Her Rebound Guy. Jennifer Lohmann
Читать онлайн книгу.
was, “Your job sounds hard.”
He smiled, like he heard it all the time. But also like he enjoyed his job and was not-so-secretly pleased every time someone said, “Oohh.”
“It uses my writing skills, which is good. And I like talking to people, and being a reporter gives me an excuse to ask people questions. And,” he shrugged like he was humble about his job, even though she could tell he wasn’t, “I think freedom of the press is important. So, I’m glad to be a part of that.”
“You said English major, not a journalism major. Do you have a wild tale of career changes? Some dark experience in your past that made you determined to expose evildoers and right wrongs?”
“Like a bite from a radioactive spider?” He had the most delightful shrug. Comfortable and agreeable, like he’d seemed to be all night. She tried to imagine him tracking down sources—if they even called them sources—or badgering someone he was interviewing until they gave away their secrets. Tried and couldn’t. He seemed too slippery to be hard, and she didn’t even mean slippery in a bad way. More like water, flowing around obstacles and making its own path.
And, like water, he could settle into a comfortable stillness, which he did as he answered her question. “I liked to write as a kid, tell stories and make up lives of the neighbors’ pets. I’d sit them down and ask them questions about their day, then report the gossip to my parents.”
His face froze for a moment, so clear that she thought she could see all the way to the bottom of his soul and some inner hurt he was trying to hide, but then he smiled and the secrets he might be keeping were obscured by the mask he wore.
A reflecting pool she would be tempted to sit and think next to suddenly revealing the soul of the water sprite inside.
“My dad didn’t like me telling those stories,” he said. “Especially after Mom died. She’d been the person who liked to hear them most. ‘Kids’ nonsense,’ he used to say, and he would tell me I was too old to be playing make-believe.”
His cheeks were smooth, his eyes were wide and clear, and anyone glancing over at their table wouldn’t think he might be saying anything upsetting. For all Beck could tell, he didn’t consider this to be an upsetting story.
Still pretending, she thought. Only he doesn’t realize he’s pretending anymore.
“That’s the kind of guy my dad is, you know. Old-fashioned. Men are men and that means stoic faces and no talking to pets. So, I would tell the stories to my younger sister and we would play television. Game shows and TV news, with me reporting on the pets. For some reason, my sister always reported on weather and sports.” His voice softened when he spoke about his sister, and that was cute. And, if she were honest, made her a bit jealous as an only child.
“Anyway,” he said with a shake of his head that cleared the emotion out of his voice, “Once I got to college, I thought I should be a writer, because I liked to tell those stories. My roommate worked for the college paper and I tagged along, writing stories for them. I covered town politics and how it affected the college.”
He snorted. “I used to joke that college town politics were a lot like the politics of the pets—all that emotion sharing a tight space. One Christmas, I was watching the nightly news with my dad and sister. I don’t even remember what the reporter was talking about, but I remember my dad complaining about politicians and ‘the man’ and the cheats. It’s not like he did bad. He was a car salesman at a nice dealership and he made a good living, but he seemed to always think the world was keeping secrets from him and those secrets were why he wasn’t doing better.”
Beck nodded in sympathy. “I grew up in DC. I really should know and understand politics better than I do, but it always seemed too...opaque is the word I want, I think. And getting older hasn’t made it any easier to understand.” She hadn’t paid that much attention, either. Both because North Carolina politics were dead-of-night things and because politics, like her parents, had always seemed cold.
“Yeah. That’s how most people feel, I think. My dad is my audience, even though he thinks I’m as crooked as the people I report on.”
She winced at that admission.
“I understood what the reporter was talking about. The local politics I was reporting on for the school paper are almost as far from national politics as a cat is from a dog, but they’re still pets and I understood pets. My dad didn’t and still doesn’t.”
“Reporting seems like a manly job. Smoke-filled backrooms. Secret committees.” She knew what it was to have parents who didn’t approve of your work. Her parents had been remote and never deigned to talk with her about their jobs, but they were still shocked when she didn’t follow in their footsteps.
Her parents thought she was a glorified waitress. They didn’t see how she made memories for people or why that might be a worthwhile job.
“Some of it is contamination by proximity.” This shrug was less effortless. “Politicians are all crooks and, since I count some politicians as my friends, then I must be a crook, too.”
“And are you? That seems like the sort of thing I should know, even if this is a first date.”
She meant it as a joke and he laughed, both of them pretending that what she’d said had actually been funny. For all the momentary glimpses she’d gotten of his soul, his surface might as well be a thick sheet of ice. Short of some thaw, she couldn’t see in.
And he can’t see out. Or in, either. There was a little boy in there still hurt by his father’s disapproval, and that little boy didn’t talk to the man sitting across the table from her.
“I don’t think my dad wants to know more about the rules that govern his life. If he knew, he might have to do something about the things that make him unhappy. And some of it is that he doesn’t like his son knowing more than he does. To him, I’m still telling stories and by stories, he means lies. Holidays at my house are a barrel of laughs.”
He snorted again, a wry noise offset by his embarrassed half smile. “I don’t know why I’m telling you any of this, especially after one drink on a first date. Normally, I just tell people that my sister and I played television news as kids, but I like writing more than I like television news, so here I am. That’s the sanitized version.”
It was her turn to shrug and she tried to make it the easy, careless movement he’d seemed to perfect. “I’m easy to talk to?”
“Yes, Ms. Dogfan, yes, you are. In fact, you are so easy to talk to that I’m going to get another drink. Want one?”
“Yes, please.” She liked being thought of as easy to talk to. Nothing he’d confessed had been scandalous, but she knew why it felt personal. And she didn’t think it was that she was easy to talk to so much as it was the dark bar, with soft music and bench seats that cocooned around them. A little bubble, where nothing they confessed to each other would escape.
Safe, she thought. He had felt safe talking with her, which she understood, since she felt safe sitting here with him, too. Which surprised her. Standing outside the bar, shifting back and forth on her feet, she’d felt like her nerves were radiating out through Durham’s small downtown, forcing walkers to push through it like it was a heavy wind.
Those nerves had stayed with her as she’d ordered her drink and as she’d silenced her phone. Then Caleb had sat down, asked about Seamus and poof—all those nerves were gone. If he asked, she might lay out all her secrets on the table for him to pick through.
Might. She was determined to be smart about this whole dating thing and laying her baggage on the table for Caleb to examine was not even in the same time zone as smart.
Though, she considered as she watched the way he laughed with the bartender and chatted up other people at the bar, smart didn’t seem like much fun when his lanky body was part of the equation. In the abstract, all the contradicting advice left her at sea in her own life, each life preserver she was being tossed leading