The Trouble With Flirting by Claire LaZebnik Page B

it,” Lawrence says morosely. His relationship with roommate Raymond has taken a downturn—notonly did they decide that there was no romantic future there but now they can’t even stand each other. Apparently Raymond is a pig who won’t empty the trash can, not even when it’s his turn and not even when he’s just clipped his toenails into it, in front of all his roommates. “Toenail clipping is the enemy of love,” Lawrence said when he told me that story.
    “Let’s stay single together,” I tell him now. “We have each other—who needs romance?”
    “Not I,” Lawrence says. A beat. “Well, maybe I a little bit.”
    “I a little bit too,” I admit.
    “Mind if I sit here?” Harry takes the empty chair next to me before I even respond. He’s been doing that all week: sitting next to me if he can. It’s fine with me; he makes me laugh. And whenever he says something at all coy or flirtatious, I shoot him a look, and usually the next thing he says is normal again.
    Julia’s not thrilled about our growing friendship. “I thought you didn’t trust him!” she says to me a little while later when we’re both waiting in line for ice cream.
    “I don’t. But that doesn’t mean I don’t like him.”
    “Well, I think it’s strange that you’re always telling me how shallow and unreliable he is, and now he’s like your best friend.”
    I shrug and don’t say what I think, which is that it’s probably a relief for Harry to talk to someone who isn’t in love with him. Maybe he likes a break from the hard work ofliving up to his reputation.
    “It’s not like I care,” Julia says. “Personally, I mean. I’m over him.”
    “You are?” It’s news to me.
    “There’s this other guy in our cast . . .” And she launches into a description of Manny Yates, who’s playing a couple of different roles in Twelfth Night . He’s cute, he’s straight, he’s interested in her, and he’s more shy than flirtatious. “I’m done with guys who are in love with themselves,” she says. “I want someone who actually pays attention to me.”
    “Really? I want someone who doesn’t even know I’m alive.”
    The joke is wasted: Julia, as usual, barely registers my words. “Just don’t do anything stupid,” she says with all the superiority of someone who stopped doing stupid things a couple of days ago. At the most .
    Back at the table, Marie is in my chair.
    “Um,” I say, “I was sort of sitting there.”
    “Sorry,” Marie says, with an indifferent shrug. “Harry and I were going to try to run some lines right now. Do you mind switching?”
    “It’s fine.” I take my ice cream and water glass over to her former seat on the opposite side of the table, feeling vaguely annoyed: Harry could have made an effort to save my seat for me. But he’s Harry. Whichever way the wind blows . . .
    The wind blows him and Isabella and Vanessa off for a stroll together after dinner while the rest of us gather in frontof the dining hall.
    I’m soaking in the warm night air and my last few minutes of freedom before returning to the apartment—on Thursdays Amelia likes to watch The Real Housewives of Blahdy-blah-da while she and I do whatever hand-sewing work she’s brought home with her—when Alex comes over to me. “Hey, Franny.”
    “Cigarette break?” I nod after Harry, Vanessa, and Isabella’s retreating backs.
    He sighs. “She told me she wants to stop. The problem is, Harry’s always getting her to join him—”
    “You’re blaming him for her smoking?”
    “Well, he is her smoking buddy.”
    “He’s not exactly holding a gun to her head,” I snap.
    Alex draws his head back in surprise at my tone. His light blue eyes flit up to my face, then quickly dart away again. “Sorry. I guess I should be more careful what I say. Isabella told me that you and Harry—” He stops.
    “Isabella told you that me and Harry what ?”
    “You know,” he says, which by the way is the most maddening thing a