19
JOEY
Ifeel silly bringing Dexter Kaplan into my living room. Compared to his totally curated space, this looks like what it is—a room decorated in someone else’s castoffs.
I perch on what probably used to be one of a set of dining-room chairs. He sits on the couch between a wadded-up blanket and my clean laundry. Oh, I hope the blanket doesn’t stink. And I hope he doesn’t notice the pile of my underthings tangled up with my towels and shirt sleeves.
Will he talk first? Do I want him to?
“Look,” I say, surprising myself with how solid my voice sounds. “I know you’re unimpressed with me and the work I’ve done. I’m just going to have to be okay with that. But I got hired to work here because I’m a good photographer, and I can figure out how to be a good teacher. I deserve this job.”
His mouth is open a little, but he’s not saying anything.
“Now it’s your turn to talk, Mr. Kaplan.” I fold my arms across myself, feeling my body growing smaller.
“I’m not.”
I wait, but nothing else comes.
“You’re not what?”
“I’m not unimpressed.”
I almost laugh.
“Careful. If you give extravagant compliments like that, I might start to think you like me.” Then I remember the text.
I pretend I’m not thinking about the words he sent, but I feel heat rising up the back of my neck. I want you and me.
But that is impossible. Rules. Also, we are clearly wrong for each other. And I don’t know if I have ever seen a sincere emotion in this guy ever. He’s always acting. Except for that one day. On his couch. In his apartment. In his arms.
But maybe he was acting then, too.
How can I tell? He’s really good at this. He even changed clothes to come over here. Like a costume.
So I wait. I wait for him to say what he came over here to say.
I wait a long time.
I start getting fidgety.
Finally, I can’t wait any more. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
“I’m sorry,” he says.
He’s sorry.
Can I ask him for which part?
But I can guess. He’s sorry he showed impulsive emotion. He’s sorry he went off script.
“I’m sorry I say stupid things out loud.”
I let out a little sigh. “I guess it’s better to keep them inside,” I admit.
He shakes his head. “I don’t mean that,” he says. “I mean . . . here’s the thing. I have some talks I give myself. Some sets of lines.”
“A script. For real? I thought about that, but it was just a little too cliché, even for you.” I hope that doesn’t come out as venomous as it feels in my mouth. “Not that you’re a cliché,” I add, but it doesn’t feel better. I should stop speaking before I pull off the impossible and make this worse.