This question makes him uncomfortable, I see it in the way he shifts his position and breaks my gaze. Uncomfortable because he wants to get into my pants and figures offending me isn’t the best way to get there, or uncomfortable because he’s using my weaknesses to his advantage, and doesn’t want to tip his hand?
If it’s the latter, he’ll lie. Try to misdirect my attention to some weakness he doesn’t find useful, maybe something that isn’t even a weakness at all.
“I don’t think you’re weak. I told you, I think you’re strong as hell.”
“I know. I believe you. But every person, no matter how strong, has weaknesses. That’s part of being human. People are imperfect. What do you think mine are?”
“You don’t like football.”
I slant him a mildly unamused look. “I’m serious.”
“You steal all the flat wings and leave me with the drumsticks,” he states.
“That’s what you get for making me share. Come on, something real.”
He ignores me, as is his way. “Why are they called drumsticks, anyway? Drumsticks are long and skinny, they don’t look a thing like chicken legs.”
“I will Google it later,” I state, cocking an eyebrow. “Come on, Mahoney, answer my question. I promise not to feel attacked. I’m the one who initiated this conversation; I’m inviting you to answer my question. I won’t hold it against you, I just want to see myself through your eyes.”
“Fine.” He sits back in his seat, crossing his arms and meeting my gaze across the table. “I’m not complaining, I actually really like this about you, but I’ll label it a weakness because it makes you easy to take advantage of. You try too hard to see the good in people, which is weird as hell, because one of the things I like most about you is that you don’t seem to give a single fuck what anyone thinks of you. I’ve seen people bullied with far less venom than you have been fold under the scrutiny, but you sail through the halls like a queen, like we’re all beneath you, and our opinions legitimately don’t matter. People call you stuck-up, but you’re not stuck-up. You’re too nice to be stuck-up. I don’t know what you are. Well-insulated, maybe? Secure as hell in who you are? It’s awesome, but if you’re so isolated, so apart from the rest of us, why do you care so much about other people? Why aren’t you selfish? You should be selfish.”
“My flaw is that I’m not selfish enough?” I ask, skeptically.
“You’d be a hell of a lot safer from people who seek to hurt you if you were more selfish. You make yourself vulnerable. It’s not like you’re oblivious to the danger around you. You know you’re doing it, but you’re willing to; you’ll take that risk for someone else’s sake, to try to help them, even if they’ve never helped you.”
“Bravery,” I deadpan. “Bravery and unselfishness are my worst qualities? This isn’t a job interview. Don’t bullshit me, Carter.”
“I’m not bullshitting you,” he tells me. “I like your flaws, so maybe I’m putting a nicer spin on them. Someone who didn’t like you would probably call them something different. They’d say stuck up instead of secure, they’d call your bravery stupidity because they don’t have your guts. They’d put you down because they don’t like you, or they don’t like those things about you, but I do. They’re beneficial to me, because they’re the only reason you even talk to me, but… if pressed, that’s why I’d call them weaknesses.”
He regards me across the table to see how I’m taking this. When he sees I’m not offended, he goes on.
“Technically speaking, I’m someone you shouldn’t have let into your world. After our first interaction, you should’ve locked yourself away from me and barred all the doors, but instead you let me in to see what I’d do. You knew the danger I presented, but… I don’t know. You’re like the vet brave enough to tend to wounded animals even though they might bite you, because you know they’ve been hurt, and you know no one else will help them if you don’t. Those qualities are like chinks in your armor, but you know they’re there, and you don’t care to fix them. You’re willing to take a little damage to reach out to someone else.” He shrugs. “I don’t know, I like that about you, but you asked, so there it is.”
I like his comparison. I picture myself with a medical bag, coming across Carter Mahoney with an injured limb in the woods. “I can handle a few nips. I’ve got thick skin.”
“Exactly,” he says, smiling at me. It’s a real smile, not his golden boy bullshit smile, not his mischievous smirk. “It takes some serious balls to be that brave. Either you’ve never been hurt before, or you’ve got balls of steel; either way, I’ve never met anyone like you.”