Page 38 of Right Man, Right Time
“Of course. You seem like an overachiever. I know I’m Hufflepuff through and through, and I’m damn proud of it.”
“Do you ever feel bad for people who get Ravenclaw?” I ask. “No one ever talks about it. Gryffindor is clearly superior, Slytherin has its own merit because it’s evil, and then Hufflepuff is for all the fun-loving people. What about Ravenclaw?”
“You know, now that you mentioned it, I don’t think I ever hear anyone claim they’re from Ravenclaw. That’s sad.”
“It is.”
She tilts her head to the side. “I think we figured out what we bonded over.”
I scratch the back of my head. “Yeah, the guys will love that. Harry Potter. They always make fun of me for being such a Potter head.”
“Aw, poor baby. The boys are picking on you.”
“It’s rare,” I say. “I’m usually the one being a dick.”
“Is that so?” she asks. “From what I’ve seen, you seem quite sensitive.”
“I’m not sensitive,” I defend. “That would be Posey or Holmes. I’m anything but sensitive.”
“Okay, keep telling yourself that.”
“Why the hell do you think I’m sensitive?”
She holds up her finger. “First of all, it’s not a bad thing to be sensitive. No need to shed some toxic masculinity between us, thanks. Second of all, youaresensitive. If you weren’t, we wouldn’t be in this predicament. If you were truly the dick you claim to be, you wouldn’t care about Sarah being around the arena or what the guys think. Maybe your problem is you don’t like to be vulnerable. Therefore, you attempt to hide it by being a dick.”
Jesus.
Is she sure she’s in lifestyle journalism and not psychology?
I shake my head. “I don’t think that’s what’s going on.”
She chuckles. “Okay, keep thinking that.”
* * *
“Do you really,in all honesty, like that picture?” she asks as she stares at a piece of art hanging in the dining area. The dark blue paint has been smooshed into the canvas. There’s no rhyme or reason to it, just a bunch of texture.
I shrug. “It does the job.”
“And what job is that?” she asks while picking up another piece of pizza and dabbing the grease off with a napkin.
“Aesthetic. Brings color into the space.”
“Is that what you think, or is that what your interior decorator thinks?”
I take a sip of my water. “Who says I used an interior decorator?”
Her lips fall to the side in disbelief. “Please. Sure, this might be the nicest place I’ve ever been, but I’m not stupid. Your decor screams professionally done. Nothing in this space is personal. Your apartment could really be anyone’s home.”
“I know,” I say. “There’s a reason for that.”
“What’s the reason?” she asks.
“Everything I had that was remotely personal involved Sarah, and I didn’t want that in my new space. I wanted a fresh start.”
“Ah, that makes sense. You wanted to eliminate her from your life.”
“Exactly.”
