"You still want to get groceries and do your laundry?" he asked when we got to my apartment.
It smelled slightly musty from being shut up all day; I went around opening windows, making him wait for an answer. It had been his idea; I didn't know why he was pretending it was mine.
"I was going to cook tonight, remember?" he prodded.
"Okay," I said at last, because really, I wasn't good at giving the cold shoulder at the best of times, and certainly wasn't now. I gathered up my laundry, and we headed back out.
Mrs. Tallent tried to engage us in conversation, her eyes bright with speculative curiosity, but I hurried us past, saying we had to go before the laundromat shut.
"Do laundromats shut around here?" he asked once we were in the car.
"No, of course not."
"Good. I knew it was a small town, but I didn't think it was that small."
"Laundromats don't close anywhere," I told him irritably. "At least, I don't think so. I'm just terrible at lying on the spot."
"I guess that's not your talent, then," he said, a note of teasing in his voice.
But I refused to be drawn into more speculation on the topic. It was starting to seem silly, and worse, all this talk about getting an amazing and cool talent had made me get my hopes up. That can be a particular kind of pain all on its own, and I was determined not to make it worse.
He waited while I got the laundry started, then we went over to the grocery store together. It was because of the whole bodyguard thing; he couldn't exactly leave me at the laundromat to scowl at my washing while he waltzed off elsewhere. But it still had that intimate, date-like feel to me, try as I might to suppress it.
I suppose nobody actually goes on a date to the laundromat and the grocery store, but what I mean is, it felt intimate in the relaxed sort of way that's almost better than a formal date, with everybody stressing about appearance and impressing each other. I couldn't cling to my sour mood when we were walking down aisles together, him pointing out various interesting items and asking me what I wanted for supper.
"I dunno. You pick," I said, because I wasn't feeling in the mood to poke at him by demanding something expensive — or worse, having him take me seriously and think I was the demanding sort.
I'm not. Demanding, that is. Sure, I like attention as much as the next guy, but I'm pretty low maintenance, overall. I'd be a great boyfriend, really...
Dammit.
In the end, he got the ingredients for a meal of crab cakes, baked potatoes, and asparagus, and I picked up a few things from my grocery list. Milk, cereal, some fruit, peanut butter, and bread.
We checked out separately; his one-meal total was more than I spent on my entire grocery shopping, which again reminded me of the vast distances that actually separated us, despite the forced and false intimacy of this. I could tell I was on my way to making myself downright miserable, so I tried again to push it to the background and focus on being reasonable, calm, maybe even happy.
Back at the laundromat, there was clothing to be transferred to dryers, and then we sat down on the bench next to each other, waiting, and I pulled out my cell phone to read. I couldn't help adding, though, "I'm sorry you have to waste your time like this. I'm sure you're used to doing much more interesting things."
"You'd be surprised." He nudged me gently with his shoulder.
I swallowed a sigh. Hot and nice. You'd make someone a great boyfriend, I thought. I forced my attention back to my e-book. I definitely hadn't been lying about how important reading was to me, and soon I was absorbed and feeling a bit better for the escape. I'd get through this. Someday, I'd look back fondly on my hopeless crush, and anyway, it really was a lot more interesting than my usual life.
When the clothes were done, he helped me fold, just as friendly and cheerful as ever. He even smiled at me while he was folding one of my t-shirts. So domestic. I managed to get to my underwear first, so at least I was spared the sight of him folding them. Not sure I could have borne that.
We headed home — to my home, that is — and I couldn't bear to watch TV with him tonight, so I lent him my netbook and told him I was too tired to stay up. I fell asleep tormented by the sound of a Mr. Bean flick, turned very low.
He was probably enjoying it more without me, anyway.
#
A gentle hand on the shoulder shook me awake. "Drew?" It was Neal. He pulled back as soon as I gave that first startled jerk of wakefulness. "I'm sorry to bother you," he said, and he really did sound sorry.
I blinked up at him, fuzzy without my glasses, leaning over my bed. It appeared to be morning, but very, very early. This was definitely a work face, not a seduction face. Too bad. I'd have liked it better if he'd been disturbing me for other reasons.
"What is it?" I asked. The sheet slipped down to my waist as I sat up groggily. There was nothing seductive about it: I was wearing a t-shirt and pajama trousers, about as un-sexy as it gets, but he paused for a second anyway, as if I wasn't quite decent.
I took the opportunity to rub my eyes and fumble for my glasses. I'm sure my hair was a mess, and at that half-asleep moment, I was terribly embarrassed about that.
He spoke after a moment. "I got a call from the ESRB. You won't be going in to work. We need to go and see them."
"Is something wrong?" I looked up at him, eyes widening as I started getting worried.
His smile was gentle as he put a hand on my shoulder and gave me a tiny shake. "You're getting your ability test after all."
As soon as I was awake enough not to panic, he told me the rest of it. Over breakfast. Which he had cooked. He really would be someone's perfect boyfriend.
If only.
"Your danger rating was upgraded to a level four. That's still pretty low, but having it change like that in only two days was enough to bump you up a priority level. Apparently, they've been thinking along the same lines we were, because you're to come in today for a test, in case you have some hidden talent."
