I shake my head and remove my hand to let him see my smile.
“You’re not saying anything,” he says. “But you’re smiling. And you’re coming in.”
I bump his hip with mine on the way to the couch. He catches my wrist, and heat shoots straight to my chest, but on my way to kiss him I spot the mountain of bagged newspapers by the door.
He turns to glance over his shoulder. “I like reading the paper.”
“Your place is filthy,” I say, suppressing a laugh. “But your life is so tidy.”
“It’s horrible. Let’s go back to yours.”
“No, no! It’s cute. You don’t actually have everything figured out. Can’t you afford a cleaning service?”
“I do have my life together. Things have been hectic. The new team.” The one paying him a fraction of what he used to make. “And… a boyfriend. Just wait out here. Give me five minutes.”
He shoves me back outside and shuts the door in my face, leaving me in the bland hallway. His building is as average as mine; the difference is in our debts: mine to Alistair, his to no one.
The door opens again, revealing a miraculously transformed living room. Drawers are closed, and it is better, even though Iknow how the trick was done. He shoved everything into closets and hiding places.
Something’s clearly wrong with me, because every one of these stupid little quirks makes me like him more.
I’m used to obstacles. Even with things this good with Ash, something deep inside me won’t unclench. I can feel it there, warning me not to get comfortable, but I can’t figure out whether to listen to it or silence it.
When Alistair’s text arrives in the middle of the night, it’s almost a relief.
My phone buzzes beside Rocky on the nightstand.
“It’s like two in the morning,” Ash murmurs, wincing at the screen’s brightness.
“Sorry,” I whisper, twisting toward the edge of the bed. “Go back to sleep.”
“Who is it?”
I fight the urge to lie. I could get used to things going smoothly, but I want to be honest with Ash.
“It’s Alistair,” I admit. “But it’s fine.”
Ash shifts beside me, his bare thigh brushing mine under the covers. I feel his warmth, and his retreat, at the same time.
It isn’t the first text I’ve received from Alistair since coming back, just the first one at this hour. Before, it’s been “How is it going?” which isn’t even performative concern so much as a tiny tug on the leash he keeps on my work. This text is a full yank.
Alistair:Party tomorrow night.
Without a question mark or a please, the line reads as a direct order. My thumb hovers, until I realize there is no other choice. I type the only thing I can.
Kael:I’ll be there.
When I tell Ash, his shoulders slump. “Oh…,” he says. “We’re supposed to have dinner with Jenny.”
Guilt slices clean through the thin layer of comfort I’ve built with him. Another shoe, finally dropping.
“We’ll have to reschedule,” I say. “Or you can just go without me.”
Ash gets out of bed without another word.
“You’re mad,” I say.
“Not mad. Confused.”
