Page 78 of Just Like the Brontë Sisters

“Okay,” he said, slightly miffed at my abrupt change. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, fine. Good night.” I started to close the door and he began to walk away, but I called after him. “Mitch!” He turned. “Don’t worry about getting up with Bijou tonight. I can do it.”

“What do you think?” Gavin asked me. We were at a gallery opening, looking at a sculpture of a giant hand with its thick fingers spread apart.

“I don’t understand.”

He flicked his bangs from his eyes. “What’s to understand?”

I cocked my head, examining it. “I mean, is it waving? I don’t think so, but it’s not doing anything that hands normally do. It’s not holding anything, or flipping us off, or pointing, or punching, or caressing, or well… anything. It’s just a static hand. What’s the point?”

“Maybe existing is the point.”

“That isn’t enough.”

“Not for you, maybe.” He looked self-consciously around the small space, like he was worried that the artist was there and I’d just offended him. “Are you ready to go?”

“Sure,” I replied. “I’m hungry.”

We left and walked down the block to a new fusion restaurant that Gavin insisted we try as part of our “date night.” I let him do the ordering, and as we ate appetizers and salad everything was fine, but once the main course arrived, his mood shifted.

“How long is Magda staying?” he asked.

“Mitch said it would just be a few days.” I pushed a piece of sushi into my mouth and chewed. If nothing else, that was an excuse to not talk about Magda.

“I’m surprised you’re letting her stay.”

Mouth still full, I shrugged.

“I know you’re hiding something,” he said. “You should tell me everything.”

I swallowed down the last bit of raw salmon. “What do you mean, everything?”

“Everything!” he nearly shouted, which in the noisy restaurant, barely registered as loud. “You were so sure he was guilty. You were even more sure of Magda’s guilt. How can you be so calm while sharing a roof with them both?”

Raising my water glass to my lips, I took a sip, letting the cold liquid distract me. “All I can say is Mitch is different than how I thought he’d be. You’ve sort of gotten to know him; I’m sure you understand.”

Gavin said nothing. He did not take a bite of his quinoa tabbouleh nor did he take a drink of his artisan root beer. He just leaned forward and stared at me until I started to squirm.

“What?” I finally demanded.

“You’re into him.” Gavin stated this as irrefutable fact.

“No.”

“You are.” Finally, he moved forward and picked up his fork, but he just used it to push at his food. “I mean, he’s very good looking.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not. Objectively, Mitch is a handsome guy.”

“Okay.” I shrugged. “Yes, he’s tall, dark, and handsome, but that doesn’t mean he’s my type and it doesn’t mean I’m attracted to him. And I’m not.”

Gavin let his chin drop and now his eyes were focused on his dinner plate. He managed to gather up bits of quinoa, but his fork’s journey from plate to mouth was uninspired and he chewed his food like it was rubber.

“Gavin, come on. Don’t be like this.”

He took a swig of root beer to wash everything down. “You’re not coming to Chicago with me, are you?”