All the pieces fit, save for him being my boss and me being in the most discombobulated stage of my life imaginable. Just those teeny, tiny, wee issues.
"Hmmmm. About your inbox." I dragged my lower lip between my teeth. Ash's email was a never-ending avalanche. Each time I removed a chunk of pointless "thank you" and "got it!" messages, another horde appeared to take their place. "I've weeded out the nonsense and prioritized the ones that looked important but there's more to work through."
"It will never be done," he said, punching a string of numbers into his calculator. "Inbox zero isn't something I'll live to see."
He glanced at his wrist, scowled, and tapped the tablet twice. Since today was the day when I noticed every last thing about this man, I knew this wasn't the first time he'd eyeballed that bare wrist. "Why are you doing that?"
"Doing what?" he asked, not meeting my gaze.
"You've looked at your hand every few minutes since you sat down," I replied. "Considering we've been sitting here for about three hours, you've done it at least fifteen times."
With a sigh, he dragged his hand down his face, saying, "Fuck, Zelda. Just…fuck." He laughed in a way that made me want to join in. "How do you do that?"
"Did I stumble upon a vast conspiracy?" I asked. "I've always wanted to uncover a conspiracy, so I hope it's that. Or is it the pain meds giving you some weird creepy-crawly feelings? When I had my wisdom teeth out, they loaded me up on the good stuff but it felt like there were bugs all over me."
"No conspiracy, no hallucinations," he said. "Billable hours are divided into six-minute segments. I mark the file I'm working on to keep track."
"Okay, part of that makes sense." I gestured to the tan line at the base of his forearm. "I'm still wondering why you look at your wrist."
"Because it's where my watch used to be," he replied. "Before you knocked me on my ass in the terminal and it broke. Back in Denver."
"I was not responsible for that," I said. "You tripped over your own feet, sir. It's not my fault they're enormous."
"For your information, I tripped over a child," he argued, a laugh ringing in his voice. "One I didn't even notice before catapulting over. I don't know how I blew out my shoulder and busted my watch while that kid walked away unscathed."
"Right. Resent the child for being uninjured. That's great. You know, it's a good thing I found you, Ashville." I closed the laptop, leaned forward. "You need full-time supervision."
He tipped his chin at the computer. "Finished?" When I nodded, he continued, "I'm hungry. Let's go out. There's a place I like. I want to bring you there."
My life was an aerial shot of a town destroyed by a tornado right now. Nothing left standing, just shards of existence strewn over miles of flat, unforgiving land. Rebuilding was the only course of action for me. I couldn't spend time lingering on the belly butterflies that took flight each time he demanded my attention. I couldn't bask in the warmth of his embraces. I couldn't devote sun and water to growing this thing between us when the rest of me was an uprooted, wilting mess.
I couldn't—but I did.
"If you like it, I'll like it," I replied. "We both know you're the hardest to please."
"That is a gross misrepresentation of the facts," he said, pushing to his feet. "I'm highly adaptable."
"I'm sure you are, sweetie," I cooed. I slung my bag across my chest. "If you're not going to die of the hungry horrors, let's get you a new watch first. You're highly adaptable but you're going to keep on looking at your wrist and it's still half past the freckle until we put a timepiece there."
Ash 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 wantedthatmuch 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 methis hurts but it will be worth it.
