Page 22 of City of Love

“No,” he says, cutting me off. “Nothing like that.”

“Then what?” I say.

He shakes his head once more. “No. No details. See, this is why I didn’t want to tell you. You’re judging,” he says, sitting up straighter.

I snort. “That’s not why you didn’t want to tell me. You don’t care about people judging you. You just don’t want me getting into your business.”

He shrugs. “Maybe,” he admits, and I know that I’m right.

“Unbelievable,” I say, more to myself than to him as a stab of hurt hits me. “I don’t know you at all, do I?”

“You do, though, Lydia,” he says, and I’m startled when he leans forward in his chair. His low voice becomes more intense as he speaks. “You do, all right? You may not know everything I do or everything about me, but you knowme—a lot better than most people, in fact,” he adds, and he looks uncomfortable at this admission. “And I know you, too.”

That, at least, is true. I’ve never been anything but honest with him.

I swallow hard at that thought. I feel strangely laid bare before him, this man who knows my deepest, darkest secrets. “Okay, well, let’s start with some basic info, then,” I say, because this isn’t about me; it’s about him. “Your birthday? Age? That was all true?”

“Yes,” he says, nodding. “I really am twenty-one, and my birthdate really is the twenty-eighth of October.”

I nod slowly. That’s basically what I thought. “And what about all the stuff you like and dislike? Foods and colors and TV shows—”

“Never lied about any of that,” he says.

I nod; again, his answer is what I expected. He would have no reason to lie about stuff like that. “Day-to-day life?” I say. I gesture at him. “What do you do?”

“I have a part-time job, which I’ve mentioned,” he says, and I nod. “I work at a bar. And then I do the nonprofit work.”

“And volunteering at the homeless shelter? Working at the food kitchen?” I say, naming two extracurricular activities he’s mentioned. A thought hits me. “Or was that just to make yourself sound better?”

“No,” he says, looking offended. “I didn’t lie about those. Although…” He grimaces. “I may have fudged a few details.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “What details?”

He waves one hand, the creases on his forehead smoothing as his frown dissipates. “It’s not important right now. But I do help with both the food kitchen and the homeless shelter. They’re the same place, actually, but yeah. Under the same management.”

Hmm. Interesting. “Okay,” I say. I’ll delve into all that later; I don’t want to press my luck and make him clam up completely. Instead I go on, “What about your home life?”

He shrugs. “I split my time between here and—”

“The flat,” I say, the pieces suddenly falling into place. “Where I went earlier. That’s where you’ve sent me packages from for the last couple years. I did remember the right address.”

He nods. “You did.”

I frown, tilting my head. “Why do you have a flat?”

“It functions as a sort of business office, and I needed some space away from my parents anyway.”

I nod. I can understand that. His words bring another question to mind, and I ask, “And what about your family? Was that all true? Your relationships with them and stuff?” I wonder where his dad is, anyway. On a business trip, probably. I’ll ask later.

“That was all true,” he says, and though his voice doesn’t change, I see his shoulders tense slightly. He and his parents get along well, and they’re pretty hands-off people, but he still feels a little stifled living with them. He doesn’t like people in his space, and he doesn’t really like answering to anyone but himself.

“I told you, you should do the American thing and move out,” I say with a shrug. We’ve talked about this before. “After high school we’re basically expected to fly the coop.”

“I know,” he says, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“But it’s not that simple?” I say, because we’ve talked aboutthatbefore, too.

“It’s not that simple,” he confirms.

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