And Then Leo Lies to Himself （A Lot）
LEO
"Reason number four," he announced, way too cheerful for that hour. "We trust each other."
I mumbled about needing caffeine first and escaped to my room with my mug. Through the door, I heard him call out, "I'm making a list! I have twelve reasons now!"
Twelve. He has twelve reasons why we should have sex.
"Sir? The pasta?" Right. Food. I point at a dish with red sauce and move down the line on autopilot. It's been two weeks of this. Max trying to corner me for "the talk," and me finding increasingly creative ways to avoid it.
Monday, he tried to ambush me after my Regression Analysis class.
I saw his bright blue hair from three hallways away and detoured through the science building.
On Wednesday, he climbed into my bed at midnight, whispering, "Leo?
You awake?" and I had to fake sleep for forty-five minutes while he lay there breathing next to me.
I'm a terrible person. The worst friend. But also, I'm pretty sure I'm losing my mind, so.
The lunch lady dumps mashed potatoes onto my plate.
They land with a wet splat that feels metaphorical.
The thing is, and I'm not thinking about this, I'm specifically not thinking about this, every time Max lists another reason, my brain does this horrible thing where it goes: Yes.
That's valid. That makes sense. We should absolutely— No. Nope. Not going there.
Paying for my food, I scan the cafeteria.
It's about half-full, the usual lunch rush dying down.
I spot Max and Elliot at a corner table.
Max is gesturing animatedly, talking with his hands the way he does when he's excited.
Elliot's actually engaged in the conversation, which is rare; he's usually got his headphones on, politely present but mentally elsewhere.
They're deep in whatever they're discussing. Max won't bring up sex in front of Elliot. I hope. I take a breath and head over, sliding into an open seat. There's maybe a 30% chance this backfires. Stop with the percentages. You're spiraling.
"—but that's the thing," Max is saying, "the frequency ratios are what make it work. It's all math."
"Simple integer ratios," Elliot agrees, and there's actual animation in his voice. "Pythagorean tuning."
They're talking about music theory. Math and music. Of course, Elliot's engaged; this is his sweet spot. "Hey," I say, setting down my tray.
Max looks up, and his whole face does this thing. This brightening thing that makes my palms sweat. "Leo! Perfect timing. Tell Elliot about the Pythagorean comma?"
"Uh." I stab at my pasta. "Vaguely?"
"It's a mathematical impossibility," Elliot says, leaning forward. "You stack perfect fifths trying to build a scale, but it never perfectly circles back to the octave. There's always this tiny gap."
"The comma," Max adds, hands spreading wide. "It's like the universe saying 'nice try, but no.'"
I should be following this. I'm good at math. But my brain keeps snagging on the way Max's hands move when he talks, the way he's looking at me like he's waiting for me to—
"So modern music compromises," Elliot continues. "Equal temperament. Divide the octave into twelve equal semitones."
"Beautiful imperfection," Max says, almost reverent. "No interval is perfectly pure, but all keys sound equally imperfect."
Elliot nods enthusiastically. "Which means you can play in any key without retuning.
Compositionally, it opened everything up.
" They're both leaning in now, talking over each other slightly, and I'm sitting here with my fork halfway to my mouth thinking: These are my friends.
These brilliant, weird, passionate people who get excited about mathematical compromises in tuning systems.
How did I get this lucky?
"The Fibonacci sequence," Elliot's saying. "I've been using it for phrase lengths—"
"The Golden Ratio," Max interrupts. "Wait, if your piece is 89 bars, the peak should hit around bar 55—"
"That's a Fibonacci number," Elliot breathes. "Oh, my maker."
"Naturally satisfying arc." Max grins. "The math is built into human perception—"
My pasta's getting cold. I should eat. I'm not eating. I'm watching Max's hands draw invisible equations in the air, watching the way he lights up when Elliot gets excited. This is what I want for him. Someone who makes him light up like this. Someone who… Not Elliot, that would be weird.
"But here's where it gets weird," Max says. "What if you layered different temperaments? Like, not equal temperament, but switching between Pythagorean and just intonation within the same piece—"
"That would sound…" Elliot stops. Blinks. "Unstable. Intentionally unstable."
"Exactly." They stare at each other.
"That's brilliant," Elliot says quietly. "I hadn't thought about the tension that would create. The listener is expecting resolution but getting a shift instead."
"Right? And if you timed the shifts with the Golden Ratio—"
I finally take a bite of pasta. It tastes like cardboard, but that might be my fault for letting it sit too long. Or for being too busy having a minor crisis while my best friend talks about frequency ratios. We trust each other. Reason number four. Like it's that simple. Like trust is enough to—
"Leo?" I blink. Max is looking at me. Both of them are looking at me.
"Sorry, what?"
"You zoned out," Max says, and there's this concerned little crease between his eyebrows. "You okay?"
"Fine. Just tired." It's not even a lie. I've been sleeping like shit all week. Hard to sleep when your best friend keeps listing reasons you should sleep together.
