Page 25 of Rising Heat

“And he’s not?”

“Not really.”

The answer comes too fast.

I glance at him.

“He’s got everyone fooled, huh?”

“Something like that.”

I take another sip of my beer.

“Guess first impressions aren’t always that reliable.”

His eyes flick up to mine.

“No?”

I shrug.

“You don’t exactly come off like someone who spends his Saturdays helping near-strangers move in the rain.”

He goes quiet at that as he studies me over the rim of his bottle.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“What makes someone pack up forty boxes and a hostage fern and head three states north?”

I’d been waiting for that question since the day I signed the lease. Everybody asks eventually. People I work with. Relatives I barely talk to. The barista at the coffee shop I’d been working from all week who’d noticed my area code when I signed up for the rewards program.

The answer is usually a version of the truth tailored to whoever’s asking.

Tyler just waits. No relief from the question, but no pressure either. He takes a sip of his beer and lets me have the silence if I want it. Which is annoyingly effective.

“It’s a ficus,” I say.

His snorts.

“Freelance design,” I continue. “Branding, marketing. Mostly helping other people look more put together than they actually are.”

“So you’re a professional liar.”

“More like a professional fixer.”

“Sounds like trouble.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

The corner of his mouth lifts.

I take another sip of my beer and look out at the gray city beyond the windows. A few people hurry along the sidewalk below with their heads tucked against the rain.

“It felt like time,” I say after another minute.

That’s all I give him. No Brett or West Chester or the version of myself I left packed in old boxes and swallowed apologies.