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“And you came.”

“Because there’s no one else.”

“You still came.”

I hate that, the way he keeps reducing everything to its simplest form and making it impossible to hide behind false complexity.

I look away first.

“I don’t know what I’m doing with Lucy.”

“With kids no one does at first.”

“She’s not a houseplant, Ashby.”

“No. A houseplant would have less specific food preferences. I might not know much about kids, but I hear the mealtime arguments can be intense.”

A startled laugh slips out of me, and I glare at him.

He looks completely innocent. Worse, he looks like he knows he’s funny but decided not to take credit for it.

“She just wants her mom and I have no answers for her.”

Ashby’s expression stills. “That’s hard on both of you.”

“Yes,” I agree, picturing her sad little face. “It is.”

The wind lifts cold off the river. I fold my arms across myself, suddenly aware I forgot to wear gloves.

Ashby notices. He removes his own and holds them out to me.

I shake my head. “No, thanks.”

“But you’re cold.”

“I’m not taking your gloves,” I insist.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t need your gloves.”

He laughs. “You’re gripping your sleeves with both hands.”

“The cold is bracing. I enjoy it,” I lie.

His eyes narrow slightly. Mine narrow back. We stand there in a ridiculous, silent battle over knit gloves.

Then he simply sets them on the railing beside my hand, making them available. Somehow, that's more irritating than if he’d argued.

After thirty seconds, I take them.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” I mutter to myself under my breath, pulling them on.

He hears it. “I assumed not.”

“They’re just gloves.”

“Yes.”