Eleven
We’re a small town, but what we lack in population and industry, we make up for in sheer unbridled enthusiasm for celebrating every holiday possible. Santa’s village in December. The Lovers Festival in February. A huge Easter celebration where the fountain in the town square usually still has green water from St. Patrick’s Day. And tonight’s the Harvest Festival.
It’s exactly what it sounds like. The robust number of local farmers are about to harvest golden fields of corn, and we celebrate with carnival games, a corn maze that will be gone by next week, and whatever else we can set up under an inky October sky.
“Honey, you’re going to freeze without your coat. What were you thinking?” Momma fusses over me, rubbing the thin material between her fingers. A cool wind whips through the square, and I deeply regret the very sensible jacket I left at home in favor of this thin cardigan.
I grab a handful of caramel corn from Blue’s bag, ignoring the petulant “Hey” that was sure to follow. “I was thinking that this apple cardigan was the cutest possible thing to wear to a harvest festival, and that I don’t trust our local meteorologist nearly enough.” I stretch my arms out, the plump knitted fruit dancing down my arms.
Momma shakes her head, her hand tucked in the crook of Stu’s arm. “Where did my sensible girl go? I never thought you’d be the one to suffer for fashion.” We slowly walk down Main Street, the smell of pumpkin spice and funnel cake being the real indicator that fall has come to River Haven.
I throw a kernel of caramel corn in the air, catching it neatly in my mouth. “Well, I never intended to suffer, but that’s rich coming from the woman who owns no shoes flatter than a kitten heel.”
She picks a speck of lint off her wool trench coat. “That’s completely different. I’ll have you know that I have unnaturally high arches. Heels are comfortable.”
“It’s true,” Stu says, his face grim. “I make her wear socks to bed.” He leans closer to Blue. “Very unnatural.”
Momma swats his arm, but Blue giggles—the sound making my chest ache a little. It wasn’t too long ago she’d refuse to let go of my hand on a night like this. She hated the scarecrow decorations and would insist I point out every constellation I could remember and buy her no fewer than three candy apples.
I smile at her, inching closer, and she reluctantly holds out the caramel corn bag.
“Where’s the sweater from, Lo? I don’t recognize it.” She reaches out, petting one of the apples.
“Uh-uh,” I say, caramel coating my tongue. “Hands off.”
“Sisters are supposed to share.”
“I’ve shared plenty. I shared my family with you, my bathroom, and even my nose.”
“I have my own nose,” she says, eyes rolling.
I shrug. “It was mine first.” The pointed little tip is practically a copy/paste from my face to hers.
“Fine, I’ll let you borrow my new dress if I can wear that Monday.”
I grimace, because she couldn’t pay me to leave the house in cream-colored lace. She’s trying, though. “I’ll think about it.”
She falls in step with Momma, curling into her side, eyelashes fluttering. “Momma, can I go hang out with Whitney? I know the squad is here somewhere.”
“Go on.” Momma smiles, her lipstick a perfect match for her scarf. “Remember curfew, and call us if you need a ride home.”
She’s off in a blur of blond curls, jogging deeper into the maze of festival stalls. Her puffy pink jacket marks her progress through the crowd.
We get closer to the town square, and I spot Poppy and Odette hovering near the corner by the fountain. Odette is drowning in layers, and a small robot rests at Poppy’s feet.
“Happy reaping day!” Odette yells over the crowd. Heads swing in her direction.
“You know people get uncomfortable when you call it that!” I yell back.
“I suppose you’re going to abandon us too?” Stu slings an arm across my shoulders, rubbing my arm vigorously.
“I’m not going to freeze to death,” I say, smiling at his poor attempts to hide his concern. “And I promised Odette and Poppy we’d hang out tonight.”
The smallest white lie.
I don’t know what to call Ash. There is no title that would make sense, or at least that my parents would accept.
My professor in romance?
My life coach? I grin at the thought of calling him that to his face. Just to see his eyebrows bunch up in annoyance.
My friend? “Friend” is too loaded a word, and it would come with too many follow-up questions.
“Same rules,” Momma says, brushing a kiss on my cheek. Her perfume wraps around me like a hug.
“Take these.” Stu hands me oversized mittens. They’re big, but they’ll do the job. I put them on, because he’s watching, and they hang off my hands like boxing gloves.
“Thanks, guys,” I say, my voice soft. Ash’s beautiful, empty living room pops into my brain without warning. “I’ll see you at home.”
I watch them melt into the crowd before crossing the square.
