Page 37 of Lying to the Boss

Tage

I sit across from Lane at the apartment-sized table that came in earlier this week. I almost put off putting it together, but now I’m glad I didn’t. I’d feel like a fool if I ordered food and we had nowhere to sit and eat—though there is the couch. It’s not broken in yet, so it’s still stiff, but it’s better than the floor. The photos made it look like I’d fall into it and it’d hug me, but it kind of feels like it’s filled with boulders. I guess that’s what I get for ordering furniture online.

Lane doesn’t comment on anything in my apartment other than the toilet, though I see him looking around. There is nothing judgmental in his gaze, just curiosity. Maybe like he was hoping for more—a deeper look into me. He isn’t going to get that from here—at least not now. Maybe when I’ve been living here a few years and have been able to collect things I like.

He fixed the toilet—for now. He said to threaten the office with a lawyer, and they’ll be up here to fix it again for good. I appreciate him not coming in here with a whole new toilet—that feels very him.

This… feels like he’s respecting me a little more.

“Thank you for fixing the toilet,” I say as I grab my second slice of pizza.

“It’s no problem.”

“I didn’t think you were capable of fixing things.”

“That’s offensive,” he says, narrowing his eyes.

“Is it?” I ask, not believing him.

“A little.”

“Oh—sorry.”

He shrugs. “I guess I can only blame myself. If that’s the impression I gave you…”

“You didn’t, I just—uh—”

“Have a problem with people who have money? I gathered that.”

“It’s not that, it’s just—”

He folds his hands in front of him on the table, his plate pushed aside. He only had one slice, and I can’t tell if it’s because he lied about liking pizza, doesn’t like this kind, or has an issue eating in my apartment.

“Uh,” I say when I can’t think of what to say. “I guess I do.”

“Why is that?” he questions, tilting his head to the side.

“It’s a long story.”

“If you don’t want to talk about it, you can just say that.”

“Okay. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Why not?”

I groan. “Seriously?”

“I just want to know what happened to make you hate me before you got to know me.”

“I didn’t hate you.”

“You disliked me.”

“I just… have known too many people like you, that’s all.”

“Like me or what you thought I was like?” he asks with a bit of sadness in his eyes.

“I guess the second one,” I mutter.