Page 51 of Faking It Right
“It’s accurate.” He raked his hands through his dark hair until it stood up in adorable tufts. “She’s been doing this since we were kids. Remember last Christmas when I mentioned I was thinking about switching majors? Two days later, she emailed me a color-coded spreadsheet analyzing the job prospects and salary potential of every conceivable option.”
I bit my cheek to stifle a grin. Sawyer’s interventions were legendary, and the fallout was always top-tier entertainment. “Oh, no. The horror. Someone who cares about your future. How do you survive such torture?”
“You don’t get it,” he groaned, dropping his shoulders. “She has this uncanny ability to look at me like she knows what I’m thinking before I even think it.”
“Sounds terrifying,” I deadpanned. As an only child, I couldn’t relate.
Ryker stopped pacing, his energy deflating like a sad balloon. He sighed, his posture slumping as he stared at the carpet as if it held the secrets of the universe. “The worst part is, she’s usually right.”
I stopped fidgeting. Every ounce of my attention homed in on the flush creeping up his neck. I maintained a poker face. “Oh?”
“Yeah.” A flush crept into his cheeks. “She helped me get some perspective tonight.”
My heart picked up speed, but I kept my voice casual. “Oh?” I leaned back on my hands, crossing my ankles in front of me, the picture of relaxation despite the anxiety ants crawling under my skin.
Ryker perched on the edge of the bed, careful to maintain a safe distance. He ruffled his hair again, making it even messier. “I’ve been overthinking everything.”
I feigned disbelief. “You? Overthinking? I’m shocked.”
He shot me a look that was half-annoyed, half-amused. “Can we be serious for a second?”
“Sorry. Go on.” I gestured for him to continue.
He paused, struggling for words. “I’ve been worried about what all of this means. Whether I’m experimenting out of curiosity or if it’s something more. I kept thinking how unfair it would be to you if I were only testing the waters.”
I stayed quiet, giving him the space to untangle his thoughts. The last thing I wanted was to pressure him when he was opening up.
“Sawyer pointed out that I’ve been making this way more complicated than it needs to be.” He gave a self-deprecating laugh. “She said I look at you like, and I quote, ‘a Swedish furniture instruction manual with half the pages missing: confused, frustrated, but still determined to screw something.’”
I howled with laughter at how very Sawyer her answer was. “Your sister is very observant.”
“She’s a pain in the ass,” Ryker muttered, but there was no heat behind it. “But she made me realize I’ve been so caught up in labels. Which makes me think of doorknobs.”
The sudden topic shift made me scoff at the randomness. “Doorknobs?”
Ryker scowled. “Not literal doorknobs. More like the philosophical concept of there are regular doorknobs that open doors anyone can use, right?”
“Right,” I agreed, although I had no clue where he was headed.
“But then there are those fancy decorative ones you think you aren’t sophisticated or rich enough to use.”
I blinked at him in confusion. “Okay?”
“Then one day, you feel bold enough to use the fancy knob, and it feels so good to wrap your hand around it to push open a door to a new world. It makes you question if maybe you’ve been turning the wrong knob your entire life.”
Before I could interject, he barreled ahead with his convoluted analogy. “It suddenly becomes the only knob you want to turn for all your door-related endeavors in the future. Not only because it’s a masterpiece, but it’s also because what lies behind the door might be worth entering repeatedly. For non-door reasons, if that makes any sense.”
“My brain is attempting to file that jumble under ‘metaphor,’ but it keeps getting rejected for making zero sense,” I quipped.
“No, listen,” Ryker insisted, rubbing the back of his neck. “Some knobs are those round ones you have to twist, right? They require effort, and sometimes your hand slips off if you’re not fully committed to the twist.”
I couldn’t resist the joke. “I was unaware you were struggling so much with your knob.”
He kept his muddled metaphor going. “But then there are those lever-handle ones that need a solid grip and a firm push down. I’ve always been a twist knob guy, round and round, the same motion every time, and that’s been fine. But suddenly, I’m curious about the lever style, because the way this one feels in my grip works better for me, and—” He paused, seeming to realize he was spiraling.
I burst out laughing. “Ryker, I genuinely can’t tell if you’re trying to tell me something profound or if this is an elaborate setup for a ‘That’s what she said’ joke. Either way, A-plus for commitment to whatever the hell this doorknob dissertation is supposed to be.” I crossed my arms, still grinning. “Want to try again using literally any words besides ‘knob’ and ‘handle’ and ‘twist’ this time?”
Ryker’s face flushed, but he seemed determined to make his point. “Okay, so forget doorknobs. How about locks and keys? No, that’s worse. What about furniture? If you’ve been sitting on chairs your whole life?—”
