“I read a news article a few weeks ago about a guy who sold a banana duct-taped to a canvas for over two million dollars and thought that was impressive.”

“Are you trying to tell me that you’re not hard to impress?”

“Basically.”

“Good to know.” I laugh and watch him smile.

As we drive toward Nashville, I try to come up with something to talk about to fill the silence but can’t seem to think of anything to say without mentioning Matthew or the conversation leading back to him in some way. It makes me realize how much of my identity was wrapped up in him and our relationship. Sure, I have painting, my family, and even a few close friends, but most of the experiences I’ve had over the past five years of my life involve my ex, and not wanting to include him leaves me with little to talk about.

When he turns onto our block about twenty minutes later, we find it filled with cars. It happens from time to time when there is a concert or an event at the venue nearby, and people don’t want to pay to park in one of the garages that charge by the hour.

“I’m gonna drop you off out front and go a few blocks over to park,” he tells me after going around the block twice and not finding a spot big enough for his SUV.

“I don’t mind walking back with you.”

“Even in those heels?” He glances over at me.

“I could beat you in a race wearing these.” I lift my foot slightly, showing off my four-inch pump—not that he sees while he’s driving.

“As much as I enjoy a challenge, I’m not going to make you walk when I can drop you off.” He double parks in front of the building and is out of the car before I can argue. Unhooking my belt, I pick up my clutch and reach for the door handle, but he gets there before me, his big body filling the doorway.

“Thank you,” I say quietly when he takes my hand to help me out, the heat from his touch all I can seem to focus on.

He doesn’t respond. He also doesn’t let my hand go. Instead, he uses it to move me out of the way so he can shut the door, and he keeps hold of it while he navigates us between two parked cars, up onto the sidewalk, and to the front door of the building.

Releasing my hand, he punches in the code for the door, holding it open for me to enter.

“Thanks for letting me borrow this.” I turn back to face him and slip off his jacket that is still wrapped around my shoulders. “And thanks for the ride home.”

“Of course.” He takes his jacket, draping it over his arm.