Page 51 of On His Mind

And there it is. Word for word, the first night, the mousse I didn’t order.

“Thank you,” I say. “That’s — thank you.”

He nods like a man who has done a kind thing, and he has, but the warmth in my chest is replaced with coldness. It’s so cold that I shiver.

At the plotter, Lyla doesn’t say anything at all. She hasn’t said anything about the Whitmore men being nice again. She just stands next to me while the drum turns, and after a while, she puts a hand on my arm, briefly, and takes it back, and asks whether I’m doing anything this weekend. The silence is so much worse than the sentence.

In the parking garage, I get in my car and sit for a second. I should be euphoric. I have been waiting for this moment since I was sixteen years old — the moment somebody would look at my drawings and know. It happened forty minutes ago. It happened exactly as I imagined it, and it was better than I imagined it, because he was right. But I will never know if I earned it.

My mother sent my portfolio before I agreed to anything. There was never an interview, really. There was a dinner. I don’t know where the arrangement ends, and I begin.

I start the car.

I take on the weekend like I usually do. That night, I do yoga with candlelight, I make delicious chicken and asparagus, and my lights are out by ten. The next day is Saturday, and I stay strict on my routine. Pilates, high-protein breakfast, shower, and then my sketchpad. I stare at my trinkets on my bookshelf next to my Architectural Design magazines. Every trinket representsa trip I took with my family. We traveled a lot when I was in high school. The second my father learned I had good taste in architecture, we traveled just for that. And I collected little things that cost a tiny fortune. It looks good on display in here. I cherish them every time I look at them.

When Sunday comes around, I finish my homework assignments. Ivory is gone for most of the day. I take the time to bake banana bread. And for dessert, I cut up organic strawberries and add them to my yogurt bowl.

And by midnight, I’m still not asleep. Ivory came home hours ago and went straight to bed after commenting about how nice my baking smelled. My mind keeps turning back to Chicago. There’s a date on it now. A job is secured for me there, and it should be a dream come true. But I keep landing on distaste. I don’t know how to say I don’t want it without sounding ungrateful or entitled. The whole thing makes me feel sick to my stomach. This is amazing for me. It’s a really good opportunity with great experience. I should want it.

I pick up my phone.

Me: Are you awake?

I stare at the screen and wait.

Nothing for two minutes.

Nothing for five, and I set the phone aside.

At the eight-minute mark, I grab the phone again. At eleven minutes in, I check that the message was sent. It was sent, and I put the phone on the far side of the bed and lie flat and look at the ceiling.

He doesn’t sleep. Apparently, so he’s awake right now, wherever he is, with a book, in a cold house. The book must be good. He usually answers me within seconds or minutes without fail, which means he might be ignoring me.

At fifteen minutes, I think I know what’s going on. He’s finally sleeping, and I’m the fool who assumed he wouldn’t be. OrTuesday night was a thing he regrets, telling me about the not-sleeping, opening a door two inches, and he’s quietly pulling it shut. And that’s fine if he does.

I decide, coolly, lying on my back in the dark, that I will not do this again.

At twenty-two minutes, the phone lights up.

Percy: Yeah.

Then, before I can even feel the relief, he texts me again.

Percy: Are you okay?

I stare at that until my eyes dry. Nobody in my life asks me that. My mother asks whether I signed. Oliver asks about my semester and knows the answer already. Ivory asks where I go. No one ever asks me if I’m okay. They always assume I am no matter the circumstance. Percy doesn’t judge –– clearly.

Me: Yeah. Are you?

Percy: Away game. Bus just got back.

Percy: We won.

I turn over in bed. I have never heard of the term, but I can put the two together and understand that he was out of town for a hockey game. I know absolutely nothing about hockey, and we don’t talk about it. Maybe I should ask. I think I have a lot to ask him, actually. I don’t like to dig or pry or ask a hundred and one questions. And right now, I can’t tell whether it’s out of kindness or something selfish.

Me: Do you want to come over?

I hit send before I can overthink it. He writes back in two seconds.