Page 3 of The Apparent Trap

“Your impression is that on a regular day you’re not . . . flirtable?”

“I know I’m not,” I say dismissively. “I’m the person who’d spend the entire weekend at home rotting, watching movies, and ordering in while wearing sweats instead of dealing with humanity.”

“Nah, it just means that for you, stillness is how you grow. Enjoying rotting means you’re like kimchi or sourdough.”

“Is implying I’m fermenting supposed to be a compliment?” I say dubiously.

“I bet you cook up even better things with a bit of time,” he replies, no hint of a joke.

I want to scoff, but the words burrow their way into my throat enough to render me speechless.

He watches me, eyebrow raised, clearly expecting me to argue.

And of course, because I’m me, I do. “That doesn’t usually equate to men wanting to flirt,” I reply, waving him off by getting back to the root of the issue.

He scooches closer, and our faces are only inches apart, but for some reason I don’t move. He’s looking at me, studying me closely, as though he’s buying into my hoodwinked-men theory and wants to try and see below the makeup I’ve so adeptly applied (if I do say so myself). That gaze makes my heart race, because I have to admit that I can tell he likes what he’s seeing.

But I take the opportunity to look at him too. I’ve already seen his face at every angle—when the show is on, we see it across the office, every muted TV tuned to the live feed, like we’re a cult and the show is our dear leader. He’s been on once a week for years, so he’s part of my background noise. I objectively know he’s handsome. That he’s tall. That he’s built like someone constantly in motion, wiry but firm. And I’ve absorbed his basic stats—owns a few restaurants but does more television than cooking these days because of his high energy and affable charm.

Watching him up close, though, I realize I haven’t seen this part. I haven’t seen the vulnerable, maybe-a-little-drunk version that likes to flirt but maybe also seems . . . exhausted? Overwhelmed? Nervous? There’s something in those eyes, under his statement eyebrows, that’s only visible this close. I want to be like the kid from the movie Hook who grabs grown-up Peter Pan’s face and says “Oh there you are, Peter!” because I finally realize what’s under all the layers of age and expectation.

Although now that I notice, he’s also looking at me as though he’s seen past my makeup armor too.

“Tell me something,” he finally says, this strange staring contest we’ve been engaged in suddenly disintegrated by talking. “You think you’re not flirtable. But I’m . . . very much enjoying flirting with you.” The honey in his voice does something dangerous to me, and I want to push it away. But he shakes his head before the thought can drop too far inside. “So have you considered that maybe you accepted outdated assumptions about yourself early on? And then you never let them go because it’s easier to hide behind being self-effacing than to actually put yourself out there?”

What? Whatever I thought he was about to say, it was not that. It’s shocking how a characterization I’ve never considered before can feel like such a direct hit.

“Have you ever considered,” I say, deflecting, “that you’ve spent so much time on television that you let the overconfident cool-kid tall-man facade talk for you instead of being an actual vulnerable person?”

His mouth drops in shock.

I almost take it back, almost apologize—do what I’m so good at—when I see the crease of a smile.

“I’m considering it now,” he says, and now I’m the one shocked.

“Seriously?”

“Actually, yeah.” He tilts his head. I’m watching those eyes again. He’s not messing with me. There’s so much earnestness in there that I wonder if we’ve crossed some honesty Rubicon.

We stare for a moment, both considering, both taking in what the other said.

And then he starts to laugh, deep and baritone.

And I hate how much I like it.

“What’s funny?” I say, needing to distract myself.

His laugh warms into a small chuckle. “I’d never considered that before . . . I mean, damn, way harsh, Tai.” He looks at me with a smirk that is way too proud for an elder millennial man making a Clueless reference. I roll my eyes, and it makes his smile grow. “But that being said, I’m surprised to admit that . . . maybe . . . I don’t actually think you’re wrong.” He takes another long sip of his drink, still turning over the idea like a smooth pebble. “Maybe I worked so hard to be likable that I forgot to actually be likable.”

It’s a disarming admission. I have no idea how to respond to it, so instead I grab another cherry and pop it in my mouth. When I’m thinking, I need to be eating. His eyes immediately zero in on my mouth. That dangerous sensation buzzes back to the surface. And for some reason I’m not sure I want to shake it away.

“Why are you working hard to be likable?” I finally ask, my need to understand this man feeling alarmingly imperative.

He sighs and finishes off his drink, like the question is too large to be contained. “It’s complicated.”

“Isn’t it always?”

“Yeah.” He looks into his glass, as though he can will another drink to appear. “What about you?” he says, clearly wanting a topic change.