He flinches and glares at me. “What?”
“Have you ever been in love?” I repeat. “It’s my next question.”
“I thought we were asking about favorite colors or candy preferences,” he mutters.
“Mint green, obviously, and candy corn, specifically the pumpkins. But you know I don’t eat candy often because processed sugar makes me more susceptible to seizures. You?”
“Uh,” he flounders for a second, apparently caught off guard again. “Dark green, I guess. And I don’t eat much candy, either. But I used to like those little caramel jellybean things. Sugar Babies?” I nod, and he glances my way before he goes on, “Not the ones on the stick, though. I’m not a fan of eating anything on a stick.”
I smile at the way his lip curls up in disgust. “Why not?”
“I don’t know. Apart from it being slightly emasculating, there’s something about the idea of waving my food in the air as I eat it that just …” He pauses to shiver. “I also hate reusable straws. No way those things get completely clean.”
“Are you a germaphobe?”
“No, I just have a few specific sensory things, especially when it comes to food.”
“Is that why you don’t like your toothbrush being near a menstrual cup?”
“Yeah, I guess,” he replies with a soft laugh. “I’m not afraid of bodily fluids or anything natural, but I am weird about my toothbrush.”
I hum in affirmation, thinking about whether I want to ask about his aversion to physical affection. But I decide not to push my luck, since I haven’t even gotten him to answer the first personal question.
“My mom was always in favor of developing natural immunities, so I imagine I’m a ‘rub some essential oils on it’ kind of girl,” I say instead, and he nods appreciatively. “Okay, your turn again.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “Did you really give me a free pass on that other question, or are you just trying to distract me long enough to bring it up again later, while my guard is down?”
I bite my lip and stifle a smile. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He shakes his head, but he looks more impressed than upset. “I meant what I said the other day about not buying into that crap. Love, marriage, soulmates … none of it is legit. You can’t convince me it’s nothing more than a combination of lust and codependency.”
“Wow,” I say on a sigh. “The cynicism runs deep.”
“Yeah. I earned it.”
I pull my hair over my shoulder and idly begin braiding it, trying to resist the urge to push him too far. “Can I ask about that?” I venture after a while.
He runs his tongue over his teeth and stares at the road again. “My parents got pregnant and married young. My dad realized a little later that he wasn’t interested in following through with most of his vows, but my mom never stopped trying to win him over. Her disappointment led to depression, which led to alcoholism and some light drug abuse, which led to me and my siblings basically raising ourselves while my dad kept his head in the sand. It wasn’t until after my mom went through a few rounds of rehab and we’d all moved out on our own that she finally gave up and asked for a divorce.”
I reach over and squeeze his forearm, and his jaw muscles tick, but he waits a full second before he tugs his arm away.
“Is that why you’re so protective of Loren?” I ask softly.
“Mostly.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I don’t need your pity,” he retorts.
“It’s not pity,” I reply, frowning. “I’m genuinely sad to hear you never got to experience the kind of love I’ve always known in my family. Just like you’re sorry I’ve missed out on stuff because I was a sickly kid, right?”
He clenches his jaw tightly again. “Yeah. I guess.”
“Unless you think I’m pathetic because I never went to prom or a high school football game or any of the other things you probably enjoyed doing as a normal teenager,” I go on.
“I don’t think you’re pathetic because you never went to prom,” he grinds out after a while. “But there’s no excuse for never having gone to a high school football game.”
I can’t help it when a laugh bubbles up, and I notice the way his lips twitch, as if he’s fighting a smile of his own.