“What’s the plan with Pumpkin?” I nod at the robot, shoving the mittens into my bag.
“It’s her first night out, and she wants to see everything.” Poppy’s Day-Glo orange coat matches the racing stripes on Pumpkin’s back.
“You fixed the steering issue?”
“Of course,” she says, snorting.
“What’s the plan with the Prince of Darkness?” Odette asks, sinking deeper into burgundy wool. The collar of her coat is popped up to her ears, and an oversized plaid scarf winds around half her face.
“I don’t know about prince,” I say, shrugging. “Maybe a duke at best.”
“Elected Official of Darkness?” Poppy stuffs a slender screwdriver into her sock.
I snap my fingers. “That’s the one.”
She nods. “Royalty does imply a certain level of responsibility.”
Odette sighs deeply. “Can you two focus?” She narrows her eyes at me. “Is the plan to hide in a bushel of apples and spy on Josh?”
I straighten my sweater. I know he’s going to be here. It’d be easier to count who wouldn’t be here. What I don’t know is whether he’s here with the group, or with someone he’s going to be winning some obscenely large stuffed animal for. My stomach revolts at the idea of him smiling softly at someone else under all the twinkle lights, or cuddling up to them on the hayride. He could be on a real date, and I’m probably going to freeze to death wearing an apple sweater because I thought my coat was puffy and yellow and made me look like one of those giant bumblebees that knock into things in confusion.
“Tonight isn’t about Josh. I mean, it is, kind of, but it’s also about me. For me.”
Odette smiles slowly. “For you, huh? So, like, a date?”
“This is definitely not a date.” I shake my head, stress hormones flooding my system and setting my face on fire.
“Maybe it should be.” Her voice is so casual it takes me a second to register the words.
“What?”
“Me and Pops have been talking,” she says. Poppy grimaces, guilt bleeding into every feature. “Ash seems pretty cool, and maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing if you kept yourself open to some possibilities?”
I snap my mouth shut. “I—I’m really surprised to hear you say that. You all were the ones who wanted me to make a plan to win back Josh.” I wrap my arms around myself, chill seeping deeper into my skin.
“I understand he was your first real relationship, but things change.”
“Not everything.” I shake my head firmly. “I am knee-deep in a very complicated romantic caper to win him back. I’ve committed to this course. I committed to Josh.”
What do you want, Marlowe?
Odette bites her lip, her gaze unnerving. “I’m just saying you seem to be enjoying yourself…” She trails off, waiting for me to pick up the threads.
“It’s a professional arrangement.” I look at them both, so we’re perfectly clear. “I asked for romance field trips, and this is our first attempt.”
“What are you all whispering about?” Ash asks, arriving at my elbow without the slightest warning.
I crane my neck up as his lanky frame blocks out the harvest moon. His black peacoat flaps open and his mouth hitches into a crooked smile.
“What?” I ask. My blood is slowed to molasses by the cold and unable to perform the necessary connections. How much did he hear?
“An elaborate plan to make the cafeteria bring back Taco Tuesday?” One eyebrow floats upward. “Some mild world domination?”
“Ash!” Odette says loudly, bringing me back to Earth. “I have no idea what you’re going to teach her at this festival that we’ve been going to our entire lives, but can’t wait to see what you pull out of your ass.”
“A pleasure, as always, Odette,” he says. He frowns at Poppy’s compact robot. “What’s happening here?”
“Apologies,” Poppy says. “Ash, please meet Pumpkin. Pumpkin, this is Ash, a boy who likes romance books.”
Ash’s stage whisper rises above the crowd. “Is that robot sentient?”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Odette says, “of course not.”
“Don’t listen to them, Pumpkin,” Poppy croons, bending down to pet the plastic body.
“Is Pumpkin here for the hayride?” Ash asks, the corner of his mouth twitching.
Poppy rises, the topic finally one of interest. “Pumpkin navigates mazes, and we’re going to set her loose in the corn maze to see what happens.”
“Besides terrifying the villagers,” Odette says, delighted by this plan.
“What’s terrifying about a maze-navigating robot?” Poppy asks, straightening her belt bag.
I smile at her offended tone. “Not a single thing, Pops. You and Pumpkin are going to have a blast.”
“Are y’all sure you don’t want to join us?” Odette asks, her eyes on me.
My head snaps toward her. I don’t think she’d ever invited Josh anywhere. I had my best friends, and my boyfriend and his friends, and those groups had never wanted to intersect.
I cut my eyes to Ash, and he shrugs, leaving it up to me.
