Page 49 of Famous for a Living

Fine.

I can comply. “Yes, well, it’s fun background noise when you’re working on matching roommate bracelets.”

He smiles.

“I’m running out of room, actually.” I pull up my left sleeve, where four bracelets in an explosion of colors encircle my wrist. “Spring needs to come soon.”

He gazes appreciatively at my arm for one-fifth of a second, then changes subjects. “I wanted to apologize.”

Oh.

His abrupt shift into direct apology throws me.

After all, everyone knows small talk was created for two uses: time-filling conversation with people you’re stuck in proximity to and don’t really know or care to, and indirect apology.

Apologizing without really having to say anything that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up or your palms start sweating. You can talk about how chewy the corn chowder was and with your eyes be saying, I’m really sorry I stole your car and ran it into a 7-Eleven. Can we just forget it?

And when the other person says, “It really is chewy, isn’t it?” then you know all is forgiven.

This is what people do.

What you specifically don’t do is rip the bandage off the still-raw wound and announce, “Wow. That really looks as awful as I remembered, doesn’t it?”

Especially with someone you barely know.

Particularly with someone with whom you seem incapable of having a normal, sane conversation.

I tuck my hair behind one ear. “It’s fine, Zaiah. So . . .” My gaze roves around for something, anything, to discuss. It lands on a box filled with shirts on the mail table. “What are those for?”

His eyes don’t so much as tick over to the cardboard box that arrived this morning. “You were right. I implied some inappropriate things about you when we were at Cades Peak. We all take in experiences differently. You are . . . just as entitled to your opinions as I am to mine. I’m sorry.”

For crying out loud, man, I’m a nonconfrontational person!

I swallow. His gaze is so unrelenting. His eyes don’t dart away just as his words don’t waver. He’s not skittish at all. Me, on the other hand. I feel like a child who can’t handle an adult conversation.

Pull it together, Cat.

I round out my shoulders, willing myself to sit straight. You may have hit a few roadblocks, but you are not a child.

I force myself to meet his gaze. “Thank you. And . . . I’m sorry as well.”

I swallow, hoping desperately he’s not one of those people who can sit comfortably in silence.

But sure enough, there he is.

Standing over me.

Looking into my eyes.

With those penetrating green eyes.

I blink and turn my attention to the Cozy Cup I’m currently pushing around my desk.

“I’m, um, going through some things right now. Life’s been a bit . . . challenging lately.”

And there he goes again. Just looking at me. Waiting in case there’s anything more I want to say.

I shift uncomfortably in my seat.