Andrew’s head jerks up from his freshly put-together rose stem. “Never?”
I shake my head just as I snap a petal in place, smiling proudly at my work. “Nope,” I answer, holding the rose by the stem and twirling it between my index finger and thumb. That proud smile widens into a grin.
“And it looks like you’re a natural.”
We’ve been building the LEGO set for the last hour. We have a few more roses to go, and I think I’m slowing us down a bit because I’m still getting the hang of the Ikea-style of instructions, but I don’t even mind. I ordered a pizza when my stomach started rumbling. I popped another bag of popcorn in the microwave, which Buster whined in front of the second I set it on the coffee table.
Andrew flips the page of the instructional booklet, a look of confusion mixed with determination on his face, and I suddenly realize I’ve spent the entire day at home. I woke up, changed my pajama bottoms into a pair of black leggings—my sad attempt at telling myself it means I’ve been a productive member of society—took Buster out for a walk, and plopped myself on the couch asI started aNew Girlmarathon. It’s my usual weekend itinerary so it shouldn’t surprise me. Sometimes I choose something more enrapturing likeLaw and Order: Special Victims Unitor theTwilightmovies. And if I’m feeling especially adventurous, I’ll do some grocery shopping or take Buster to the park or the beach instead of just outside my building. But right now, with Andrew by my side as we sip on our sodas and munch on the ends of our pizza crusts, it feels like a small ray of sunshine peeking through a narrow slit in the clouds.
It feels nice to have company. A friend to spend the day with without feeling like our time is flowing through the narrow neck of an hourglass, the sand dissolving right in front of us as if to constantly tell us the day will eventually end. None of that seems to matter with Andrew. Time seems infinite.
We finally finish the last rose, and they’re laid out in front of us. We both smile, appreciating our handiwork along with the few straggler pieces—“extras” as Andrew claims—and I turn to him.
“I had no idea LEGOs were this fun.”
He nods in agreement. “You’re talking to a LEGO master here. I made a Millennium Falcon when I was eight.”
“A what?”
“Han Solo’s starship?” he asks in surprise.
“Who?”
“You don’t know who Han Solo is? Harrison Ford?”
“I know who Harrison Ford is,” I admit. “Is that like, a nickname of his?” I can see him growing a little flustered, and I don’t know whether to laugh or beg for forgiveness.
“N–no,” he stutters. “It’s a character he plays.”
“Oh.”
“But you know Princess Leia, right? Carrie Fisher with the space buns?” He does a gesture, holding his cupped hands to his ears. I want to laugh at the way his voice turns nervous anduneasy, but I refrain from causing any more distress when my lack of Han Solo knowledge already has him a little shaken.
“Oh, is thatStar Trek?”
He winces, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Grace,” he says hoarsely. “I didn’t know you were this uncultured.”
“I am not uncultured!” I exclaim defensively. “I’m just not a nerd.”
His eyes pop open. “And I am?”
My palms face the ceiling. “I mean, yeah.”
His gaze narrows, a silent stretch of a warning before he lunges for me. I squeal, jolting in the opposite direction away from him, but I’m not quick enough. He’s able to grasp my hips, and his fingers pinch at my sides, eliciting another loud squeal from me.
“Andrew!” I screech. “Stop!”
“Say I’m not a nerd then,” he bargains, shifting his weight so he presses me to the ground.
“No!”
Another hard pinch that has me bucking underneath him. “Say I’m not a nerd,” he repeats, adding a more authoritative tone to his voice.
“Okay! Okay! I give!” I plead. “You’re not a nerd.”
“Now was that so hard?” He has his arms braced at my sides, and he’s hovering over me. His hair hangs off his forehead, a little mussed and tousled from catching me mid-getaway. My chest heaves in deep breaths and his eyes flit down my body for a fleeting second. “You really like my shirt, huh?”
“I told you, it’s soft.”
