Page 56 of Caught in a Bad Fauxmance
“Hey.”
“I’m sor—”
“Please don’t say you’re sorry again,” I interrupt, holding my hand up before he can continue. “Not that I don’t believe you,” I clarify. “I’d rather move on from the whole thing. If that’s okay?”
“Yeah.” He nods, peeking up at me with those light brown eyes I’ve come to look forward to seeing. “You don’t have your sketchbook today?”
My hand twitches at my side, reaching for where my canvas bag would usually be slung over my shoulder. So much for acting convincing. “Artistic block. Figured a change of scenery might break me out of the rut.” Not true, but I’ve gotten better at lying without sweating bullets. With two weeks left until my application is due, I didn’t have a choice but to kick myself into gear. My latest attempt, which came to me in a flash of inspiration last night, feels like the best one yet. Who would’ve thought practice would make perfect?
“Oh. Cool.”
We idle in the doorway, Julian still blocking my path into the house. “Should I come in?”
Julian shakes himself off, jumping out of the entryway. “Right, yeah, you should. Sor—” He catches himself. “Not sorry.”
“Ha ha.” I flick his wrist with my forefinger.
The mood is lighter, but not any less awkward. I sway on the balls of my feet, tapping my hands against my thighs as I wait for Julian to lead the way like he always does. “Are Stellaand Henry around?” I peer around him into the empty dining room. The house is unusually quiet.
He shakes his head. “I asked them to give us the house for the afternoon. I figured you might not be comfortable around them right now.”
He digs his hands into his pockets and heads toward the kitchen. My rapid heart finally slows, not threatening to beat out of my chest anymore, as I breathe a sigh of relief and text Maya.
Stella and Henry aren’t here, just Julian.
No Stella and Henry, no blood balloon showdown.
The text is marked as read, three dots appearing on the screen for a fraction of a second before disappearing. She’s pissed, I’m sure. And dumping blood down the drain as we speak.
“I wanted to show you something, actually,” Julian says as he picks up the mug sitting on the counter, his voice uneven, nervous.
I’m too distracted by my phone to realize we’ve made it to the kitchen, and I walk right into Julian. The mug he’d been holding out toward me spills over, latte splashing across the blinding white tile.
Julian whips around, worried. “I’m sorry, I can make you a new one.”
He sets down the half-full mug in his hands before rushing to the espresso maker on the opposite end of the room. The wail of the grinder doesn’t leave room for conversation, so I settle down at the counter and watch the master work.He places a fresh mug in front of me, taking his time to garnish the new latte with a cinnamon stick and dash of nutmeg. How he manages to remember so many minute details—how I like my coffee, my ranked lunch meat preferences, my mild almond and pineapple allergies—I’ll never understand. There’s so much care and precision in everything he makes, from morning coffee to ham sandwiches, that I can’t help but marvel every chance I get.
“You said you wanted to show me something?” I ask after my first sip. Like with each of Julian’s creations, the latte is perfectly balanced.
He wrings his fingers as he sits down across from me, biting his lip and ignoring his own untouched drink. All it took was one day to ruin weeks of work, to build our walls back up.
“It’s a song, actually.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket, setting it down on the counter. “But, um…maybe now’s not a good day. We can watch TV or something.”
My hand twitches, wanting to rest on top of Julian’s, to keep his from trembling. But I hold myself back, shaking my head instead.
“Today’s a good day.”
He nods, smiling sheepishly as he opens a playlist on his phone, scrolling past Ariana Grande’s entire discography before finding the songs he’s looking for.
New Nostalgia, it turns out, is a carbon copy of the dozens of British rock bands I’ve favorited on Spotify. Julian taps on one of their songs and sets his phone down between us. The lead singer, a guy with skater bangs and the cool kind of nose piercing Ishouldhave, sings about a love lost to the sea.
“I never would’ve pegged you as the rock band type,” I say as the vocals bow down to a dramatic guitar solo.
“There’s plenty you still don’t know about me,” Julian says with a wink.
“Like what?”
“I can do this.” He stretches his tongue as long as he can, nearly down to his chin, before flicking it up to lick the tip of his nose.
