“Oh. Right.” I look around the wide-open-yet-crammed-full-of-people space. “Couches,” I blurt since they’re the first item I see. I barrel through the crowd to the displays, moving from one couch to the next as I test them all for comfort and durability.
Seth stops in front of the cheapest one, plops down on it for half a second, then jumps back up. “This one will do.”
“Seriously? You can’t just buy the first one you try.”
“Why not?”
“It’s like a car or a house or a significant other. You don’t marry the first person you date.” I want to shove the words right back in my mouth the second they break free. They hang heavy in the air as an alternate future looms before us, the two of us shopping for furniture under totally different circumstances. If anything, years of people-watching at IKEA have taught me that kind of trip typically ends in either a screaming match or the silent treatment.
That wouldn’t be us though, a very mean voice in the back of my brain insists. We’d be the couple zipping through the aisles, Seth pushing me as I rode a cart like a skateboard. The pair sharing an ice-cream cone, actually looking forward to an evening of putting together the mind-bending puzzle they call furniture, because it would mean spending time together.
“Would that have been so terrible?” Seth’s voice is so soft I barely hear it, his question revealing a similar could-have-been scene played out in his own mind.
“Yes.” My one-word response is stark. And a lie.
He exhales sharply, like he’s been punched in the stomach.
I busy myself with my phone, letting Natasha’s marching orders distract me from dumb things like feelings. “Sit and pose, try to look pretty. We need something to post on Instagram.”
Any hint of emotion drops from Seth’s face, replaced with his signature cocky charm as he perches on the arm of the sofa. “I always look pretty, Parker.”
He flashes a charismatic grin and I snap the photo before we continue on.
—
Seth only grimacesa little when he’s given his final total at checkout, sliding his card through the reader and taking his receipt. The grimace gets a little deeper when he pays to have everything delivered to his house.
“You had to drive a Prius,” he grumbles at me as we make our way to the food court.
“I’m saving the planet, jerk.” I order us each a vanilla cone, hand over my two dollars, and lead him to the only open table. Of course, it’s the tiniest one possible and our knees brush together once we’re both in our seats. I scoot my chair back, putting some space between us and taking a moment to remind myself that the little zings from his touch don’t magically heal the damage he’s done.
We sit in our awkward, hostile-lite silence for a minute, both of us focusing on our cones and avoiding looking at each other.
“So how do you like working forATF?” Seth extends his long legs, one on either side of my chair, encroaching on my space in a way he knows irritates me. Even though they don’t touch me, I can feel his legs surrounding me.
I ignore the overwhelming urge to play footsie and focus on how much of the truth I want to share. Is he asking just to be polite and make conversation, or is he trying to get insider info? Does he want to compare publication stats so I can be intimidated by the great Seth Carson? I mean, I know how lucky I am to have a stable writing job with steady pay and benefits, but it also doesn’t feel anywhere near as important as what Seth has done with his own career. Not that I ever had a nose for “serious” journalism, but I certainly never pictured myself as LA’s millennial Carrie Bradshaw.
If Seth notices my reticence—and I’m sure he does—he just sits silently while I puzzle it all out, his attention focused on his ice cream, his tongue swirling through the sweet cream like I’m not supposed to notice.
And I’m so distracted by the sight, by the way his tongue swipes at the cool vanilla, that I start speaking without a filter. “I likeATFa lot. The crew is great, they’re some of my closest friends. And Natasha is a really good boss. She genuinely cares about us, not just as employees, but as people.”
“Do I hear abutin there somewhere?”
I shrug, swiping a lick of my own cone. “It’s not what I would choose to be writing.”
His feet hook around the legs of my chair. “Yeah, to befrank I didn’t expect to find your name listed under dating and relationships.”
“Because I’m so bad at them?” The heat in my voice is enough to melt the ice cream.
“Because it’s a waste of your talents. And it’s not your passion.” He meets my gaze head-on, his mouth devouring a bite of his cone.
I nudge his feet away from my chair and ignore the fire in my belly as I remember what else that mouth can do. “How would you know anything about my passions? Believe it or not, people do change over the course of twelve years.”
He’s quiet for a minute. “Fair enough.” He doesn’t point out that it was the very chance to write about my passions, a column dedicated to that piece of my heart, that convinced me to agree to this whole competition in the first place.
It irks me, the way he still seems to know me. The way I don’t feel like I know him.
His tongue swipes another lick of ice cream. “Are you free this Saturday?”
