Page 4 of Ambiguous
He holds out his hand, and I take it. I can tell he’s a guitarist by the calluses on his fingers. His grip is perfect, not too strong but not limp, and it’s somehow comforting.
I manage to say, “S-S-Sam. Sam Stone.”
Dear sweet baby Jesus, Mary, and Joe Jonas. I was taught how to properly introduce myself before I started school, but you’d never know it now.
I need to come back to reality. Julian Hill is making me feel all sorts of out of sorts. I need to escape from him and his magnetism.
Julian’s still holding my hand, and I can’t seem to look away from his face.
Someone clears their throat.
“And who else do we have here?” Julian lets go of my hand and looks over my shoulder, and I remember that he and I aren’t the only two people in the room.
In the country.
On the planet.
I glance back and see the expression of horror on Terrill’s face. Because I fucked this meeting up before we even got to the introductions.
I’m so fired.
With a grim glare at me, Terrill steps forward and shakes Julian’s hand. “Terrill St. Martin. I’m the managing partner. My colleague, Sam, has been assigned to your matter.”
Please, whoever is the god of music—Apollo?—find me and pull me out of this meeting with whatever transport you have. If it’s Apollo, I think you have a sun chariot. Take me. Or zap me. Either way,pleaseput me out of my misery.
Jules maintains a genuine smile and gestures to his companion, who’s wearing a neutral expression. “Pleasure. This is Loren Brooks, my manager.”
Loren slides off a messenger bag, stands, and shakes Terrill’s hand. “My pronouns are they and them.”
Terrill grunts.
“Mine are he/him,” I say.
“As are mine,” says Julian.
We all nod, and yep, it’s still all the awkward.
“Have a seat,” Terrill says, gesturing to everyone to take their places.
Julian sinks back down into his chair, which looks like a throne with him on it.
I’m counting the fact that he hasn’t complained about sitting in soggy pants as a major win.
Only now I’m thinking about his soggy pants and wondering whether the water soaked through to his underwear, because wearing wet underwear sucks. Although a rock deity probably goes commando.
Then I wonder why I’m thinking about his underwear.
Then I’m thinking about what I felt under the napkin.
Then I wonder if he’s straight.
Then I blush hard.
Then I remember my training,for Taylor Swift’s sake. Lawyers are taught to think on our feet. To come back from being down. To fight.
I need to pull myself together.
Campaigning for my grandfather, I’ve been trained to compartmentalize. To put pesky feelings and deep embarrassments off to the side.
