“What do I owe you?” I ask, perfectly steady, even as my blood feels like sludge in my veins. I think of The Godfather and hope the favor isn’t murder.
“Thank you for asking, Nakamura,” he says, and smiles a big, wide smile that only gets partway to his eyes. “You owe me a date.”
There’s one single, horrifying, world-turns-on-its-side moment where I think he’s making a romantic overture, and it must show on my face because he snorts.
“To the dinner party at my boss’s house,” he says, after a moment. “You know, the thing I asked Anna Grace to?”
“Obviously,” I lie.
“Was it?”
“Is that all?” I ask.
“Is that not enough?” he asks, tilting his head slightly. “If you really want, I bet I could come up with—”
“No,” I cut him off. It’s harder and meaner than I meant it to be, but the thought of going to a dinner party full of strangers and the silence makes the sound of my own pulse overwhelming, makes this back hallway feel far too tight, makes politeness a remote impossibility.
“Okay, then,” he says as I breathe.
“If anything, an evening of charming your boss and coworkers sounds like you’re getting more out of this deal than I am,” I say.
He’s laughing by the time I get halfway through the sentence: a fake, demonstrative laugh that sets my teeth on edge. Fucker.
“The favor isn’t for you to charm anyone,” he says, like he’s still trying to sound amused. “The favor’s for you to be present and not bite anyone’s head off. I’m not about to bargain for impossibilities.”
“Four hours of politeness is a lot to ask in exchange for five minutes of small talk,” I point out, ignoring the rest. I’m aware that charm isn’t one of my strengths and don’t wish to discuss it further.
“Consider it an exchange for springing it on me with no warning in front of that jackass,” he says.
More silence.
“How do—”
“Why was—”
We both start and stop at the same time. Look at each other. Silas makes an irritated you first gesture, and I press my knuckles into the wall again.
“He’s my ex,” I say.
“Didn’t end well?”
“No,” I tell him. “You?”
He looks like he might ask another question, then decides he doesn’t care.
“We served together,” he says.
“You did?” I ask, and I’m surprised despite myself. I knew they were both in the Marines, but I never realized it was at the same time and I never realized they knew each other. Evan refused to talk about it in anything other than bland, patriotic platitudes, and it’s not as if I’ve exchanged more than a handful of sentences with Silas since college.
“Unfortunately,” he says.
Fine. I’m curious. I’m curious enough that I consider asking one more question, but then decide to return his favor.
“All right,” I say, because someone has to say something, but apparently that’s not it because silence falls between us again until Silas sighs.
Then he tosses his phone toward me, and instead of catching it I accidentally bat it toward the steps.
“Jesus,” he mutters.