Page 74 of What We Break
"Cold?"
"Shut up."
"I could warm you up."
"Reid. Groceries."
"Right. Groceries. Very important." But he's still grinning as he buckles his seatbelt, and honestly so am I, and we're both ridiculous and I don't care.
I've never driven my boyfriend in my car. I've never actually owned a car before. Queen of rickshaws and tuk-tuks and whatever public transportation existed within walking distance — that was me. But this? Driving my own car? Brand new experience. The car itself is not new by any means. Dent in the back bumper. Mysterious stain on the passenger seat that I've chosen not to investigate because some things are better left unknown. But I'm still ridiculously proud of it. I love the red paint. For so long I just used whatever was available, whatever was there, so getting to pick something as simple as the color? That feels like freedom.
"So where's this magical good grocery store?" he asks, and his hand lands on my thigh like it belongs there. Casual. Warm. Distracting.
"Oak Street. But we're making a strategic stop first."
"Strategic stop?" His thumb traces a small circle on my jeans, and I'm pretty sure he knows exactly what he's doing.
I grin and pull out of his driveway, trying to focus on the road instead of his hand. "You'll see."
The farmer's market is just setting up when we get there, vendors arranging their produce under white tents. It's smaller than the ones I've been to in other cities — definitely smaller than the one in Chiang Mai that took up six city blocks and sold everything from mangosteen to live eels — but there's something charming about it.
"Farmer's market?" Reid asks as we walk between the stalls.
"Fresh stuff tastes better. Plus I like supporting local people." I pause at a stand with the most beautiful tomatoes I've ever seen. "Look at these."
Reid picks up a tomato and examines it like he's never seen one before, turning it over in his hands with exaggerated seriousness. "It's... very red."
"Reid. This is a perfect tomato. Feel how heavy it is."
He hefts it in his palm, brow furrowed like he's appraising a diamond. "Heavy tomato. Got it. What else should I be looking for? Emotional stability? Good credit score?"
"You're hopeless." But I'm laughing, and when I reach for the tomato, our fingers brush. He doesn't let go right away.
"I'm not hopeless. I'm learning. There's a difference."
He's right. And the fact that he's genuinely happy to learn from me instead of pretending he already knows everything? That feels really stinking good.
I buy the tomatoes and some basil that smells like summer. Reid trails behind me like a very tall, very willing pack mule, carrying my bags and asking questions about everything. Why these peppers instead of those ones? How do you know if an avocado's ripe? What's the difference between all these kinds of apples?
He stays close. Closer than he needs to in the open-air market, where there's plenty of room to spread out. His hand finds the small of my back when we stop at a stall. His shoulder brushes mine as we walk. Like he physically can't stand not touching me.
I am absolutely not complaining.
"You're very tactile today," I say as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear that the breeze blew loose.
"Today?" He grins. "I'm tactile every day. You're just finally noticing."
"I noticed before."
"Yeah?" His voice drops. "Did you like it before?"
"Maybe."
"Just maybe?"
I hand him another bag of produce to carry instead of answering. His laugh is warm and delighted.
"You really know what you're doing," he says as we head back to the car. He's already eaten two of the strawberries from the basket we bought, and there's a bit of juice at the corner of his mouth that I want to lick off.
