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 was here, it was with my sister and her fiancé. We shared two pizzas, a charcuterie board, an order of meatballs, and some fried brussels sprouts."
"So…yeah, that's everything," I said, glancing back at the menu. "It all sounds great."
"Do you trust me?" he asked.
"With what, Ashville? Cheese? Sure. No problem." I jerked my shoulders up as I flipped the menu over to inspect the cocktail choices. Terrible idea. They all sounded amazing and the last thing I needed to be around this man was tipsy. "Do I trust you to pick out an eye shadow palette or use a blowtorch? Not on your life."
"All right. I'll order for us," he said, a wide grin on his face. "You should know I'm plenty capable with blowtorches."
"Agree to disagree," I said, waving him off. "I don't want you wielding fire, thank you very much."
"And why not?" he asked, ballsy enough to be insulted.
I skimmed the wine list. Not that I knew anything about wine but it was fun to read the names and origins. "Why would you even need a blowtorch?"
"I don't," he replied. "You brought it up."
The bartender stopped in front of us, folding his beefy forearms on the bar as he smiled. "What can I get you folks tonight?"
Ash tapped his finger against the menu, pointing to his selections as he spoke. I didn't know what the Vermont verano or the Blue Ledge camembrie were, but they sounded good. He ordered a beer and requested an extra dish of Marcona almonds.
"And for the lady?" the bartender asked. "What can I pour for you?"
Ash looped his arm over the back of my chair as I asked him, "What kind of beer did you order?"
"The Allagash is a sour ale," the bartender offered. He gestured toward my hair as Ash cleared his throat. "It's brewed with real blueberries."
Ash shifted his arm from the chair to my shoulders, tugging me closer. "Would you like that?"
It was unfair. Completely and truly unfair. Why did I have to wait until now, when my life was spinning like a blender without its lid, to realize how desperately I needed someone to ask me that question? It didn't matter whether he was asking me about beer or blowtorches or anything else in the world. And I wanted to answer him—answer myself. I wanted to know what I wanted and where I belonged and who the fuck I was after all these years of searching and shrinking down to fit the tiny crevices available to me.
I wanted to answer but all I could say was, "Maybe."
