Page 37 of Bedtime Stories
Chapter
Sixteen
KEANE
Ipark in the same spot I did the night I dropped him off and check my reflection in the rearview mirror—suit still sharp, tie loosened just enough—before going up the steps. Oren’s waiting on the stoop with his same bright but shy smile I’ve come to expect from him, but something about him is different. He’s standing straighter, shoulders back, not the shy little figure who peeked around corners. Camp did something to him. Made him braver, somehow. Made him look, suddenly, very grown-up.
He sees me and grins, and of course the grin is contagious. Oren kicks one foot forward and gives me the full reveal: lime green socks with tiny storm clouds.
“Like?” he demands, all flourish and embarrassment fused into one perfect package.
“Like,” I say, because what else is there to say? He looks ridiculous and wonderful all at once. The socks clash terribly with his black chinos and blue polo, and if his pants didn’t ride up every time he moves, you could almost believe he’s a perfectly ordinary, boring adult.
We eat at a small place not far from his building—no fuss, just warm lighting and food that doesn’t pretend to be anything it’s not. Conversation starts off easy with a camp recap andhighlight reel. Oren answers in bursts, cheeks flushing when he laughs. His usual nervous energy surrounds him, but it’s slightly subdued now. It’s… appealing, endearing, and dangerous.
Halfway through my third forkful of something perfectly unremarkable, he sets his fork down and stares at me with mock seriousness.
“Okay,” he says, leaning in with his elbows on the table, eyes bright. “Tell me all the important stuff I need to know about you.”
I blink. “Important stuff?”
“Yeah. Like—” He rattles them off, fingers counting in the air. “Boxers or briefs. Favorite cereal. How you take your coffee. When you were little, what was your favorite stuffie?”
I laugh because it’s impossible not to. He’s both entertaining and impossibly earnest; the combination should be illegal.
“That is a very selective list of essentials.”
He pouts, pleading. “I need to know. You can’t just be mysterious forever.”
“All right.” I set my fork down, fold my hands on the table, and give him the kind of measured look I use on witnesses—firm, amused, direct. “Boxers,” I say. “Loose, not boxer-briefs. I prefer the freedom.” He snorts, and I qualify it with a smirk. “White, usually. Boring, but serviceable.”
“Ooh—excitement!” he says, deadpan, then giggles at his own joke. “Roomy boxers means you need room for your big di?—”
“Oren,” I sputter, checking to see if the couple seated beside us overheard. “Favorite cereal?” I continue. “Shredded wheat with almond milk. It’s practical and fills you up without pretending to be candy. There’s a protein version I buy when I’m on trial prep and need to survive the day.”
“Protein,” he repeats, as if it’s a spell that will make him taller. “Grown-up Keane choices. Noted.”
“How I take my coffee?” A faint smile touches my lips. “Black in the office, never sugar. At home, I enjoy a little cream, but never flavored syrups. I prefer the taste of coffee. I don’t need a dessert in my cup.”
I shoot him a pointed look. He thinks I don’t know about his coffee habit, but I’ve caught accidental glimpses of his whipped creations in the background of several of his sock report pictures.
He nods solemnly, then presses the point. “And the stuffie? Which one?”
My throat warms at that one. “A ragged bear,” I tell him. “His name was Rupert. He had one button eye and a stitched smile. I brought him on my first cross-country move because I was more terrified than I cared to admit.”
I can see the image flicker across Oren’s face—softening, understanding.
He leans back, eyes shining. “Rupert. I like Rupert.”
We fall silent, and I tip my head at his uneaten food. Oren dutifully picks up his fork and stabs a bite of chicken, making a face.
“Okay, your turn,” I say, and he launches into a rapid-fire of his own—favorite superhero (Captain America, he confesses in a sheepish whisper), a childhood camping disaster, and the exact number of stuffies he owns (an obscene number that makes him laugh when my eyes widen.)
We trade small truths like currency until the plates are empty and our conversation has stretched somewhere softer and deeper than casual. Every time he laughs, I want to memorize the sound. Every time he looks at me, I want to be the reason he keeps looking.
When we stand to go, he bumps my hip with his, casual on the outside, urgent on the inside.
“So,” he says. “Was that everything? Or did you have secrets left?”
