Page 45 of Offside

He stood. The aisle was narrow and he didn’t compensate for it, just rose to his full height with the book still in his hand, close enough that I had to tip my chin up to meet his eye.

“Maren.”

“I wasn’t staring.”

“You were absolutely staring.”

“I was assessing the shelving system.” I put the memoir back with great dignity. “They’ve reorganized since last time.”

“They haven’t reorganized anything.” He reached past me, his arm an inch from my shoulder, and drew a book from the shelf without looking, the one I’d been heading for, the one I’d abandoned when I’d turned away to pretend I hadn’t been watching him. He held it out. “You want this one.”

I took it. My face was warm.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He didn’t step back. The space between us was exactly the distance it had been in my driveway Thursday night, and he smelled the same—clean and woodsy, something quiet underneath it—and I was extremely aware of my own heartbeat and the fact that I had told myself, very firmly, that I was not going to let this happen in the middle of a bookstore in Tempe on a Saturday afternoon.

“We should go check out,” I said.

“Probably,” he agreed, and didn’t move for another two seconds that I felt in my back teeth.

Then he stepped back and let me lead the way to the register.

Ruth turned to Ryan over the top of her glasses with the frank appraisal she’d been sharpening for thirty years of watching people walk through her door. Then she turned to me. Then back to Ryan.

“First time in,” she said. Not a question.

“First time,” Ryan confirmed.

“He found the Cal Beckett without help,” I offered.

Ruth nodded slowly, as though this were significant information she was filing away. “Keep him,” she said to me, and began ringing up the books.

Ryan stepped to the register and paid for both of our books—a sizable stack between us—before I had finished digging out my wallet and I stood there with my wallet open and nothing to do with it.

“You don’t have to do that,” I said.

“I know,” he replied. With a smile. And that was it. End of discussion.

Outside the afternoon had gone golden, the October light that made Phoenix almost unreasonably beautiful, warm without the summer brutality, the sky a deep clean blue above the street. We walked to his truck with our separate bags and I was reaching for the door handle when he said my name.

“Maren.”

I turned around.

Afraid of what he was going to say, I started rambling. “Thank you for the books. You really didn’t have to⁠—”

“Maren.” He said my name again.

He was standing at the back of the truck, bags set down, wearing an expression I’d learned to recognize. The one from the driveway Thursday night, from the kitchen at Cole’s party, from every moment where he’d decided something and was about to act on it.

“Ryan,” I said. Unsure how to proceed. Something was simmering between us and I was scared of it.

“I’ve been thinking about the other night.” Oh no. Here it comes.

“Okay.” I felt the apprehension in my voice. He was going to say it was a mistake, and he’d be right.

“I want to do it again.” What? He said it simply. No performance, no lead-up, no glance away first to soften it. The fact of it laid plainly in front of me and left there. “Not just in your driveway. Not because it’s late and we’re alone and it happened. Because I want to. I can’t stop thinking about it and I think you feel it too. You have to. There’s always been this thing between us.” He motioned back and forth and stared at me.