He smiled like he was proud, like he knew I'd be pleased. But I couldn't help feeling there was a hidden catch somewhere.
"Are they going to explain it to my boss? Because I can't afford to lose this job unless something better comes around really quick." Student loans, I wanted to tell him, not to mention eating and not being homeless.
"I made a call. She already knows about the protection detail, and it wasn't hard to explain that things have changed. I didn't get the feeling she'd hold it against you. This is hardly your fault. If there's any trouble, I'll put you in touch with the ESRB legal team, and they can put a shoulder to any door that slams shut for you because of us."
"Okay." I finished eating, starting to get more excited the further awake I was. I've never been a particularly amazing morning person, but as I started to feel more like myself, the excitement rose in me. I really was going to get tested, then. All our "spitballing" had had a note of reality. It was pretty amazing, actually.
I wondered what they'd test me for, and if there was any chance of me actually having a talent. How could I, though, without learning about it sooner? I'd done a little more research in my spare moments yesterday, and I hadn't seen anything that even remotely hinted that people developed abilities later in life. Nope, it seemed to be that you were born with what you were born with, and there was no making it stronger or getting rid of it. Sometimes, people weren't discovered till later in life — and there was lots of rampant speculation about historical figures who might or might not have had some hidden talent, back before the ESRB classified people — but nobody actually woke up one morning with a talent who hadn't had one already, apparently. If I did, I'd be the first one.
That meant my talent (if I actually had one — definitely no guarantee there), was either so weird, or so rare, or so inconsequential that no one had guessed in my entire lifetime that there was anything at all different or talented about me (including me).
It was a bit depressing, but I tried to hold out hope. Even if I couldn't do
anything cool and amazing, if there was a better job out there for me, boring talent or not, I'd take it. I didn't hate my job or my boss, but let's face it, I wasn't exactly getting ahead in life working at the bookstore and barely scraping by financially. I could use a good job. I could even use an adequate job. I could definitely do with a move to a town with better prospects for a young, average-looking gay man whose experience was generally "useless crushes on straight dudes." I didn't want to die with that accounting for most of my experience.
Not that I actually seemed in danger of dying, but you never know. Especially since I'd been upgraded to a "four" on the danger zone, whatever that meant in practicality.
Still, Neal didn't seem actually worried, just excited for me. I didn't get the sense that he was faking that. (If he had been, and I'd known, would that have meant I had some low-level empath stuff going on?)
So, I got ready, packed a bag, and headed out with him, unable to shake the sense of unreality, that I was just going through the motions, not quite connected to reality. Maybe my talent was disassociation. The amazing distractible bookstore clerk: he's so not-with-it, he's literally not with it.
It was a bit of a drive to the airport, where an honest-to-goodness small airplane took us, without waiting or searches or tickets, into the sky. It was pretty exciting. I hadn't ever been on a small plane before, and it felt very VIP and also more connected to the actual experience of flying than being on a commercial airline ever had.
I spent most of the flight looking out the window, and Neal was nice enough not to laugh at me.
He was pretty relaxed about the whole thing, but I guessed he'd flown a lot in his life, and by his own admission, protection jobs were usually a lot more exciting and dangerous for him. This was all probably a cakewalk, although he was nice enough to put the effort in to be pleasant and encouraging. Also, I suspected he liked being right that I might have some kind of talent; his ideas hadn't been a shot in the dark, but rather an educated guess.
When we got to the airport, a very plain blue four-door car at least ten years old met us, the driver looking bored. Neal and the driver exchanged looks at their IDs, nods, and then Neal and I were driven to a long, low gray building in the middle of nowhere. I was disappointed it was even more rural than my hometown; there were fields on either side of the building.
Neal saw me looking and explained. "It's not the only ESRB building," he said. "Just the closest where you can be tested properly."
"It looks like a warehouse, or a research place, not somewhere people actually go."
"I think it is mostly research," he said. "Some of the facilities are a lot more exciting. But, really, how exciting does a testing area have to be?"
"Pretty damned exciting," I told him. "I'll probably be back at the bookstore tomorrow, and I'll only have a few memories of this. I'd like it to be a bit more 'wow' than 'warehouse in the middle of cornfields.'"
He laughed softly. "I'll try to wrangle an extra day for you, even if there's nothing. Besides, you've still got me."
There was nothing to say to that. He really should have listened to how he sounded. It did my poor heart no good to hear such things and know they weren't even remotely true.
Get your act together, Drew! Get over this stupid crush.
Maybe I should just come on to him, like, really strongly, and end things one way or another. Either we'd have sex and I'd get him out of my system (though that seemed wildly optimistic on both counts: both the sex and getting out of my system), or he'd be so disgusted and annoyed with me that I'd have to get over it. But I couldn't bear to be so crass, or to risk losing his friendliness and his good opinion of me. I'd rather just live through it the best I could. One got over crushes eventually, after all, and I'd rather not do it the hard way.
Inside, I had to show ID, sign in, and wait in a waiting room for a bit. Neal sat beside me, his steady, calm presence comforting as I began to grow more and more nervous. I knew I obviously couldn't influence the outcome of these tests, so getting nervous didn't help, but it felt less like an opportunity just now and more like being sprung an unexpected final on the day you thought you were going home for spring break.
