I groan, pressing my hands to my face. "Yes. God, yes. I'm so into him, it's embarrassing. I can’t sleep because I keep thinking about him on the other side of the wall. Every time he walks into a room, I forget how words work. And when he stood up for methe other night with that drunk asshole? I wanted to climb him like a tree right there in the middle of the bar."
Steph grins. "There it is."
"But that doesn't change the fact that it's a terrible idea," I say, dropping my hands. "He lives in my house, Steph. If things go wrong, I can't just avoid him. We'd be stuck together until one of us moves out, and I need that rent money."
"What if things don't go wrong?"
I blink. "What?"
"What if things don't go wrong?" she repeats. "What if this works out? What if he's what you've been looking for and you're what he needs? What if you're letting fear of the worst-case scenario keep you from something amazing?"
I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again.
"I don't know how to do that," I admit. "How to just… trust it."
"You don't have to trust it all at once," Steph says. "You just have to take the next step. And maybe the next step is admitting that the rules you made aren't protecting you anymore—they're just keeping you stuck."
I stare at her, heart thudding hard against my ribs.
She's right.
I know she's right.
But knowing it and doing something about it are two very different things.
By the time I get home, it's two in the morning. Monday trivia is getting even more popular than I thought, and the bar was packed, making my feet scream in protest as I pull into the driveway.
The porch light is on again.
I sit in my car for a moment, staring at that little pool of yellow light, and something in my chest loosens. He left it on. For me. Again.
Inside the house is quiet. I lock the door, kick off my boots, and startle when I see Troy walk out from the kitchen into the living room carrying a big bowl.
I freeze, and we stare at each other.
I should just go to my room. Avoid him until I figure out what to say or how to act or anything that isn't standing here like a deer in headlights.
But then I smell it.
Popcorn.
Not just any popcorn—kettle corn. Sweet and salty and the late-night snack I mentioned once when we were making small talk in the kitchen and I was rambling about my favorite junk food.
He remembered.
My heart does something complicated in my chest, and before I can talk myself out of it, I'm walking toward the living room.
Troy lifts the bowl. “A late-night snack.” Then he walks to the couch, sits and his legs stretched out in front of him, puts the bowl of kettle corn on the coffee table and turns the TV on to some documentary on low volume. He's in his gray sweatpants and white t-shirt, and he looks tired. Dark circles under his eyes, hair mussed like he's been running his hands through it.
He looks at me, asking me to join him without words. Then he says, "Couldn't sleep." He nods toward the bowl. "Made popcorn. Thought you might want some when you got home."
I stare at the bowl, then at him. "You remembered."
"I remember a lot of things you say, Ainsley."
The words land somewhere in the center of my chest and take root.
I should leave. I should thank him and go to my room and process this in private like a normal, emotionally functional adult.
