Page 17

“Oh. Hey…” I look at the time. “You’re home kind of early.”

“Sorry to interrupt your alone time.”

I can’t tell if he’s annoyed with me or maybe it has something to do with work, but between trying to fight my attraction to him and trying to figure out his mood swings, it's too much for me. I had planned on staying up to have dinner with him, but I didn't think that maybe he wouldn't want to have dinner with me. Instead of waiting around to find out, I chicken out, gather my things, and start heading towards the stairs to my room.

“Did you eat?” His voice surprises me.

“Yes,” I lie.

“And then did you spit it back out and put it perfectly on this plate?” He holds out the two plates of food Rosa left for us.

I roll my eyes so hard I can hear my mom telling me‘They’re going to get stuck like that”. “You just seemed like maybe you weren't in the mood for company tonight, so I was just going to head back to my room.”

The crease between his eyebrow deepens but the corner of his lip pulls up ever so slightly as he starts reheating both plates. “You're not company, Camila. Have a seat.”

Sitting across from Miles while we eat our dinner in silence together might actually kill me. Next time I will gladly choose to starve to death in my room before I choose to listen to the sounds of our silverware hitting the plates and our silent chewing. I can’t take it anymore.

“Tell me something,” I blurt out.

I'm met with a blank stare.

“I mean, I know you're apparently some kind of big shot lawyer, you prefer a minimalist design aesthetic, and I think you might be a runner.” I squint, pointing my fork at him. “But other than that, I don't really know anything about you. Tell me something about yourself.” When he hesitates, I’m about to give up and excuse myself from this awful dinner.

“I’m thirty-six, I went to Stanford Law School, the designaestheticis called Japandi and I hate cats.”

With my eyebrows practically in my hairline, but somehow unable to keep the smile off my face, I say, “Wow. You really dug deep there, Mr. Cameron.”

He tilts his head and his face is a mix between confusion and annoyance.

I hold my hands up in mock surrender, shaking my head. “I don't know if I can handle that kind of info dump. You're getting a littletoopersonal for me here.”

I swear I can see a smile start to crack.

“Alright, smartass. Let’s talk about you.”

I fold my arms on the table in front of me, as if to challenge him. “Unlike you, I can tell you about myself without sounding like I’m at a job interview.”

He swipes his hand out as if to sayplease, enlighten me.

“Well, where do I even begin?” I smile. “I’m twenty-seven, an Aries, I grew up in Miami, I have a younger brother, I like art…” I’m ticking things off each of my fingers now.

“So you're an artist? What do you do, finger painting?”

“No,”I say, dramatically. “I didn't say I liked to create my own art. Not that I didn't try when I was younger,” I admit. “But a few too many flower vases that came out looking like bongs told me to just stick to appreciating art and stop trying myself.”

Ever the talkative one he just nods and motions for me to continue.

“Let's see, I'm an enneagram two, my three items if I’m stuck on a deserted island are sunscreen, a knife, and a hammock. Oh, and my favorite foods are breakfast pastries.”

“Breakfast pastries?”

“Yeah, you know? Croissants, scones, muffins…pain au chocolat?” I sound like the evil French villain in a kids movie. “I could eat any and all kinds for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and be happy.”

Miles puts his fork down and leans on his forearms across the table to match me. “Well, asinsightfulas this has been…”

“Knowing my sign alone gives you more information than you gave me,” I interrupt.

“Knowing your enema or whatever,” he waves his hand around, “and your sign means nothing to me. I don't even know my own sign,” he says.