Page 105 of Enzo

“I have a complicated relationship with my right hip.”

“You do?” I ask, genuinely concerned.

“The future me does.”

Here we go again.

I let out a groan, so that I don’t laugh out loud. “You're really getting into character.”

“I don't like to talk about it. I choose to deal with my pain quietly.”

She stares at me, her gaze going over my beard and glasses and stares.

“What?”

“You’re extremely attractive as a disgraced academic.”

“Why disgraced?”

“The comparative pottery drove you to ruin, much like Van Gogh.”

I stifle another laugh. I seem to be doing a lot of that lately. Something seems to have changed and even my working days are almost unrecognizable.

“He wasn't a potter,” I counter.

“But he was a tortured artist.”

“Earlier you said I was a history professor.”

“A professor of medieval comparative pottery. That’s a sort of history professor …”

“I see we're having another non-conversation.”

“Don't be so rude.”

I try to suppress my laughter. She seems so much more effervescent today, and it catches me off guard, especially with the way she’s so comfortable teasing me.

I don’t mind it one bit.

She gives me a playful swat of her hand on my thigh and the sparks she sets off are still zinging long after she’s moved her hand away. Once again, she has no idea of the effect she has on me. Even when she’s dressed as an eighty-year-old.

I look her over again. Her face doesn't fit the outfit. “I don't know if I can get used to you in this.”

“You don't have to get used to it. It's temporary.” She looks me up and down again. “By the way, you look adorable.”

Adorable.

She thinks I look adorable. Earlier she called me a sexy professor.

“We can walk around the block,” she offers. “We don’t have to get into a taxi or anything.”

I step back and assess her, wondering why the sudden change of mind. I thought this was what she wanted. “Don’t you want to go out?”

“I do, but I don’t want to take up too much of your time. You’re supposed to be working, Enzo. I’m on spring break. School’s closed for the week, so I’m okay. I worry that your family might get angry.”

She’s more worried about me. Typical Molly. “Don’t worry about them.”

I slip my arm through hers instinctively. She glances at me, but I focus on flagging down a taxi. When one arrives, we get in. I don’t look at her, because I don’t have an answer to give her, nor do I understand why I hooked my arm through hers like it’s the most natural thing for me to do.