“In all seriousness,” he said, “it wouldn’t hurt to at least give it a go. You’re taking some time off from school anyway.”
“I’m happy with how things are.” I met his eyes and an understanding passed between us. We weren’t just talking about my job.
He nodded and turned away. “I’m happy with how things are, too.”
“I’d better get ready for work.” I picked up my glass of green goop and downed it in one go. I might not like it, but I had a lifetime of experience in stomaching whatever my parents fed me.
If only it were as easy to think of Finn only as my roommate again, then everything would be right in the world.
Finn
Following the instructions in the diagram, I speared the knife into the reed to make an air hole, but apparently used a little too much force. The whole thing snapped. Swearing, I threw the pieces to the side, and checked the clock again—11:43 p.m. and Scarlett was still out. Grabbing another reed from the box I’d bought on the internet, I tried again to make a flute the way the ancient Mesopotamians had.
Where was she? I hadn’t even had a chance to meet this guy—she’d caught a cab to meet him at the bar—and that always made me nervous. Her parents had turned in a couple of hours ago, obviously not seeing a problem with their only daughter being out at all hours of the night, but I couldn’t let it go as easily.
A car pulled up in front of the house and I heard doors close, then a key in the front door. I finally let out the breath it felt like I’d been holding since she’d left.
I stood and stretched, ready to make mojitos if it had gone badly. “Hey,” I said as the door opened, “how did it—”
Scarlett appeared—her blonde hair shiny and styled, her eyes seeming huge with the dark makeup—and behind her was another face. A male face. And it looked like he’d spent as much time on grooming before the date as she had, from his near-orange skin to the dark makeup around his eyes.
“Finn,” she said with a fake smile, “this is Peter. He dropped me home and asked if he could come back for a nightcap. Do you want to join us, maybe for appletinis?”
I stuck out my hand and smiled, but mine was more genuine than Scarlett’s had been. Asking the other to join in for appletinis was part of our code, meaning, I don’t want to be alone with this person. And I was more than happy to oblige.
“Good to meet you, Peter. Let me show you the sofa while Scarlett makes us some drinks.”
He looked from her back to me. This was obviously not the direction he’d been hoping the night would go.
“Okay, sure,” he said, apparently deciding to ride it out to get to the prize. I smiled wider, baring my teeth. Scarlett was not his prize.
Scarlett disappeared into the kitchen and Peter followed me, but I stopped before reaching the living room.
“So, um, you’re her roommate, right?” he said, his voice hopeful.
I dropped the smile. “Peter, it’s time to go home.”
“What?” His eyes darted to the kitchen doorway.
“You’ve probably had a very nice night, but it’s over. You can leave now.” I took the few steps back to the front door and swept an arm toward the exit.
“But, Scarlett—”
“Is too nice to say it. She was going to let you down easy, but I can tell you’re the sort of guy who’d appreciate knowing up front. So I’m doing you a favor, man to man.” With one hand in my pocket, I opened the door with the other. “As I said, good to meet you, Peter.”
He slowly covered the distance to where I waited, his gaze swinging to the kitchen and back a few times first. “Yeah. Um…you, too.”
Then he was gone and I grinned. My work here was done. I closed the door behind him and arrived at the sofa at the same time as Scarlett, with three opened beers in her hands. We didn’t even keep the ingredients for appletinis in the house—the offer had been all about the code—so I hadn’t been sure what she’d bring. Beer was the perfect choice to celebrate Peter’s departure.
“Where’s Peter?” she asked, glancing around the room.
“He had to leave.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Finn, what did you say to him?”
“That he should leave.” I sank onto the sofa and stretched my legs out in front of me, more relaxed than I’d been all night.
She raised her face toward the ceiling. “Shit. I leave you alone for two minutes—”
I held up a hand to interrupt. “You wanted him gone, right?”
“Well, yes, but he was nice. I was going to have a drink with him then tell him I needed some sleep.” She handed me a beer and dropped onto the sofa. “And I’ll save you the trouble. Yes, he was wearing guy-liner and had a man tan.”
“And more foils than a fencing competition,” I added and swigged the beer.
“He was just putting in an effort, which is more than I can say for some of the guys I’ve dated.” She picked at the label on her beer. “Did he say anything when he left?”
I shrugged. “He won’t be calling.”
She dragged her laptop from the coffee table and opened her dating chart. “Another one-dater to add.”
“But this one wasn’t your fault. And, the good thing is you realized before you had to kiss him this time.” I took another mouthful of beer, feeling pretty satisfied with the outcome.
“Oh, I kissed him,” she said casually as she typed. “Twice.”
The beer went down the wrong way and I coughed and spluttered for a couple of moments before I could reply. “You kissed him? You didn’t even like him!”
She shrugged and closed her laptop. “He was kinda cute. And I needed the practice.”
“Guy-liner and a man tan,” I pointed out, surprised I even had to.
She sighed. “But the kissing was awful.”
All of a sudden, the evening seemed a little brighter. Then I remembered I was the one who was supposed to have been teaching her about kissing, so I made sure my face was serious as I said, “Which was his fault.”
“Oh, totally.” She took another sip of her beer. “If nothing else, your lesson taught me to raise my standards in my kissing partners.”
That moment when our lips had first touched filled my mind, blocking out all other thought. My skin heated, and the air felt thick. She wasn’t the only one whose standards had been raised.
“Glad to have been of help,” I said, hoping it sounded casual, and finished my beer. “By the way, I enrolled you in a silversmithing workshop in a couple of weeks.”
She groaned and wriggled back in the sofa. “Is this another attempt to get me to be a professional artist?”
“Nope. This time it’s about my career.” The prospect of getting her to spend time with other artists was a side benefit.
She arched an eyebrow, clearly not believing a word. “You want to be a professional artist now?”
“I want to make my own reconstruction of the Silver Flute of Ur.” The two badly damaged silver pipes that had been found in the Mesopotamian city-state of Ur were older than any other existing wind instrument from the Near East, and one of my obsessions. Scarlett had sat through me explaining the discovery and its importance a few times already, and the fact that she didn’t ask what the Flute of Ur was showed she’d paid attention. I appreciated that about her.
“Fair enough, but why am I doing the workshop when you’re the one who wants to make the flute?”
“Here’s the beauty of the plan.” I put my empty beer bottle on the coffee table and snagged the extra one. “I’m enrolled as well.”
She eyed me dubiously. “And you need me to hold your hand?”
“I need you to translate,” I clarified. I wouldn’t survive a workshop without her.
The suspicion in her eyes didn’t ease off. “I only speak the one language.”
“Not true. You speak Artist Talk. Completely different language. When I called to sign us up, the woman spoke for two minutes about the course, and I only understood about a quarter of what she was saying. If I’m going to get anything out of the workshop, I’ll need an interpreter.”