvious he doesn’t think I’m going to come up with anything, which only makes me want it more. My wheels turn faster, and then I snap my fingers. “I’ve got it. You like video games—”
“Who doesn’t?”
I laugh, because I imagine plenty of people don’t.
They may be wrong, but they exist. “Well, imagine every person in the audience is an NPC. You know, one of those annoying, overly chatty guides they give you at the beginning of the game. Who could be nervous about playing for a bunch of people like that? Besides, if they’re dicks, or if they walk out midshow, you can just tell yourself they had no choice.
It was the will of their programmer overlord. ”
His smile is slow this time, but I enjoy watching it spread across his face. “So you still play video games.”
Self-consciousness washes over me. Have I revealed too much? I remember how put-out he seemed when I asked him about his Half-Life T-shirt.
“They’re pretty boring,” I fib, trying to deflect his intense gray gaze.
When disappointment flickers in his eyes, I continue, “But I have been known to stay up until two in the morning googling conspiracy theories about Half-Life 3. And sure, I still play The Sims occasionally. It feels good being able to control someone else’s life. ”
“When you don’t feel like you have enough control over yours.” He nods. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
“I’d better go.” I’m saying it for myself as much as for him. For the first time in a long while, I’m in no great hurry to return to the brewery.
He hesitates, then, with a self-deprecating tone, says, “You had all that good advice about needlessly holding doors. What do you think…would it be okay if I hugged you now? Is that what most people would do?”
“It would be good practice for the double date from hell,” I say.
And I need something to ground me right now—to remind me that I’m actually here, in this physical space.
He’s smiling as he pulls me into a one-armed hug, and I find myself nestled beneath his chin. I’m surprised by how well I fit there and pissed off by the heat pressing behind my eyes.