It’s still not a date, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t want him to myself. He’s supposed to be teaching me things tonight. This is an educational outing.
“Well,” I say, filling the silence. “As much as I want to see Pumpkin in action, we have an important syllabus to work through. I’m supposed to be learning how to create some real-time rom-com moments.”
“If there is really a syllabus, I would like to see it,” Poppy says, her interest piqued again.
Ash coughs, and I think it might have been a laugh, but I haven’t heard the entire spectrum of his amusement enough to be sure. “I’ll work on that,” he says, more to me than anyone else.
I pull the disco cats out of my bag, because this is sure to be gold and I’m going to need to save every single idea for Josh.
“Put that away, you’re not going to forget anything.”
“I would not trust anybody who ran an experiment and didn’t take field notes,” I say, but reluctantly follow his lead.
He shakes his head as we walk into the crowd.
“Bye, play nice!” I yell back to my friends as we walk toward the booths.
He slows, and I can tell he’s trying to shorten his steps to match my stride. Josh always moved with such purpose, and sometimes my legs would burn as I power-walked after him toward whatever he was planning to conquer. A party. An errand his mother tasked him with. History class.
We move around people in tandem, and I can feel the carefully established boundaries that have him walking just a few inches farther away than necessary. The way he’s frowning at my sweater, but his coat stays solidly around his own shoulders. We’re cautiously friendly.
I’m so focused on his movements that I almost step in a container of nachos that someone left in the path. Ash’s hand is warm on my elbow, and he guides me to the side of a booth where you can win a giant neon top hat if you knock over a pyramid of milk bottles with a softball.
“Do you want to wander around?” I ask, nerves creeping into my voice until he releases me. I don’t know why Odette’s questioning got under my skin. The brief touch marks my arm like a brand.
“Do you want an itinerary?” His voice is pitched low, and I lean in a little to hear him.
My brain feels itchy, but his question isn’t harsh. “Ash, you should know that I always want an itinerary.” I try to jam my hands into my corduroys for an extra carefree vibe, but the fashion industry doesn’t care about female pockets.
“Do you prefer for all your dates to be planned out?”
Dates. My stomach twists at that word falling from his lips. Not that he was calling this a date. I hear the unspoken question, though. Am I this exhausting at all times? What accommodations are necessary for someone to date me? It stings a little, but it’s an old ache. Like a sunburn that has gone through the scorch and has now sunk deep into the skin.
“No,” I say, finally. “But they’ve never required much planning. Josh had a very specific way of doing things, and we live in River Haven.” I look around at the same exact vendors, games, and people that I have seen every year, every day of my life. “There are rarely surprises.”
I start walking because I want him to look at something else.
“Besides, you’re trying to teach me something different. I’m a much more diligent student than I am a girlfriend.”
“Are all the teachers at school terrified of you?”
“No,” I say stubbornly as he falls into step beside me. “I’m a delight to have in class.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” he says, his amusement warming me up by several degrees. “A delight, but intense in a way that somehow makes me feel like I’m the one who’s forgotten his homework.”
“Well, maybe you should be more prepared when we hang out.” We move closer to the food stalls; the aroma of burnt popcorn and corn dogs is thick in the air.
“I’ll take that under advisement.” The rumble of a laugh he’s buried deep fills the space between us.
I clear my throat. “Are you regretting your plan to take me here, this pinnacle of romance? I’ve got to admit, I don’t think you’re going to have a lot of material.”
“Are you kidding?” He stops, eyes roving the crowd. “This is a hotbed of yearning, first love, and sexual tension.”
“Unless you’re referring to those two mustachioed gentlemen selling hot beverages, I’m not seeing a lot of any of that.” I tip my head toward the stalls up ahead.
“I’m absolutely referring to them. One serving hot chocolate, the other serving cider, destined to spend their days so close, yet so far.”
“Ash, be serious.”
“Soon,” he says, chewing on his lip ring. “First, let’s get something to keep us going. Chocolate or cider?” he asks, but he’s already in the first mustache’s line.
“Ash, there’s nobody in the cider man’s line.”
“For obvious reasons.”
“Do you think he feels bad? I’m sure he worked so hard on all of this.” I look up at him, and he studies my face. “Will you get something from him?”
“You want me to trade chocolate for cider?” The overhead lights strung from booth to booth slip off the slant of his cheekbones.
“Look, I think his mustache is drooping a little.”
Ash sighs. He moves to the other booth and soon we’re on our way with two steaming cups. My fingers start to thaw.