Elliot's watching me, his head tilted slightly, not eating. He's seeing more than I want him to. I'm saved from further interrogation by someone calling Max's name.
"Webber! Hey!" We all turn. There's a guy approaching our table, tall, with light brown hair, and a nice smile. He's wearing jeans and a T-shirt with a robot on it. The design looks like one of those battlebots, all sharp angles and weaponized arms.
Max's face lights up. "Forrest! Hey, hi!"
Forrest. Right. I vaguely remember him from that art exhibition Del invited us to a couple of months ago. Max had spent twenty minutes talking to him about competitive robotics while I stood there trying not to look like the awkward third wheel.
"Mind if I join you guys?" Forrest's already pulling up a chair, settling in between Max and Elliot with the easy confidence of someone who's never been told no in his life. Not that he's cocky. Just… secure. The kind of person who probably doesn't fake sleep to avoid difficult conversations.
"This is Leo," Max says, gesturing at me. "And Elliot. Guys, this is Forrest Marlowe… he won the robo-wrestlers competition last year."
"Nice to meet you," Forrest says, directing that smile at both of us. It's genuine. The kind of smile that makes you want to like him. I hate him a little bit. Which probably makes me a terrible person.
"Hey," I manage to sound normal. Elliot nods.
"I've been meaning to track you down," Forrest says to Max. "We keep texting about meeting up, but schedules are—"
"Insane," Max finishes. "Yeah, I know. Sorry. I've been—" He glances at me for half a second. "—busy." Something in that glance. His mouth pressed tight, holding still in a way Max never holds still. Maybe I'm reading things that aren't there.
"No worries, man. But hey, the robo-wrestlers tournament is this weekend. You should come! I'm competing again."
"Oh, I'm already—" Max starts, then stops and looks at me again. "I mean, we're already going. Leo got us tickets."
I have to work to unclench my jaw. Chill the fuck out. He seems nice enough.
"Oh, awesome!" Forrest's smile doesn't dim at all. "That's great. You guys dating?" There's a beat of silence. I can hear the buzz of cafeteria noise around us, conversations, trays clattering, and someone laughing across the room.
"No," Max says. "We’re just friends. Best friends."
‘We’re just friends’. The words shouldn't sting. They're accurate. That's literally what we are.
"Cool, cool." Forrest leans back in his chair, still radiating that easy confidence. "Hey, actually, I’ve got floor access for the team. You should come down with us during the matches. Way better view than the stands."
Max is looking at me. I can feel his eyes on me, waiting.
Uncertain. My brain is screaming. Forrest is perfect.
He’s nice, he’s into robotics, he has that easy smile, and he’s already offering Max something I can’t: a place down there, in it, with the teams and the robots and the noise.
The kind of invitation that fits Max perfectly.
This is what Max wants. Someone who sees him and just… opens a door. “That sounds great,” I hear myself say. My voice sounds almost normal.
Max's expression, his eyebrows pull together, and his mouth opens slightly, like he's about to say more but stops himself. "Yeah? You sure?"
"It's your…" I stab at my pasta again, not looking at him. "Sure, of course. Why would I mind?"
The silence stretches. Then Max turns back to Forrest. "Okay. Yeah. That sounds… yeah."
"Awesome!" Forrest's grin widens.
Max glances at me. Still uncertain. Still waiting. Permission? Objection? I don't give him either. "Sure," Max says finally. "Yeah, I can do that."
They start talking about torque ratios and weight distribution.
Forrest is explaining his bot's design, and Max jumps in with suggestions.
Elliot's quiet beside me, picking at his food.
Then I feel it. A gentle nudge against my shoe.
I look over. Elliot's watching me with those hazel eyes, asking a silent question. You okay?
I shake my head. Just slightly. Don't ask. Elliot's brow furrows for a moment, then he nods and goes back to his lunch.
"—so I'll text you the details," Forrest is saying, standing up. "Thanks for saying yes, man. This'll be fun."
"Yeah," Max says. His voice sounds weird. Off. "Should be."
"Nice meeting you guys," Forrest adds, nodding to Elliot and me.
"See you around." He leaves with that same easy confidence, weaving through the cafeteria tables.
Max and Elliot pick up their math conversation almost immediately.
Something about harmonic structures and layered frequencies. Their voices blur together.
I push my tray away. The pasta's definitely cold now. Inedible. "I should—" I stand up abruptly. "I've got a class."
"Now?" Max looks at his phone. "It's only 12:30."
"Study group before." The lie comes easily. Too easily. "I'll see you guys later."
I grab my tray and leave before either of them can respond. The cafeteria noise follows me out into the hallway, then fades as I head toward the science building. My next class isn't until 2 PM. No study group. Just me and the quiet corridors.
This is what Max wants. Someone who makes him smile like that. Someone uncomplicated. I'm not uncomplicated. My footsteps echo on the tile.
I'm okay. The mantra repeats with each step. I'm okay. I'm okay. I'm okay.