the dishwasher, I reach for the book. I can’t yank out pages while he’s here, but I can make him lose his place. Make him feel a little lost and alone, too.
I slide the business card into my back pocket and I’m halfway to the door when the dishwasher door clicks shut.
“Denise,” he says.
“Yes?” I open the closet and grab my jacket, pulling on my hat and coat. I use the excuse of tying my sneakers to avoid his stare, even when he comes close enough that I can see his socked feet.
I straighten and reach for the door, turning my back.
“Denise,” he says again.
“Good night.” I twist the knob, but he presses a hand against the wood over my head, making it impossible to open.
“Let’s go on a date,” he says.
“I don’t like dating.”
“I do.”
I can feel him against my back, even through the thickness of my jacket. He’s careful not to touch me. This invitation isn’t sexual. It’s an actual invitation for an actual date. There are no wigs and no cautiously crafted email exchanges; no pretenses. He thinks he knows me, but he doesn’t. He can’t.
“You decide,” he says, when I don’t reply. “You plan it.”
I shudder. “I don’t know.”
“Don’t know what? What to do?”
“I don’t know if I want to.”
He sighs, but he doesn’t sound exasperated. He sounds tired. And I understand. I’m tired, too.
“I’ll think about it,” I offer, without meaning to. I frown over my shoulder when he doesn’t release the door. “What?”
“Give me your phone.”
There’s no earthly way I’m giving him my phone. It’s not like I’ve got a background image that announces “I’m Reese Carlisle!” but if he sees I have a mere two contacts, it’ll scare him away for good.
Perhaps I should give him my phone.
“No,” I say.
“I want to program my number.”
I wish I had a burner phone with me. Then I could text him and we’d both have each other’s contact information. But I don’t. And I can’t give him my real phone number anymore than I can give him my name or address.
“Don’t you have a business card?” I ask. “For the school?” I suddenly feel immensely guilty about the card in my pocket. I stole from him. He’s not going to know where in Wyoming that cowboy wandered.
“It doesn’t have my cell.”
“Then just meet me.”
“Why can’t I have your fucking phone number?” He asks the question mildly enough, but there’s genuine irritation and bewilderment in his dark gaze.
“Because I don’t like to talk on the phone.” There. That’s true, too.
He rolls his eyes. “Fine. Meet where?”
“Here,” I say. “Out front again. Noon on Sunday.”
“For what?”
“It’s a surprise.” It’ll be a surprise for me, too, since I have no idea what we’ll be doing. Whatever. He seems to like questionable behavior.
He holds my stare for a second, a challenge from which neither one of us backs down. “Fine,” he says eventually.
“Fine.”
“Should I turn around so you can leave without saying goodbye?”
“Yes, if you don’t mind.”
He reaches past me to pull open the door. “Want me to walk you home?”
“Of course not.”
“Just thought I’d offer.” He rolls his lips together like he’s contemplating adding something else, then decides against it. He leans against the door frame and watches me walk down the hall to the elevator bank, letting me go. Again.
8
“YOU’RE AWFULLY QUIET.”
“I’m always quiet.”
“Nah. You’re just always alone.”
I glance up from the box of canned corn I’m sorting to see Rodney resting against the wall, considering me as he drinks from his water bottle. Lyla sent him over to work with me when she found him goofing off with his friends. I choose not to dwell on the fact that time with me is considered punishment.
Lyla loomed ominously over Rodney’s shoulder for the first ten minutes he spent with me, and we hadn’t said much in the hour that passed after she left. I haven’t had much to say, preoccupied as I am with trying to plan something for tomorrow’s “date” with Chris.
“What do you do?” I ask, straightening and wiping my hands on my jeans. “When you’re not here?”
Rodney lowers the water bottle and shrugs. “I don’t know. Hang out.”
“What do you do, though? Like, in the afternoons?”
“What are you talking about?”
“If you’re going to hang out with somebody, what would you guys do?” I’ve been on dates, obviously. It’s just that for the past three years they’ve been predicated upon a pile of lies that followed the same simple pattern: one week of emails, one fancy