“Okay, back to our plan,” I start again.
“You’re relentless,” he says, wrinkling his nose near his cup. “You’ve been here before?” He pauses. “With Josh?”
I nod, busying myself with my drink.
“What sort of things did you do?”
“The usual, I guess.” I shrug as we walk closer to the corn maze. Josh and I went every year, as part of a group. He played every marksmanship game or anything involving feats of strength. I would dutifully cheer him on and be forced to drag home whatever creepy creature he won. Honestly, this might be my chance to finally get rid of the pink panda that takes up forty percent of my closet.
“The usual,” he parrots back to me. “Sounds like a dream.”
I jostle his arm a little, and he leans back to avoid the splash of cider. The movement feels natural, as the required personal space between us rapidly continues to shrink.
“Who says it wasn’t my fault our Harvest Festival moments weren’t romantic?” Thick chocolate slides down my throat and floods every sense. I bite back the sigh that wants to escape my mouth.
“Good?” Ash asks, eyeing my cup.
“Brain-altering good,” I say. “Seriously. There’s an amino acid called tryptophan, which is found in chocolate, and it’s the precursor for serotonin.” He smirks as I take another gulp. “Chocolate wants us to be happy. How can we not adore a food that cares so much about our well-being?”
“What do you know about apples?” he asks, looking down at his drink.
“Only that they look very cute on my sweater.”
“Okay, switch,” Ash says, holding out his cup.
“Switch?”
“Yeah, we’re doing cute rom-com things. Sharing like this is cute.”
“Are you sure about that? I want references. I’m pretty sure you just realized you ordered hot apple juice over chocolate.”
“Because you made me, and I’ve got plenty of references.”
“Okay, let’s hear them.” Satisfaction races to my toes, and I try to tell myself it’s silly to be so pleased that he agreed to something just because I asked.
He plucks the hot chocolate out of my hands, and the sour smell of apples travels up to my sinuses. “This is gross. Are we cute yet?”
He snorts into my cup and doesn’t even hide that he takes a third sip.
This is why I’m not a romantic heroine. I never laughed prettily and offered to share my hot chocolate with Josh. I hoarded it like a dragon and devoured it enthusiastically while he poisoned his with someone’s dad’s whiskey. He’d pour a splash of spirits into the thick chocolate and say “Now we’re having fun”—loosening in front of me, and I would tell myself it was special when he leaned heavily against me later that night.
Tonight, it feels different.
“Want to try funnel cake next?” Ash leans close, a smudge of chocolate lingering on lips pulled into a smirk. “You can practice wiping loose sugar off my chin in a romantic way.”
“Again, you’re going to need to provide those references.”
We do the entire circuit—the best River Haven has to offer. Ash sits next to me on the hayride, perched on a hay bale like a giant crow. We’re seated next to a couple who’ve been married for sixty-four years. They cuddle together, hands clasped tight, and answer Ash’s question with a laugh.
“The secret to a successful relationship is different hobbies.” The woman leans forward, her hand on my knee. “Make sure you keep something for yourself.”
I drag Ash through the corn maze—no sign of Pumpkin or Pumpkin-related screams, but we see at least two first kisses, as junior high couples lean in hesitantly and take advantage of the moon and the moment.
Our own awkwardness dissolves, and we both pretend nothing is happening when he swears under his breath and drapes his thick wool coat across my shoulders.
“I can’t even concentrate with your teeth chattering that loud.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, sniffing as I pull the collar close. It smells like him. Like a fancy French kitchen with lemons and herbs hanging in sunshine.
We thread through the crowd, and I feel half drunk.
“Where were we?” Ash asks, zipping his hoodie to his throat.
“Okay, romance lightning round,” I say. “Sexiest fruit?”
“That’s easy, pineapple.”
“How is a pineapple sexy?”
“Easy. I’m allergic, so it makes my lips tingle.”
“There is nothing sexy about having to give someone an EpiPen.”
“You better write that in your little notebook, it’s sure to come up at some point.”
“That isn’t notebook-worthy,” I say, his mood making me giddy. “Has the tryptophan addled your brain? I told you three cups of hot chocolate was too many.”
“Three cups is the perfect amount, and I will not be taking additional questions on the matter.”
I dig my hands into the pockets of his coat. “Okay, let’s try another one. What is the most romantic song?”
He shrugs. “The one I’m writing now.”
“Sing it for me.”
“Nope,” he says, but he smiles.
“Most romantic car?”
