swung his arm around my shoulder and steered me toward the door. "I have no doubt in my mind you'll uncover a conspiracy one of these days."
Once again, I found myself tucked beside Ash in the back seat of a car.
Once again, I didn't hate it.
There was something special about sitting beside him, close enough to observe his mannerisms without getting caught staring. The way he manspread like a champ. The way he drummed his fingers on his knee when stopped in traffic. The way he glanced at his wrist every few minutes, only to shake his head or arch an eyebrow as he looked away. The way he leaned into me, his shoulder nudging mine.
The last thing I should've done was respond by brushing my elbow against his forearm. I was in no place for shoulder nudging and elbow brushing. No place for back seat moments of any sort.
"Where are we going?" I asked, our bodies still pressed together in strange, bony ways. It was a noncommittal form of hand-holding. We weren't prepared for the implications of such a gesture and weren't sure we wanted that much of each other but needed a little something.
"Back Bay," he replied, shooting me a quick glance. "I figure we can eat and then walk over to the Apple store. It will be cooler by then. Won't be so horrible walking around."
I stared out the window at the blaze of sunset over the city. Boston sunsets were nothing like Denver sunsets. No mountains changing color along with the sky, no peaks for the sun to dip beneath. None of it was the same. I wasn't the same.
I barely recognized the person I'd left behind in Denver. I wasn't her, not anymore. That knowledge hit me like the morning after my first set of push-ups in ten years—I was sore in unexpected spots but I also felt good and strong and right. I was aware of myself in ways I hadn't been recently, each step away from Denver aching and burning a bit as if my body was telling me this hurts but it will be worth it.
When we pulled up at the restaurant, Ash stepped out of the car and held the door open while I scooched across the bench seat and thanked the driver. I joined him on the sidewalk, waiting for him to lead the way. The finger drumming continued on his thigh while he stared down the street, frowning.
"Do you like cheese?" he asked. Again, all the awkwardness in the world blossomed between us, a reminder we barely knew each other. Even though we very much did. "As in…different kinds of cheese?"
"Different kinds of cheese?" I repeated. "Yeah, of course. What's not to like?"
"I've learned to stop being surprised. You have blue hair and the phases of the moon on your arm, and you're an archaeologist from Denver. Not eating cheese would fit in with all that just fine." He rubbed his palm over his brow. "I want to make sure you can order something you'll enjoy. It'll piss me off if you sit there, picking at a tiny bowl of olives." He pointed toward a restaurant called The Salty Pig and then brought his palm to the small of my back, urging me forward. "Come on, Zelda."
"Thanks for asking," I mumbled, letting him lead me inside.
I needed to say those words out loud but I wasn't certain I wanted him to hear them. This wasn't about him being decent enough to inquire as to my preferences. It was about me recognizing I deserved to engage with people who paid attention to me and my preferences. It wasn't expecting too much. It was barely expecting anything at all.
"I didn't catch that," Ash said, ducking his head to speak directly into my ear. The hand on my back pulled me closer to him. "What did you say?"
"I just said I always knew you were a cheesy guy. You're going to have great dad jokes someday."
He laughed, his forehead at my temple and his nose on my cheek. "Your faith in me is admirable."
We sat at the bar, still side by side, still connected in small, unlikely ways. His knee on my thigh, my shoulder on his bicep, our forearms brushing each other as we inspected at the menu.
"What's good here?" I asked.
"Everything," he replied, overflowing with enthusiasm. That was a new look on him.
Laughing, I asked, "What do you usually order?"
"Everything," he repeated, pressing his arm against mine. "Last time I