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I try seizing the cart from his grasp, but he merely muscles me away, smirking. “Quit using that word so casually,” I order.

“Which one?”

I glare up at him as we start down the nearest aisle.

So then Aaron Beckham and I are shopping. Thankfully, he’s quieter than I expect, but mostly because he’s spending thirty hours reading labels on cans, bags, and packages we come across.

“A lot of this is for my family,” I tell him, folding my arms. “They don’t follow my food regimen, so I cook in twos.”

“I’m aware.”

He says it with enough annoyance that my defensiveness skyrockets. “It’s not like they didn’t try. I literally told them to stop.”

“Because you hate feeling like you’re inconveniencing people.” Aaron’s knuckles whiten around the shopping cart. “Your family should keep trying, especially if you’re the one doing most of the cooking.”

“It’s not that easy—”

“I know, Riley. Trust me.” He catches my wrist and shifts my fingers between his, beginning to massage away the cold shiver. “I’m just saying that if my dads can build a whole new cabinet just to store their future son-in-law’s gluten-free cookware and avoid eating it when he’s in the house, your own family should be twice as willing to make the effort.”

I can feel my face deciding whether it should turn white or crimson. Not only did I take up space, but I forced his dads to readjust their lives to fit my needs? And what’s with his casual use of the phrase son-in-law, as if he’s already put a ring on my finger?

Maybe Aaron senses he’s not getting through to me, because he draws a deep, exasperated breath, allowing me to pull out of his grip. His very warm, very steady, very large grip. “Let’s keep moving,” he says, pushing the cart onward.

Aaron gets a few certified gluten-free snacks for himself—dark chocolate popcorn, sweet potato chips, and gummy bears. I must’ve had an influence on him, because they’re my go-to snacks in a pinch.

“I told you not to worry about what you eat anymore,” I say as we approach the checkout aisle. “We’re never going to kiss again.”

Aaron smiles like I’ve said something endearing, then adds a pack of mints to the cart. I’m not sure why, but his lack of a snide comment worsens my blush. He uses his card to pay, because I didn’t bring Mom’s with me when I was blindsided by the history club. I note the total so I can pay him later, and then we’re heading to his truck.

“Did you enjoy it?” he asks.

I scoff. “Not particularly, since I didn’t want you there.”

Aaron laughs, and it’s warmer than I expect. Whenever he laughed at me in the past, it was snide and cold, usually in response to a stern scolding. “I meant the history club,” he says, wandering to the passenger side after we’ve loaded the groceries onto the back bench. He offers his hand to help me up like I’m a five-year-old and not a grown man who can now legally vote. Ignoring it, I step up and flop into the seat. Aaron grins, circles around to the driver’s side, and tucks his long limbs into the seat. “Did you have fun?”

“I guess,” I admit, folding my knees into my chest as we peel out of the lot. “They were nice. Amy said you’re the reason I joined. Care to explain?”

Aaron shrugs. I notice then that while his limbs are lean, his shoulders are wider than I remember. I can see it in the way his shirt strains around his chest and falls looser on his waist. “You never felt like you had time to do things for yourself,” he says, though I’ve already forgotten what we were talking about. “You like history, and I was friends with Amy, so I asked her to approach you. After months of me saying you should try it, all it took was a stranger telling you to come to a meeting, and you caved. Because you hate disappointing people you’ve just met.”

I squirm with irritation. That does sound like me. “Amy said you came on the field trips sometimes,” I say, eyeing him suspiciously. “Why?”

Aaron gives me a skeptical look as we pull into my driveway. “Why do you think? I like seeing you get excited over things. I like the look in your eyes when you learn something new. Just weeks ago we were planning a trip to Chicago so I could take you to every museum on your bucket list. Do you get it now?”

Of course not. It sounds too cutesy and romantic. Chicago is my most anticipated city to visit in the country—I can’t imagine letting him ruin that experience for me.

Aaron single-handedly carries all the plastic grocery bags inside despite my disgruntlement. “You can leave now,” I say as he dumps everything onto the kitchen island.

“But you have to label everything, right?” Aaron fumbles around the kitchen, clicking his tongue when he can’t find the roll. “Your parents moved shit around—”

“I’ll do it myself,” I say, sharper. “Don’t just ignore me when I tell you to leave. Why do you think disrespecting me is going to win me over?”

Aaron must hear the venom in my voice, because he stops rustling around and turns toward me. My fists are clenched, my stance is tall and combative, and my jaw is tight. “You’re right,” he says, his eyes finding mine, and the webs of gray in his insistent irises freeze me. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to upset you. There’s a lot you’re dealing with, and…knowing that you’re suffering through it alone…I just want to be here for you.”

My right knee twitches. For a second I think I might collapse, but it doesn’t trigger my apprehension. I’m not sure why, until a realization strikes me.

It’s because I know he’ll catch me.

But I don’t know that. I have no memories of Aaron, no reason to trust him or his words. And yet…