“I don’t only call you when I’m in danger, Evan,” I quip back, that growing, noxious cloud of anxiety in my chest already starting to shrink at the sound of his voice. I peel back the cover on my food and take a bite. “What are you having for dinner?”
“Chili,” he says, sounding confused.
“Again?”
“Chili lasts a long time,” he says. “It actually tastes better the longer the flavors combine.”
“Do you want to know what I’m having?”
“Yes,” he says, instead ofsure, which makes my chest flutter. I’ve already plowed past the first part of this call, past the fact that it’s weird for me to call him right now, or maybe at all.
So I tell him about the organic orzo and broccoli. I tell him about lemon pepper chicken and my probiotic drink, which makes him sound even more puzzled.
We stay on the phone when I get up and throw the tray away, and when I go to brush my teeth.
“What time is it there?” I ask him when I climb into bed, which makes him laugh.
“We’re one hour apart,” he says. “Please tell me you have a firmer grasp on time zones than that.”
“Oh, I thought elevation had something to do with it.”
“You’re teasing me.”
“Can you blame me? It’s a lot of fun.”
The line goes silent for a moment, and I realize I’m lying in bed, staying on the phone with him like a teenager.
“Where are you right now?” I ask.
“My cabin,” he says.
“But, like, specifically.”
“I’m in bed,” he admits, and a flare of heat rises up inside me. For a second, I play with the idea of starting something. Would I have phone sex with Evan?
It only takes a second of thinking. Yes, yes, I would.
“Good night, Amy,” he says, as though he can hear what I’m thinking. “I’ll see you this weekend?”
“Yes,” I say, closing my eyes, distraught by the fact that it’s only Monday. “See you then.”
CHAPTER 17
EVAN
Despite the fact that Amy and I spoke on the phone every day this week, and the fact that she has started sending me text messages throughout the day—a dog that looks like Blue, a fish in the market like the one we caught, a question about solar, what strategy might work against Gramps when it’s time for her to pick up their chess game—she doesn’t act like anything is up.
Maybe it’s old-fashioned of me, but I want to ask her about this. About what, exactly, our relationship is.
But our current audience of teenagers is preventing me from bringing it up.
“Hand me that drill, would you?” I say from my place at the top of the ladder, and all ten heads turn, watching Amy as she stands from her place in front of her laptop, crosses the room, and hands the drill to me.
When her hand brushes against mine, there’s the slight frisson I feel every time I touch her. Like some of my long-dead nerves are coming back to life.
“Thank you.”
“Of course,” she says, shooting me a serene smile before turning and walking back to her little workspace.
