“Maybe,” he says. “But I wouldn’t blame you for it.”
I sigh. Then, to fully express my utter exasperation with this man and his stupidity, I roll my eyes. “I’m not ‘placating’ you.”
“I see that,” he agrees. “Instead, you are—for reasons unknown—actually looking at me as a man that you might want to beyourman. I’m confused. And curious. And shocked. And, in case I didn’t mention, confused.”
“Sorry, were you confused?” I ask. “I couldn’t quite tell. You were so subtle about it with your words and with the wrinkles you’ve got sprouting all over your forehead.”
“I do not have wrinkles,” he grouches, running a hand over hisnotwrinkles. “And you’re not clearing up my confusion.”
“That’s because I don’t understand what you find confusing. You said you were going to do your whole following your heart and desires thing so that I could decide if I find you worthy of me or not. I thought my end of that was, you know, doing the actual deciding? Is that not what I’m meant to be doing?”
“Well… yeah,” he says. “That’s what you’re meant to be doing. I thought it would take a while before you did it, though.”
“Goodness, you’re an idiot,” I huff, tugging him out the door. “Did we not have a date? Have we not been having them pretty much every night, if eating dinner together at 4:00 AM is the only criteria we seem to need to constitute a date?” I pinch a feather on his bicep, satisfying myself with his flinch. That’s what he gets for being a dodo.
“I’m actually considering you as a mate, Fox,” I continue clearly as we descend the stairs. “I’m attracted to you in a big way. Cohabitating with you is easy, if we ignore the rise and shine of it all. You have a job. You have a family who loves you. You treat that family well. You treat your employees well. Lately, you treatmewell. You make grand declarations about keeping me safe and loved, and you follow those up with daily care and attention. You’re smart when you aren’t being dumb. And now that I know why you’re being dumb, even that isn’t as annoying as it once was. We work well together. We live well together. We play well together. I’d be stupid not to at the very least consider the possibility of us, and we both know I’m not stupid.”
We reach the bar as he replies, intelligently, “Oh.”
I snort. “Yeah.Oh.”
“In my defense, it does seem too good to be true. You loving me back is literally a fantasy realized. The possibility of the future I want being within reach feels farfetched at best.”
“And yet.” I gesture to myself, then him. “Here we are. About to do the domestic task of arguing over groceries at the local market. You’re a lot closer to your dreams than you think.”
After that, he spends the entirety of the trip to Rory’s Market flicking awed glances at our conjoined hands and grumbling about not screwing things up.
“You’re not going to screw anything up.” I sigh. Wanting to keep the connection of our hands, I climb after him out the driver’s side of the big black truck he bought after selling his motorcycle when he moved back home. “Relax.”
“The love of my life is considering the possibility of spending the rest ofherlife with me when she barely likes me at all. I think we can allow me the worry that I’ll mess that up. It’s not completely stemming from the worry that I’m inadequate, but also from the natural worry that all men have when they know their heart is in the hands of a woman who could easily crush it without a second thought.”
A blast of frigid air conditioning smacks me in my frowning face as we enter the store. “I think I like you more than barely,” I protest. “And I’d have at least a third thought before damaging your heart.”
“Good morning!” a rickety old voice interrupts our spat from behind the till.
Fox waves to Rory, the market’s namesake, while I blink at him, having only just remembered that other people, not just my temporary roommate and possibly forever romantic interest, exist at this time of day as well.
“Rory, is this safe for you?” I call, horror in my bones. “Young at heart is not the same as young at body. Being up and about this early is surely ill-advised.”
Rory, the loon,laughsat me. “Oh, Poem. You light up this town.”
I was not, it should be noted, joking. Before I can say as much, Fox bumps me toward the carts. “No time for arguing with old men about their sleeping habits,” he says. “We’ll be late.”
Um. “Late for what?” I ask. “Work doesn’t start for ages, and that’s accounting for you going in early.”
“Late for our domestic over which strawberries to buy,” he replies. “We had a date.”
Well. One cannot argue with that, I suppose.
And so I do not. We have our argument about berries, and then about pasta shapes, and then about protein sources, and then about frozen pizza brands, and then, and then, and then, until, finally, I am allowed to give my lecture to Rory on the importance of sleep for an aging man as he rings up our fraught grocery haul.
“I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” the surely near-death man replies, nonplussed.
Very much plussed, I retort, “Which will be sooner than later if you don’t get some rest, old man!”
“All right!” Fox intercedes, plopping the last of our bags into the cart. “That’s enough playtime for one day. We’ll see you next week, Ror.”
Rory grins amiably, bidding us farewell as I attempt to glare some sense into him. “I betternotsee you next week!” I call as Fox tugs me away from the till. “You better be at home in bed when I’m in here next!”
