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Now I know what Cash was doing when he told me not to come into the room until he gave me the all-clear. He was setting up a veritable buffetof junk-food goodness. Half a dozen types of candy, and an array of cookies and chips. There’s a tray of nachos with salsa and cheese dip and sour cream, popcorn with four different flavor toppings, soft pretzels with mustard…
I’m hungry just looking at it all, when ten minutes ago I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to stomach anything. But seeing all the effort Cash put into this… some of the weight bearing down on me lifts.
“Is it okay?” Cash searches my gaze, his expression sobering. “I thought it would be fun. But if it’s too much—”
“No way.” I snatch up a chocolate chip cookie and a handful of popcorn, holding both up at him. “Double fisting snacks is the only way to properly watch movies.”
“That’s what I thought.” He reaches for my cookie. “Thanks for grabbing that for me.”
“Hands off.” I fend him off with my elbow. “Get your own cookie.”
He huffs at me, hiding a grin. “Fine.”
“So this movie you want to watch,” Cash starts, once we’re both settled comfortably on the couch, snacks within easy reach. “Is it as ridiculous as all the other ones? Is there a news reporter going undercover as a student and falling in love with her teacher? Or is it about a thirteen-year-old who makes a birthday wish to turn thirty?”
“Those are both excellent movies,” I retort, tossing a piece of popcorn at him. “And no. This one is about a librarian who discovers a man living in the library, but it’s not because he’s homeless, it’s because he’s trying to break the world record for reading the most books.”
There’s silence. Then Cash snickers. “Nope. Not a ridiculous premise at all.”
I throw another piece of popcorn at him, but he catches this one, popping it in his mouth with a grin. “I bet you could come up with something better, Ari.”
“What do you mean?”
He cocks his head. “You’re still writing, aren’t you? I remember your stories in high school were really good. Much more creative than that journalist-undercover-student movie idea.”
“I haven’t done much lately,” I admit. “Before all of… this… I tried to write a few times a week. But it’s been hard…”
“If you need quiet time to write, just tell me,” Cash says. “If you’d rather work on that than watch movies, I won’t be insulted. Really.”
“It’s not that.” The last thing I want is more time alone to think. “I love watching movies with you, and having dinner, and talking about our days. It’s not that I don’t have time to write, I just haven’t… I just haven’t been very inspired.”
“I hope you don’t mind spending your evenings with me,” I add anxiously, my chest squeezing. “If I’m keeping you from work, or spending time with your friends, or…”
Going out with a woman?
Maybe Cash wants to go out but feels bad leaving me alone. And now I’m picturing him out in Manhattan, all handsome in a suit, a glamorous woman draped all over him—
“I like spending time with you.” He puts his hand on my knee. “I used to just come home and do more work. Sometimes I’d go into the city and make small talk with people I didn’t really like. I enjoy my shifts at the station, but other than that? My time at home was…”
After a pause, he says, “It was empty. And now it’s not. You’re my first choice to spend time with. You always have been.”
Oh. Now my heart flutters, and it’s not from fear.
But maybe it should be. Because I shouldn’t be thinking about Cash that way. I’m sure he doesn’t mean that statement the way Iwould if I said it.
Still. There’s something in his eyes when he looks at me. I just don’t know what it means.
But I have to look away before he figures out how I reallyfeel. Needing a distraction, I reach for the remote. “Are you ready to watch this movie?”
Cash blinks. He opens his mouth to say something but hesitates, snapping it shut.
A moment later, he smiles at me, teasing, “Am I ready for this quality romantic comedy that will definitely be realistic and not at all cheesy? Absolutely.”
“And no snarky comments?”
“Hey, wait.” Cash points a pretzel at me. “You never said anything about not making snarky comments.”
“Fine,” I huff, “but no more than five—” He pouts at me. “Okay, ten. And none during the big romantic gesture at the end.”