“Anything with a bench front seat,” he says, not even hesitating.
“Most romantic historical figure?”
He thinks for a minute. “Napoleon.”
I frown.
“Don’t wrinkle your face until you read some of his letters to his wife.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, then you’ll actually have a reason to make that face. He had some questionable hygiene practices.”
“Hard pass,” I say. “Okay, what is the least romantic school subject?”
“Math.”
I gasp. “Ash Augustus Hayes! How dare you say that to my face.”
“I refuse to believe I’m the first person to have said that to you.” My outrage has given me another smile with teeth.
“You are, because math is universally beloved.”
“You asked, and I’m the expert.” He shrugs, hands buried deep in his pockets.
“Nope, I’ve lost all faith in your credentials. Math is the most beautiful thing on this planet.”
He stops, and I have one thousand percent of his attention. He leans against the back of a booth, and my limbs feel tingly, like they’ve all fallen asleep at once.
“Educate me.” The words are crisp, and my confidence flees. But he doesn’t budge, so I search for the words.
“Math is perfect, by nature,” I start slowly. “And it is nature. It’s the building blocks of the universe.”
“How so?”
“Do you know that a Venus flytrap can count to two? When a poor little fly lands in its mouth, it prepares to close, but it only snaps shut if a second contact occurs within approximately twenty seconds of the first touch.”
“Keep going,” he says, the words warmer than his coat.
“You can see perfect mathematical fractals in the leaves of a fern, the branching neurons in our brains. Honeycomb and snowflakes make hexagons just as well as any computer. Math is elegant, beautiful in its complexity, and it doesn’t matter if you take a million different approaches, there’s a finite answer. No gray zone or wiggle room.”
“You like having a set answer.”
I shrug, the movement lost under his coat. “I like knowing where I stand.”
“You make a compelling argument.” He pushes himself off the booth and nods back in the direction we came from.
“I also refuse to believe that gym class is more romantic than math.” I want him to concede the point. I want another dimple sighting.
He shakes his head. “I don’t know, there’s a lot of contact and sweating in gym.”
“I’ve smelled the locker room.”
“It wouldn’t have deterred Napoleon.”
I laugh, because he’s ridiculous and he’s loose with his smiles tonight.
An explosion of noise and congratulations erupts behind us. Loud laughter that sounds competitive, a few feminine squeals, and a name I would recognize at any decibel: Josh.
Ash straightens, and all the languid lines of his posture disappear. The easy conversation dries to dust, and I move around him toward the front of the booth.
And there it is. My old life staring back at me, and I’m Ebenezer Scrooge haunting these moments, trying to find where it all went wrong.
Tiffany holds an overstuffed killer whale, and Josh winds up to throw another fastball at a stack of cans. My heart stutters a little as I recognize Blue’s pink jacket hanging on the periphery of the group. The smile slides off her face when she sees me. Then Josh sees me too, and his next throw goes wide.
“Damn, son, you didn’t even get one this time,” Derrick says, slapping him on the back.
I feel Ash’s warmth behind me, and Josh’s face clouds over as he registers the two of us. Tiffany tugs on his arm until his attention is back on them, and he doesn’t turn in my direction again. Blue refuses to meet my eye, her face pointed down at her shoes. I spin and plunge into the crowd, so I no longer have to look at all of them not looking at me.
“Marlowe!”
I slow for a moment but leave the rows of booths behind. I feel suffocated by it all—the candied apples, the stale popcorn, and the evidence that Josh was having the same Harvest Festival experience that he always does, and my presence didn’t disrupt the plan at all. The main square opens up in front of me, empty except for a small stage where a band composed of several old men is setting up.
“Marlowe,” Ash calls again, catching up.
“Sorry,” I say, leaving it open to cover any number of wrongs.
“Don’t apologize,” he says, his voice rough. The band slowly fills the air with banjo twangs and a lively fiddle.
I focus on the divot between his clavicles as I wrangle my thoughts in order. Josh’s face. Blue’s face. The way nobody said a word.
“I can’t remember if I promised to stop calling him a jackass or not, and I don’t want to go back on my word.” His throat bobs.
“You didn’t promise that.”
“Good, he’s a jack—”
“Ash!”
My pocket vibrates, and I pull out my phone to see a text from Blue.
Don’t be mad.
I sigh, and I’m not, really. Not at her. She only sees the glittering polish of that crowd and is blinded to anybody or anything else.
Do not drink out of Josh’s hot chocolate cupis all I respond with, but it’s still a peace offering of sorts.
