“That’s not advice. That’s a hostage strategy.”
“It’s pacing, Deion. All good romance has pacing.”
He was smiling, but something behind his eyes had gone careful. “What about you?” He looked at me across the table with that open, steady attention I had never once managed to make feel like less than what it was. “Anybody new?”
“Me and my mama’s Technics 1200 are in a committed relationship. It never disappoints me, plays whatever I want to hear, doesn’t leave dishes in the sink, and has never once told me thatSongs in the Key of Lifewas a rare find.”
“Nova.”
“I’m being perfectly sincere.”
“You’re deflecting.”
“I’m being honest.”
“You’re deflecting,” he said, not pushing, just naming it.
“I am,” I agreed, picking up my fork again like that settled it. “And I would like to continue doing that without interruption.”
That got the smallest shake of his head, like he had expected exactly that answer. He lifted both hands slightly, not dramatic about it, just enough to signal he was letting it go.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll allow it.”
“I appreciate that,” I said, already moving on like there was nothing to see there.
The check came. He reached for it. I put my hand flat on top of his before he could get there, and we both looked at our hands on the check for a moment that was slightly longer than necessary. Neither of us moved first.
“I’ve got it,” I said. “You buy every time if I let you.”
“I know.”
He slid the check out from under my hand anyway, not abrupt, not forceful, just done.
“Deion—”
“It’s handled,” he said, already reaching for his card.
I watched him sign the receipt with an expression that had something just underneath it, and I felt that something land in my throat the way certain chords did, the ones that arrived before you were ready and stayed longer than they should have.
He walked me to my car without asking, carrying the heavier bags because that was just how he was built. At the trunk he handed them over one at a time, and on the last one our hands overlapped on the strap.
His fingers closed over mine before the transfer was complete. I felt it from my fingers up through my wrist, my arm, my chest and lower, a current with no appropriate destination given that we were standing in a parking lot in broad daylight, so it stayed exactly where it was. Everywhere. Then his thumb moved just once across my knuckles, slow, the deliberate pressure of something that was not an accident and was not nothing. I stood very still.Let it happen. Felt it in places that had nothing to do with my hand.
Three seconds, maybe four. He let go and I took the bag.
“Have fun tonight,” I said.
He was quiet for a moment. “I’ll text you.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know I don’t have to.” He said it anyway.
Neither of us moved right away. A decade of almosts stood there with us, wearing ordinary clothes, pretending to be nothing more than an afternoon goodbye between two people who had always been just friends. A decision that had been made by someone, and it might have been me, and I was not going to examine that today. I took a step back first. He lifted two fingers, the way he signed off sometimes, not a wave, just an acknowledgment,I see you, go.I went.
But I did look back.
He was still standing there with his hands in his pockets, watching me go like he’d forgotten where he was supposed to be next. I drove home.