Well. I'd survive, either way. At least, that was what I tried to tell my jittery self as I waited to be called. But the fact was, this was my last chance. I shouldn't have gotten my hopes up, and then that fact wouldn't be stressing me out now. But I had, and it was.
Neal put an arm around my shoulders. "You'll be fine. Whatever happens."
I was tempted to ask him for a kiss for luck, but that would really be pushing what was left of mine. He was just being a bro, I reminded myself. He didn't have any idea what he was doing to me when he was caring, and nice, and supportive. At least, I hoped he didn't, because that would be kind of cruel.
"Mr. Palmer?" said a man in a white lab coat, wearing tortoiseshell rimmed glasses and looking very much the scientist stereotype. He had sandy hair that needed to be combed, and he'd even remembered to bring a clipboard.
I shot to my feet. "That's me."
The clipboard didn't seem to be ceremonial, though, because he actually consulted it several times before we ended up in a very plain room that reminded me of a doctor's office. Neal followed along nearly silently, and, although he offered to wait outside for the exam, I said it was okay with me if he stayed. The sandy-haired man (who introduced himself as Mr. Shapiro — still working on his doctorate in extrasensory studies) didn't object and went right into his spiel.
"I'm going to run you through some simple tests to narrow down any possible abilities you might have. Try not to over-think or strain yourself. Simply follow the directions to the best of your ability. You can always re-take the test in future if needed."
I was pretty sure he was just saying that so I'd stop being so nervous. (It didn't work.) There was no way they'd waste more time on me if I flunked this. Stop thinking of it as flunked!
Neal's calm and steady presence kept me going, though — I didn't want to look like a nervous wreck in front of him.
The first few tests were fairly simple and clearly not something I was going to pass. Mr. Shapiro did things like pointing to cards face-down on a table and asking me what suit they were, and asking slightly more confusing questions about what the odds were of it being a certain card. I couldn't even do that one till he told me just to guess a number and not think about it too hard.
He made notes for every test. It seemed like something that should take more than one person to administer, to me, since these were seriously important abilities. But then, if I'd had them, we'd probably also know by now. The not-a-doctor's manner was comfortable and relaxed, like this was just a routine checkup. Pretty soon I did begin to calm down a bit, lulled by the undramatic ordinariness of it.
He asked me a couple of the same questions Neal had, which made me think Neal had been evaluated at some point using this same method. I glanced at Neal when Mr. Shapiro asked me if I'd ever turned invisible. Neal shrugged, his expression friendly and half-apologetic.
"And have you ever healed from a wound very quickly?" Shapiro made a note on his clipboard at my answer.
A glass of water with a thermometer placed on the exam table was next. "Try to alter the temperature of this water by concentrating."
I tried. The thermometer didn't move. He recorded the temp before and after without judgment or disappointment.
"Can you guess the number I'm thinking of?" he said next. "Focus only on me and the number."
I glanced at Neal to see if this was real. A mind-reading test by guessing numbers. I guessed, why should it be any more complicated than that?
I licked my lips. "Do you mean, like, guess a number between one and one hundred?"
"No, any number. No parameters."
O-kay. That wasn't going to be accidentally passed in a hurry. By this point, I knew he just wanted me to guess if I didn't know. "Uh, thirty-eight?"
He wrote something on the clipboard.
"It wasn't thirty-eight, was it?"
"No." He gave me a brief smile. "You're doing just fine. We have a few more tests, and then you can take a break."
I wasn't tired, but okay.
"Can you tell me the history of this item?" He placed a small coin on the table. "Any strong impression you receive upon touching it."
I reached out hesitantly, but it just felt cool to the touch and like a coin. I told him as much.
"No guesses?"
My normally inventive imagination chose that moment to dessert me, of course, so I just shook my head.
Ability to know an item's history: zero. Ability to get hopeless crushes: ten.
Shapiro set down a padlock on the table. "Will you try to move this without touching it, please."
I tried. I thought very moveable thoughts, staring at the padlock as hard as I possibly could. He gave me two minutes, and we all watched the lock, none of us, I must say, with any real expectation. A cool power like that showing up during the test and only during the test would be a bit too much to hope for.
"Very good. Now, will you please open the lock for me?" He handed it to me, focusing back on his clipboard as he made another mark or two. I was rapidly running out of possibly cool and useful abilities, I thought disgustedly as I twisted the padlock open and handed it back.
Shapiro's gaze rose sharply, and for the first time, he looked surprised.
He covered it quickly and made a hurried note on the exam sheet. He put his clipboard down, closed the padlock, and handed it back. "Open it again."
I did, trying not to feel like this was a waste of time. That startled look had spooked me a bit, though. Had we skipped a step? Maybe he was supposed to actually lock it first.
"Excellent." He moved to a drawer and rummaged around before coming back with three more locked items. I was starting to get the picture that the lock hadn't been open — or he thought it hadn't. But he was getting his hopes up for nothing, because it had clearly been either unlocked or broken. I hadn't done anything to it.
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