I thought about Theo’s kitchen. The overhead light. The smell of cigarette smoke and cedar.
“I held on too tight,” I said. “And not tight enough. At the same time.”
Pickle paused in his twirling.
“He said I loved him like I was already losing him. Like I was bracing for the end before we’d really started.” It was a full-bore confession. Maybe because Pickle wasn’t pushing. Maybe because his knee was still warm against mine. “He was right. I did that. I kept waiting for him to leave, and eventually—”
“He left.”
“Yeah.”
The restaurant hummed around us—Mrs. Prasert’s quiet Lao speech drifted from the kitchen.
“I do that too,” Pickle said quietly. “The bracing thing. I convince myself people are going to figure out I’m too much, so I try to be… less. Or more. I don’t know. It gets confusing.”
“Are you bracing now?”
“No.” He met my eyes. “I’m not.”
“I like this,” I said. “You. Like this.”
Pickle’s cheeks flushed. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Under the table, he reached out for my knee. Not grabbing—just resting there. A point of contact.
“I like you like this, too,” he said. “For the record. In case it wasn’t obvious.”
We finished eating. Split the check despite Pickle’s protests. Walked out into the cold together, shoulders brushing as we navigated the narrow doorway.
The street was quiet. A few cars swept past, their headlights cutting through the dark. Somewhere down the block, a dog barked once and fell silent.
“I should go home,” Pickle said. “Practice tomorrow. Coach will know if I stayed out late—he has this creepy sixth sense about sleep schedules.”
“I’ll walk you.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I know.”
We walked. Six blocks stretched into ten because Pickle kept finding reasons to detour—pointing out the bakery where Evan got his cookie supplies, and the corner where Jake had once serenaded Evan with an acoustic guitar at 2 a.m. He pointed out a bench where Hog sometimes sat and knitted.
By the time we reached Pickle’s building, my hands were numb, and I didn’t care.
“This is me,” he said, stopping at the green awning.
Pickle turned to face me. The streetlight shone against his cheekbones.
“Thanks for dinner,” he said. “Even though I chose the place, and I know you judged the hygiene standards.”
“I didn’t—”
“You looked at the kitchen door three times.”
Pickle laughed, and then he kissed me.
Not quick this time. Not casual. He touched the back of my neck with his cold fingers and pulled me in. I reached out for his hips beneath his open jacket.
