“Goddammit. Fine.” He points toward the back of the store. “Go pick out a tank. I’ve clearly been tricked.”
“You’re the best!”
“I’m an idiot, is what I am.”
“An idiot who’s about to be a fish dad!” I’m already halfwaydown the aisle, cup clutched to my chest. “His name is Shredder, by the way!”
“We’re not naming him Shredder!”
“Too late, it’s already done, Shredder and I have bonded!”
Settingup the fish tank takes forever. Which is ridiculous because it should be two steps: add water, add fish.
But Zach insists on reading everything, literally mouthing the words as he goes, stopping to Google “do betta fish need hiding spots” on his phone. He’s wearing reading glasses. I didn’t even know he had reading glasses. He looks like a concerned parent researching preschools and I kind of want to make fun of him but I’m also kind of melting. He’s got his sleeves pushed up and I keep looking at his forearms, which is possibly weird, but whatever. They’re good forearms.
“You could help,” he says.
“I’m supervising.”
“You’re lying down on my couch.”
“It’s called horizontal supervision.”
He shakes his head but he’s smiling, and I roll onto my stomach so I can watch Shredder swim around in the little plastic cup, still waiting for his tank to be ready. He flares his fins at me through the plastic. I flare back, puffing my cheeks out, and Zach catches me doing it. He doesn’t say anything but I can see him trying not to laugh.
It takes another twenty minutes before Shredder’s finally in the tank, and I’ve been lying here so long my arm is asleep.
The cushion shifts when he drops onto the other end of the couch.
“Hey.” I turn my head to look at him and he’s right there,closer than I expected, and all the want from the past four days comes rushing back at once.
“I missed you when you were on your road trip, Fish Daddy.” I try not to laugh when I say it but a giggle escapes anyway.
“Mackie, please, I’m begging you. Don’t ever call me that again.”
I sit up and scoot closer to him. “But you’re a fish dad now.”
“Fish owner. Co-owner. Whatever. I’m subletting the space on top of my bookshelf for your fish.”
“Our fish.”
He laughs, pulling me toward him and I stop caring about whose fish it is because of the way he’s watching me. His eyes have gone dark and there’s a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth and god, women would kill for lips like that and he just has them without trying.
“I thought about you,” he says. “The whole time I was gone.”
“What did you think about?”
“You.”
“No shit, Zach. What about me?”
His face immediately goes pink. “You know.”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to be more specific.” It comes out braver than I feel.
“Mackie—”
“Communication is important in relationships.” I’m tracing my finger along the neck of his shirt, trying to maintain the confident act. “What exactly were you thinking about? On the plane? In the hotel?”
