I nod.

“Yeah, so I left the dumb plans out in the shed and I didn’t even realize it. Then, I come out to get them, not wanting them to get wet in the rain, then I lock my keys in the damn truck! I mean, what the hell is the matter with me?!” He shrugs an exaggerated shrug.

I give him a sympathetic smile.

But something’s not right.

He’s too emphatic. There’s something stagy about this presentation. Something rehearsed.

He’s tap-dancing. Around the truth.

I know what that looks like. I’ve done it six ways to sundown since I was fourteen. Tap-dancing about where I was last night. Tap-dancing about who I was supposed to be with. Tap-dancing about why I didn’t get home before midnight.

“But, it doesn’t matter now, I guess.” He shrugs again.

“Yeah? And why’s that?”

“Well, I’m just happy to get to see you.” He nods.

“Excuse me?” I freeze.

“Happy to be alone with you. Finally.”

There are so many things that I wish could happen right now. I wish that my feet could move backward, but somehow they cannot. I wish my mouth could find the perfect words to end this conversation, but somehow it cannot. I wish I could go back one minute ago, to the time before I opened the door . . . but, of course, I cannot.

“Don’t look so stressed. You look so stressed out!” He goes back to being friendly again. A great, big, bright, freckly smile. “You have to learn to relax. Smile. You should smile more, I think.”

My throat constricts with fear, making speech impossible.

“Look.” He takes a step forward. “No worries. Just think of it like this. We were supposed to have a meeting tomorrow night and now we are having that same meeting tonight. See? No problem,” he explains.

There’s an energy in his bearing, a slingshot pulled back, ready to snap. I instinctively feel he will lunge.

I try to dissipate that energy.

“I was just thinking. Maybe we could talk about this tomorrow . . . I mean, didn’t you say you wanted to show me the blueprints . . . ?” I suggest. “I really want to see the blueprints, and you don’t have them right now, so . . . maybe we could—”

“Oh, no. No, no no no no. We are not ‘tabling’ this for tomorrow. Isn’t that the kind of thing you people say? Tabling?” he asks.

You people?

“I don’t know. I don’t really—”

“Never mind. I don’t care.” He relaxes a bit, leaning slightly against the wooden doorway. “You know, I just realized, you never told me where you’re from.”

I stay silent.

“Sooooo . . . missy. Where are you from? Don’t be impolite now.” He tilts his head.

“I’m from Nebraska.”

“Ah! Folks live there?” he asks, casual.

“My grandmother lives there,” I answer.

“Ah, no folks then. What happened to your folks? Did you run ’em off?”

I’m silent.