Page 75 of Business Casual
“Yes. I like it here.” His eyes are unreadable behind the dark lenses of his glasses. “The food is good.”
“You’re visiting from New York and you think the food is good? Here?”
Ms. Beatrice has a decent breakfast and Matty makes some excellent pizza, sure, but it’s not New York.
“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” His lips are twisted down in a frown. It’s a strange look on his handsome face. Out of place. “What’s with the inquisition?”
“I’m trying to figure you out.”
“Well, best of luck with that. Let me know what you discover when you do.” He nudges my shoulder with his and tips his chin toward Rooted, a tall, domed glass building at the very end of the block. Mabel’s greenhouse is our last stop of the day. “Let’s finish up. I know you’ve got other stuff you want to get to.”
His comment sours my mood further. If I wanted to be doingother things, I’d be doing them. For some reason that defies logical explanation, I wanted to do this with Charlie today. I wanted to bring him pizza the other night. I wanted him to kiss me in his kitchen, and I want him to kiss me now.
And it’s making me a grump.
As we’re crossing the street, I catch him reaching for my elbow, only to redirect himself and tuck his hand in the pocket of his jacket instead. It snaps the tether I’m keeping on myself.
“What are you doing?”
He blinks at me. “I am…crossing the street with you.”
“With your hands,” I clip. “What are you doing with your hands?”
He glances at his hands in his pockets like the explanation for my sudden outburst will be there. “My hands are in my pockets.”
“I know they are. Why are they in your pockets?”
“Because it’s…cold?” He answers my question with a question, his eyebrows furrowed in a confused slash. “What are we arguing about right now?”
I wish I knew. I wish I could figure out this tangled-up, twisted feeling making an ugly mess in my chest. This…want that won’t go away.
“You keep—” I bite off the rest of my sentence, frustrated. I step up on the curb and tell myself to get it together.
Charlie pulls me to a stop on the sidewalk, tucking us both halfway in the alley between the duckpin bowling alley and the bar. It’s the first time he’s touched me with intention all day, and he immediately drops my elbow to tug off his sunglasses, hooking them in the front of his green sweater. It dips in the front, exposing the hollow of his throat. I stare at that tiny patch of skin instead of his face.
He ducks his head down and tries to meet my eyes. “What’s going on with you?”
“Me? You’re the one with the problem.” I poke him hard in the chest. We somehow keep finding ourselves here, arguing about nothing. “You’re different.”
His lips flatten into a line. “No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. You’re…” I think about our conversation in my kitchen, the night all of this started. He told me he wouldn’t fuck me if it would change things between us, but he’s the one doing the changing. “You’re hiding from me.”
His jaw clenches tight. “I’m not.”
“You are,” I tell him. “You’re acting differently, and I have no idea why.”
“Nova.”
“Don’t ‘Nova’ me,” I snap. It’s making me feel like I’m imagining things and I’m not. I know that I’m not. “I thought we fixed things. Are you still mad about what I said at my parents’ house?”
“I’m not mad,” he mumbles, but he thrusts his hand through his hair, pulling lightly at the ends. “I was never mad, Nova. We’re fine. Everything is fine.”
“We are not fine.” I cross my arms over my chest, tugging my coat tighter around me. The six inches of space between us might as well be a mile. “What’s changed? Why are you acting like…this?”
“Like what?”
“Polite,” I spit, like the word is personally offensive. He’s acting like a watered-down version of himself. Like we were never friends to begin with.
