“—never planned on it for a living,” he said. “People didn’t do that around here.”
Then came Ivy’s voice, off camera. “But you did.”
“Well, someone’s got to be first to buck the trend,” Clyde said with a shrug. “Might as well be me.”
“And Henrikson? He was part of that as well?”
I felt Theo lean closer to my ear, his voice low. “That’s Dale Henrikson. Abstract painter, worked mostly in the late nineteen fifties. Very well esteemed, until he lost his tenured position at Cal Arts after a scandal involving a student who was a minor at the time. He ended up teaching Clyde here at Weymar.”
I nodded. “Right.”
“Not that he,” Clyde was saying on the screen now, “was exactly at the height of his own career. I didn’t know that, though. Had no idea who he was. Only ended up in that class because welding was full.”
“You wanted to be a welder?”
“I wanted to be anything but a farmer. And I liked fire.”
I felt Theo shift. When I turned to look at him, he was grinning. “See that?” he said, nodding at the screen. “You can just see him warming up. It’s golden.”
He rewound the clip again, and we both watched Clyde move in reverse, taking back these words. “So it went well,” I said.
“Oh, yeah. Ivy was really happy. And she’s never happy.” He paused the tape again, then pushed back from the table. “And you know what? I’m happy, too.”
“Yeah?”
He nodded. “Sure. You’re here.”
I felt myself blush, then redden even more as I realized it. Theo might have been dorky in some ways, but he’d already emoted more than Luke had in our first three months of dating. Maybe it was true: outside of Colby, everything and everyone moved faster.
As if to emphasize this, Theo leaned in and brushed my hair back. He was just leaning in closer when I said, “What time is it, exactly?”
He sighed, then looked at the computer screen. “I had a feeling you might point that out. Eleven forty-six. And thirty seconds.”
“So,” I said, “it’s not tomorrow.”
“Not technically, no.” He sat back in his chair. “Although if we were in Australia, I could make a compelling argument for us to have been together long enough to be engaged.”
I raised my eyebrows, startled at this. Clearly I wasn’t the only one. Even in the dark, I could see him redden. “Well,” I said, swallowing. “I guess it’s a good thing we’re here, then. Because that would be crackers.”
“Be what?”
I cleared my throat. “Crackers. You know, crazy. Insane.”
“I’ve never heard that term before,” he commented.
“I’m pretty sure it’s a Morris original.”
“A what?’
“Never mind.” I looked at the clock again. “Anyway, you do make a good point. Time is relative, right? At least in physics. What’s fourteen minutes, really, in the great scheme of things?”
“Thirteen,” he corrected me, nodding at the clock.
I snapped my fingers. “Exactly.”
At this, he grinned, and I found myself smiling back. He had one of those faces, so wide and open that whatever expression he made, you couldn’t help but mirror it. “No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re right. Demarcation is important. We’ll just keep busy until midnight.”
I looked around the dark room. “Doing . . . ?”
“Whatever it is platonic friends who have no romantic involvement yet do together,” he said.
“Like watch the clock and discuss physics?”
“It’s worked so far.”
We sat there for a moment, in silence. Finally he said, “Well, that was a short run.”
“Totally,” I agreed. “We make awful platonic friends.”
“It’s a good thing we only have to do it for another eleven minutes.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and studied me. “Maybe it’s just that we don’t know each other all that well yet. Tell me something about yourself.”
“What?” I replied.
“Anything.”
I just looked at him.
“What’s your favorite condiment?”
“Condiment?” I asked. “You have everything in the world to choose from and you ask me that?”
“Look, all I really want to do is kiss you. And I can’t for another—” He glanced at the clock. “Ten minutes. I’m doing my best.”
“Fine. It’s mustard.”
He cocked his head to the side. “Mustard? Really.”
“What’s so surprising about mustard?”
“I don’t know,” he said, with a shrug. “I kind of figured you for a ketchup girl.”
“Why?”
“Not sure. Just a hunch.”
I rolled my eyes. “What’s yours?”
“Soy sauce,” he said, without missing a beat. “I can eat it on anything. Even ice cream.”
“That,” I said, “is disgusting.”
“I disagree, but we’ll move on,” he replied. “Favorite room in the house?”
“Bedroom,” I replied. “I like to sleep. You?”
“I’m into cooking. Kitchen.”