Familiar Strangers

Saved Names

I needed information—and the only way to get it was from Antonio himself.

Not directly, of course. That would raise questions. Antonio didn’t strike me as a man who enjoyed being interrogated.

So I’d have to be subtle. Casual. Curious but not obvious.

I straightened on the couch, already planning my approach.

If Antonio had business with Mr. Tumble, I needed to know why.

And more importantly… how deep it went.

I grabbed my phone and searched for news on The Johnsons. Nothing. Nothing that relates to any business of mine. But then again Antonio was a low-key man. The media only ever knew what he allowed them to know.

Which meant one thing.

I’d still have to talk to him.

As I racked my brain for an approach, the sound of a car pulling in reached my ears. Showtime.

I quickly switched the TV to a business news channel, adjusting the volume just enough to hear what was being discussed at any distance around here. That's to create a topic of discussion. Then I stood and walked—nonchalantly—toward the kitchen just as Antonio strode in.

“Oh, hello. Welcome,” I said brightly.

He stopped. Looked at me. Paused.

I smiled.

One thing about Antonio that truly vexed me was this—why was greeting him always a solo performance? I’d say hello, and he’d respond with a look. Or a hum. Or silence. To be fair, he’d improved lately… but still.

Like now.

I’d just greeted him and he was staring at me again.

Wait.

My smile stiffened slightly.

Did he see me at Riverdale?

…He didn’t, right?

I hope not.

“Hi,” he finally responded.

I continued my nonchalant walk to the kitchen and decided to shoot my shot. “Do you care for a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice?” I asked.

To my surprise, he replied—of course—with a hum.

Tch…

I moved to the counter, picked out a few oranges, washed them, and set them aside, while Antonio settled into his seat behind me.

Just as I was about to start squeezing, I glanced around for my phone. Jackson might call—I still needed to update him about my meeting with Mr. Tumble. But my phone was nowhere in sight. I must have left it on the couch.

I turned to Antonio. “Could you please help me get my phone from the couch?”

He looked up, then stood and went to check. Surprising—but then again, I asked. If he’d ignored me, I would’ve mentally cursed him out.

I turned back to set the squeezer when his voice came from behind me.

“It’s not here.”

“Check between the cushions,” I said. “Or move the throw pillows.”

The very next second, my phone rang.

I turned—and froze.

Antonio stood there holding both my phone and his. So he had been too lazy to search so he opted to call it.

I went back to the counter, pretending nothing had happened.

“You saved my name as Humming Man,” he said.

I spun around. He was suddenly just a few steps away.

When did he get here?

Startled, I dropped the sliced orange in my hand and reached for my phone, but Antonio took a step back.

“You saved my name as Humming Man,” he repeated.

What was his problem? Why was he reacting like I’d committed a crime?

“Yes,” I said calmly. “If you haven’t noticed—which you clearly haven’t—you hum a lot. I say hello or good morning, and your reply is usually hmm or mmh.”

“I said hi back earlier,” he replied, a frown forming on his forehead.

“You’re getting better,” I said generously. “But it’s rare. Take it or leave it. You don’t even want to know what I saved your name as before.”

The frown deepened. “What did you save it as before?”

Jerk, I answered inwardly.

Aloud, I said, “If we’re doing this, can I know what you saved me as?”

Before he could reply, I continued, “Don’t tell me you saved me as Marissa Joel. I’d be grateful if it isn't Miss Marissa Joel.”

I stared at him.

For a split second, his pupils flickered.

“Oh my God,” I gasped. “You saved me as Miss Marissa Joel.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” he asked.

“At least I thought we were close enough to give you a nickname,” I shot back. “But you’re still being formal with me. I thought we were making progress. Almost becoming friends.”

I put on my best wounded expression.

“What kind of logic is that? You could not have found a better name?” he asked flatly.

“It works,” I said firmly. “It’s both a nickname and a way to hide your identity.”

Before he could respond, I snatched my phone from his hand.

I turned back to my task, determined to ignore him, but I could feel Antonio’s gaze boring into my back. Why was this man so pressed over a name? Of all things. It should mean absolutely nothing to him. I kept my face neutral and worked in silence.

When I was done, I poured the juice into two glass cups and carried them over to the counter—where Antonio had chosen to sit.

Not the dining table. The counter.

I doubt he has ever sat in that spot before. I guess he needed the perfect spot—one close enough to watch me properly.

To bore holes into me, apparently.

Earlier, I had no issue at all with the way he saved my name. I just felt like teasing him—and, somehow, slipping out of that moment before it got too intense. So I turned it around.

Heh. Heh. Heh…

Oh, how I loved getting reactions out of him.

But just as I placed the glass in front of him—ready to sit down and start digging for information—he downed the drink in one go, set the glass aside, and stood up to leave.

I blinked, staring after him, utterly perplexed.