“He’s a keeper, then.”
When it’s time to go, my mother hugs me, then hugs Ash, holding on a little longer than necessary. “You take care of each other, okay?” she says.
Ash nods, then, softer, “Thank you, Camille. For dinner. For…everything.”
She pats his cheek, then waves us out, already clearing the table.
My father walks us to the door, then stands in the entryway, arms folded. “You make my son happy,” he says, quiet but unmissable.
“I try,” Ash says.
“Good. Keep doing it,” he says, then lets the door swing shut behind us.
Outside, the sky is still blue, but the sun is fading, the air cool and sharp.
We walk down the steps, not talking. At the sidewalk, Ash stops, shoves his hands in his pockets, and looks at me.
“You ever think,” he says, “that this is all some kind of fever dream, and we’re gonna wake up and find out we lost the cup and never made it out of the locker room?”
I look at him, and the old ache is gone, replaced by something cleaner, something that feels like home.
“No,” I say. “I don’t.”
He grins, then kisses me, quick, like he’s afraid the neighbors are watching.
But I don’t care.
Because this, all of it, is mine.
And I’m never giving it up.
———
Asher
I am not built for nice restaurants.
My wardrobe consists of exactly three collared shirts, all of which have seen more pizza sauce than bleach, and even on mybest day, my hair sticks up in back like I lost a bet with a wind tunnel.
But Darius insisted, and now we are here, in the kind of place where the waiter has opinions about the mineral content of the water and the bread comes on a slate instead of a plate.
The view is insane, Seattle at dusk, lights flicking on like someone’s auditioning the skyline for a perfume commercial.
The windows are so big they make you feel like you’re eating dinner inside a snow globe. There’s rain streaking the glass, the space beyond washed in silver and blue, and the whole city feels like it’s floating.
Darius sits across from me, in a black shirt that probably cost more than my rent. He looks uncomfortable, which is how I know he means business.
His tie is perfect, but his eyes are soft, and every time I catch him looking at me, he does this thing where he tries to play it off, like he was just checking for sauce on my face.
“Do you want to know the specials again?” the waiter asks, voice modulated for people with shares in a private jet company.
I shake my head. “We’re good. But if you bring more bread, I might make a donation to your favorite charity.”
The waiter laughs, like I’m the first person all night to say something not approved by the Michelin Guide. He gives a little bow, then leaves us alone.
I look at Darius, who is holding his menu but not looking at it.
“You nervous?” I ask.
