He kisses me again and this time it’s a little harder as he rolls me onto my back, one knee between my thighs. I’m breathless when we separate again and Gideon’s on top of me, on his elbows, looking down.
“There’s one thing,” I tell him, and he goes perfectly still, like he’s anticipating a blow. I bite my lip, trying not to laugh. “We should go get tested so we can bareback.”
“Oh,” Gideon says, and blushes again.
* * *
“Is therea meaningful difference between clementine and mandarin oranges?” I ask, leaning on the buggy handlebar.
“Probably,” Gideon says, flicking through the list on his phone.
“What is it?”
“They taste different?”
“Do they?”
Now he’s looking thoughtfully at the display of clementines that’s right next to the display of mandarin oranges, probably because I had a good point.
“I can’t tell them apart,” he admits. “I just buy whichever one is on sale. Same with apples.”
“But apples taste completely different from each other,” I say, and Gideon shrugs.
“They all taste like apples.”
“You can’t tell me you think Granny Smith and Red Delicious apples taste the same.”
“Well, no,” he says, and looks up, frowning. “But all the ones in the middle…”
“Also taste different.”
“Which aisle is coconut extract in?” he asks, before I can bullshit any more about apples. We’re at the grocery store on Sunday afternoon for no real reason beyond the fact that Gideon needs groceries and I don’t want to go back to Lucia’s yet. Weekends have been like this, lately, the two of us sticking together through the lazy hours until there’s a reason to leave.
I worry, sometimes, that I’m underfoot, that I’m jamming myself into the cogs of the well-oiled machine of his life. Gideon knows what he’s doing and knows what he wants and here I am, a river otter bringing a birthday cake to a beaver dam. He keeps inviting me, though, so I guess beavers like birthday cake even if it’s not very waterproof.
Why am I thinking about cake? Right.
“Baking aisle, probably?” I hazard. “What do you need it for?”
“Reid put it on the list.”
“Does Izzy like coconut cake?”
Gideon answers me with a calm, quelling look, as if to sayleave the children and their courtship rituals alone.
We’re passing the yogurt and I’m wondering if I should grab some of the Greek stuff Lucia likes when someone says Gideon’s name. He freezes like a rabbit.
“What luck running into you here,” says a middle-aged woman, coming up to us. Behind her is a young woman with her hair in a ponytail who is very, very studiously reading a shopping list.
“Hi, Mrs. Russell,” Gideon says. He hasn’t moved a muscle. “How are you?”
“You remember my daughter, Trish,” she says, and looks over her shoulder at the girl who is now bright pink and staring at a grocery list like maybe she can fall into it, like the books inMyst. “Trish,” the woman says, between her teeth.
This cannot be happening again. It’s Sunday, so I guess Gideon’s parents must have sounded the alarm on Gideon’s alleged singleness again, but seriously? I step up beside Gideon, keep my mouth shut, and offer a polite smile.
“I believe we’ve met,” Gideon says, all lovely, perfect manners. “This is my girlfriend, Andi, who I’m dating. Exclusively.”
I almost start laughing with the sweet awkwardness of it.
