Still Life with Shape-shifter by Sharon Shinn Read Free Book Online Page A

really seem like you’re listening, if you really seem like you care.”
    Not me,
I want to reply, but in fact I can already tell that’s not true. He
is
easy to confide in. He
does
seem like he wants to hear what I have to say. It’s seductive. Which is annoying. My voice is a little crisp as I say, “That’s not what I meant. How do you treat your friends? Your girlfriends? Are you patient? Do you compromise? Or do you just shrug things off and walk away?”
    It’s a moment before he answers, and I think maybe it’s because I’ve offended him. I don’t really care. He’s pushed a lot of my buttons in the short time since I met him; seems only fair that I push a few of his. But when he answers, he doesn’t sound irritated, exactly.
    “You keep asking me questions like this, I’m going to start asking a few of my own,” he says.
    “You don’t get to ask me questions,” I reply. “Those were the conditions under which I agreed to have dinner with you.”
    “I don’t get to ask you questions on a certain topic,” he agrees. “But all bets are off when we start delving into personal relationships and how we handle them.”
    Now I’m smiling. “So? How do you break up with a girl? Do you buy her roses and apologize and explain that it’s all your fault, you just misunderstood your feelings? Or do you move all your stuff out one day while she’s at work and send her a text message to let her know it’s over?”
    “So far I’ve been more dumpee than dumper, so I have a hard time answering that question.”
    I know my expression is incredulous. “Yeah, I don’t believe that for a minute.”
    He looks genuinely surprised. “Don’t believe what? That someone would break up with me?” Now he looks astonished. “And is that a
compliment
?”
    I’m grinning widely. “Come on. You’re a good-looking guy. You have to know that—you can’t be ugly and be a TV reporter.”
    “Wait, so, are you insulting me now? Like the
only
reason someone would stay with me is because I’m good-looking?”
    “You’re cute. You’ve got a great job, or at least you used to. You’re fun to talk to. You don’t seem—at least as far as I can tell after knowing you for two hours—like you have some dreadful social defect. I mean, on the surface, you’d seem like a great catch. Not the kind of guy women generally break up with. So either you’re a real jerk when it comes to relationship stuff, or you’re lying when you say girls break up with you.”
    He’s laughing and shaking his head. “You’re funny,” he says. “I wasn’t expecting that.”
    Our food arrives before I have a chance to decide how I feel about that assessment. The platters are massive—mounds of green beans and mashed potatoes almost obscuring my meat loaf, a humongous salad and three dinner rolls accompanying Brody’s chicken pot pie. Sometimes I leave with half the meal in a to-go box, the sensible thing to do. Sometimes I eat every bite. Screw it.
    We suspend conversation for a few moments while we both make serious inroads into our dinners. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was, but then I remember that my flat tire ensured that I didn’t make it out for lunch. I think I had breakfast, but it’s a pretty distant memory. And I love Corinna’s meat loaf platter. The beans come straight from a can, but the mashed potatoes are made from scratch, and the ground beef is smothered in ketchup and some unidentifiable sauce, maybe canned gravy. Who cares? It tastes wonderful.
    “This is the best pot pie I’ve had in ten years,” Brody says when he finally stops eating long enough to make an observation. “I’m coming back every night and ordering the same thing.”
    “Every night?” I repeat, looking up from my food. “How often do you plan to be in Dagmar?”
    He smiles. “Hey, I haven’t given up on getting you to talk to me sometime. Not tonight, of course, but maybe in a few days. Or a few weeks. You never know.”
    “Yeah,