Page 187 of Tech Bros

I have more than a dozen of those. Lmk if you want to see the rest.

I’m honestly not sure I could take it. Wiping my cheeks and getting myself together, I go back into the living room. I’m not at all expecting the lingering, slightly heated up and down appraisal he gives me. I’m about to have a seat in the chair when he pats the cushion beside him. “Come look,” he says.

Do I just pretend I didn’t just read his unfiltered innermost thoughts about me?

He stares up at me expectantly.

“You can share it with me,” I say, my voice surprisingly steady.

“It’s right here.”

I ease myself down on the couch next to him, keeping my distance. He tilts the laptop in my direction. On the screen is the home page for the software. “Try it out.”

I have to shift a little closer to start clicking through it. My forearm grazes his. I ignore the chills that break out on my arm and quickly spread to cover my entire body. “It works,” I say in surprise and relief.

“I had some ideas for how to collapse and expand some things and add some personalization features,” he says, his voice low and quiet.

“I already know how I want to personalize it, but this looks great.”

“I mean, at least it’s working.”

“I guess I have to give you co-writer credit now.”

“No, you had everything in there already. You just had a bunch of stuff that didn’t belong anymore.”

I take my hand off his keyboard and sit back. “Thanks. This would have taken me another month.”

“I told you I’d help.”

I can feel him looking at me, but I can’t make myself look up at him. I stare at the screen. At his hand. The familiar light tapping of his fingers.

“What song is that?” I ask.

“Hm?”

“It’s like you’re always playing a piano. It has a rhythm.”

“Oh. Um. It’s Bach. Minuet in G.”

“Why that one?”

“That’s kind of like asking why I always put my right leg into my pants first. It’s the dominant one.”

I don’t know why, but I get it. “Did you play piano?”

“Briefly.”

“I was the nerd with the clarinet. Also briefly. I wasn’t good enough to make the marching band. Do you know the whole song?” I ask.

Deacon holds out his hand. “Give me your arm.”

My mouth goes dry, but I hold out my arm. He takes my left hand in his, and with the fingers and thumb of his right hand, he plays the song on my forearm, humming softly as he goes. It’s an upbeat tune for the most part, not as melancholy as I expected.

“How old were you?” I whisper as he plays, each touch setting a new group of cells on fire.

“Ten when I quit.”

“You learned this when you wereten?”