The Distance Between Us

have older siblings or those aren’t their names?”
    “I’m an only child.” Mostly because I was born out of wedlock and have no contact with my father. Would that statement send him running? Probably. So why didn’t I say it out loud?
    “Note to self: Caymen is very good at sarcasm.”
    “If you’re recording notes for an official record, I’d like the word ‘very’ stricken and replaced with ‘exceptionally.’”
    His eyes light up with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his lips, but that seems to imply he actually finds me amusing. My mother always told me guys were put off by my sarcasm.
    “All right, your turn,” he says.
    “For what?”
    “Ask me a question.”
    “Okay . . . um . . . Do you often force girls to invite you into their houses?”
    “Never. They usually invite me in themselves.”
    “Of course they do.”
    He leans back and takes a bite of his muffin. “So, Ms. Observant, what was your first impression of me?”
    “When you came into the store?”
    “Yes.”
    That’s easy. “Arrogant.”
    “Really? What made you think that?”
    Does that surprise him? “I thought it was my turn to ask a question.”
    “What?”
    “Isn’t that how the game works? We each get a question?”
    He looks at me expectantly. I realize I have no question. Or maybe I have too many. Like why is he really here? When will he realize I don’t play with his crowd? What exactly made him interested in the first place? . . . If that’s what this is. “Can I go finish getting ready?”

Chapter 9

    “ N o. Okay, my turn. What made me come off as arrogant?”
    I stare at the crease on the sleeve of his T-shirt—a clear indication it had been ironed. Who irons T-shirts? “You beckoned me,” I say, remembering that first day.
    His brown eyes flash to mine. Even his eyes with their gold flecks remind me of his wealth. “I what?”
    “You stay there. I’ll be you.” I walk to the far end of the stockroom and pretend to come in a door, holding a cell phone to my ear. I swagger a few steps, stop and stare at the wall, then hold up my hand and beckon him. I wait for him to laugh, but when I glance over he has a mortified look on his face.
    “I may have exaggerated it just a bit,” I say even though I didn’t.
    “That’s how you saw me?”
    I clear my throat and walk slowly back to the couch. “So are you the soccer player or the math genius?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Your grandmother brags. I’m wondering which grandson you are.”
    “The one who hasn’t done much of anything.”
    I toe the table leg with my slipper. “You do know who you’re talking to?”
    “I do. Caymen.”
    I roll my eyes. “I mean, I’m the queen of having done nothing, so I’m sure you’ve far outdone me.”
    “What haven’t you done that you want to do?”
    I shrug. “I don’t know. I try not to think about it too much. I’m perfectly satisfied with my life. I think unhappiness comes from unfulfilled expectations.”
    “So the less you expect from life . . .”
    “No. It’s not like that. I just try to be happy and not wish I could do more.” Well, I was getting better at that goal at least. And having people like him around only serves as a reminder of everything I don’t have.
    He finishes off his muffin then throws the wrapper in the bag. “And does it work? Are you happy?”
    “Mostly.”
    He raises his Styrofoam cup in a toast. “That’s all that matters, then, isn’t it?”
    I nod and move my foot onto the coffee table. The order form in my pocket crinkles with the movement. I pull it out. “I should go. I have some work to do before we open.”
    “Right. Of course. I should go, too.” He hesitates for a moment as if wanting to say something more.
    I stand and he follows suit, picking up his jacket. I walk him to the front door and open it.
    As he walks away I realize how little our question-and-answer session revealed about each other. I have no idea how old he is or where he goes to school or what he likes to do. Did we steer clear of those questions on purpose? Did we both ask ridiculous, meaningless questions because deep down we really don’t want to know the other person?
    He pushes a button on his keys and the fancy silver sports car in front of the shop beeps. That car alone answers any question I could possibly have about him. No need for any more. He opens the door and throws me that smile and I hear myself yell, “Are you a senior?”
    He nods. “You?”
    “Yeah.” I