Page 112 of The Incredible Ordinary

“I’m just saying. You’re not gonna get anything from anyone if you look like those dudes who stop you on the street to ask if you’ve already heard about our lord and savior.”

“I do not look like a missionary.”

“You’re wearing a tie.”

“Why are you so against ties?” I can’t believe I’m even entertaining him, but as of right now, I’ve been pulled into this conversation and am fully invested in defending myself.

“You walk in like this, and your date is gonna full-on think you’re there for a tax audit.”

We lock eyes for a bit. He quirks a brow. I grumble and pull the tie off.

“Better?”

He still looks unimpressed.

I will not ask. I will not ask.

“What?” I ask with exasperation.

“Now you look like when the principal wants to show the kids he’s cool.”

“Oh my God,” I mutter. I wrestle the jacket off before I hold out my arms and wait for judgment day.

He inspects me for a second before he shrugs and says, “It’s fine.”

“With that kind of raging endorsement in my back pocket I really do feel like a million bucks,” I say dryly before I aim my eyes toward the ceiling. “Why am I listening to a thirteen-year-old?”

“I’ve got a lot of experience.”

“In dating? Since when?”

He sends me a look that makes it clear he thinks I’m stupid. He’s silent for a bit, the says, “My mom went on dates a lot.”

“Did she?” I keep my tone as neutral as possible. So far, Rory has barely mentioned her or what his life was like before.

Rory nods and rolls his eyes. “A lot of losers. Mom really knew how to pick ’em.”

“What made them losers?”

He shrugs. “She wanted something more every time. None of them stayed. She would always be like ‘He’s the one. I can feel it. He’s different from everybody else.’ And then a few weeks would go by, and the guy would bail, and she would be all heartbroken. Rinse and repeat.”

Oh.

Sympathy is a foreign feeling. Foreign enough that it takes me a moment to even pinpoint what it is I’m feeling.

He rolls his eyes. “Who cares anyway,” he says dismissively. He’s trying to look tough but only managing to somehow seem impossibly young and lost.

I have to get going soon. Apparently I look like a missionary who does accounting on the side. Instead of fixing that, I take a seat on the edge of the bed and look at Rory.

“What was your mom like?”

He avoids my gaze and licks his lips.

I wait. He fidgets.

“She played the violin,” he eventually says. “Like, in a theater? For operas and ballets and stuff. She used to take me to the rehearsals a lot. And then I would hang out in the back, where all the set designers and artists were working.”

“The babysitters who taught you about art?” I say.