That whole five-second interaction with Josh still stung, and I know I’ll feel it later, alone in the dark with nothing but my thoughts and that look on his face. But for now, my poor bruised heart wants to laugh again. Just for a little while longer.
“Most romantic baked goods?” I pull my eyes up to Ash’s and will him to let it go.
He looks at me for a long moment, and I cannot take another rejection. He glances away, jaw tightening, but finally he says, “Ice cream sandwich.”
I blink. “That’s not a baked good.”
“It has ‘sandwich’ in the title, Marlowe.”
“And why is it so romantic?” I ask, eyes narrowed.
“Because it’s my favorite.” He glances back, his small smile tipping into smug.
“Are you really refusing to play me the song you’re working on? If it’s the most romantic song ever, I think I should be allowed to review it for science.”
The edge of his mouth curls up, like the edges of Cantharellus cibarius as it dances across a log. “Well, if it’s for science.”
“Absolutely, I’ll be doing a case study.”
He nods toward the band as couples move toward the makeshift dance floor. They’re twirling and moving like Momma and Stu practice in the kitchen. “Come dance with me, I’ll hum you a few bars.”
I shake my head. “No, thanks.”
“I thought it was important for science?”
“I’m not a dancing girl.”
“A dancing girl?” Ash repeats, like he doesn’t know exactly what I’m talking about.
“You know what I mean.”
“I don’t.” He raises my least favorite eyebrow.
I take a deep breath. “My momma knows the moves to all of these dances. My baby sister is the same way.” I clear my throat, her guilty face tattooed on my brain. “They know all the right moves and footwork, and I grew up in the same house and don’t even know how that happened. I don’t know if it was passed in the blood, or only some girls are blessed with it, but it skipped me.”
Ash steps a little closer and pulls the heavy weight of his coat off my shoulders. I nod, recognizing the cue to call it a night.
He folds the thick wool neatly, and places it on top of a bench. Then he holds out a hand.
“Ash,” I say, panic bleeding into my lizard brain. “Did you not get any of that?”
“Marlowe, do you honestly think I know the steps they’re doing?”
“What?”
“I’m from San Diego, and I have no intention of boot-scooting across this square.”
“Ash, there are steps to this dance.”
“So?” His warm hand grabs mine, and he pulls me onto the dance floor.
I freeze as the weight of his fingers settles solidly against the small of my back. He turns my other hand in his, and slowly starts moving.
I shuffle awkwardly until he huffs a laugh into my hair. “Quit overthinking it, Meadows.”
“Stop telling me what to do,” I say, relaxing a fraction and finding the sequence. The pattern of his movement. A pause, a two-count, a sway, a squeeze of his hand.
I feel too warm, despite the loss of his coat, and he hums little snippets of melody up into the atmosphere and the twinkle lights above.
“I don’t believe you, you know,” he says.
I resist the urge to lay my head against his chest. This is not Josh. He is not your boyfriend. He is barely even your friend. “Hmmm?” I say, trying to keep the movement going as the thoughts creep in.
“Everything in the universe is math, right?”
“Yes…”
“I have no doubt you could learn a repeating-pattern dance based on actual counts in a song.” I look up, ready to protest, but he keeps going. “I believe you could, but if you never cared to I don’t see why you should have to. We seem to be doing just fine.”
I can’t hold on to a single brain cell or thought other than the one that has been bubbling to the surface all night: What is this? None of those word-a-day calendars prepared me for this moment. For the ease I feel as we disrupt the flow of every other couple on the dance floor.
“Ash, are we friends?” It feels very important right now, and I learned a long time ago that if you’re not sure, it’s best to just ask.
His expression is unreadable, but his hand is warm, and he doesn’t stop moving. “Sure, Marlowe. We’re friends.”
I nod, and I’m glad we established that. I needed us to establish that.
My phone releases a series of meows, and I fumble for my back pocket. My fingers are clumsy with shock, and the phone slips between them and lands on a hay-dusted dance floor.
Ash crouches down, and hands it back to me, a text from Josh flashing across the screen.
I pull open the chat, and a single sentence stares up at me.
That sweater looks good on you.
My heart thunders in my chest. This is it. This is what I’ve been waiting for. My fingers are flying and I send back: You looked really good too.
The notification pops up that he’s read it, but he doesn’t respond. I wait another minute, before reassuring myself that a single step is still progress.
I smile up at Ash, showing him the thread. “Everything’s falling into place, right?”
His face is still unreadable. “If you say so.”