I lie back down on the couch and tell him everything I can think of. Starting with the line out the door of Charleston Coffee Traders first thing in the morning. Then about how Rose was running so late that she did rounds in scrubs pulled over penguin-patterned pajamas. About the baby with a murmur, whose life I helped save. The questionable turkey sandwich I had for lunch. I talk and talk and talk. More than I ever have, possibly. I pause a few times, self-conscious. But then he asks what happened next or laughs, and I keep talking.

I don’t stop until I hear commotion on his end that grows louder instead of quieter.

We’re both silent for a minute.

“Thank you for the car,” I blurt. “Not that you’re, like, giving it to me. I don’t mean that. But thank you for letting me use it. It was really…sweet of you.” I’m not sure I could sound any less eloquent. Like lots of things, a simple thank you is more complicated with him than it would be with anyone else. I don’t want him to think I’m reading into the gesture. I’m also wondering if I should.

Rather than provide any insight, he asks, “Have you had any problems with it?”

“None. The thing runs great. And I haven’t gotten into any accidents, so don’t worry about the paint job.”

He’s silent for a beat. “If you were in an accident, I wouldn’t give a fuck about the paint job, Evie. Just you.”

I’m glad he can’t see my face because I’m certain it’s showing everything I never told him.

“I’ve gotta go.” There’s regret in his voice, and it makes my heart race.

Hope. That’s what this giddy emotion is called, I think.

Whatever it is, it makes me bold. “Are you going to call again?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Yes.” That’s my answer when it comes to him. Do I need him? Will he break my heart? Am I stupid for enabling this? All yeses.

“Okay. Bye, Evie.”

“Bye, Gray.”

I let my phone drop and then stare up at my ceiling with a stupid smile on my face.

A week later, he calls again. I’m in his Jeep, on my way to work. When I admit that, I can hear the smile in his voice. For the whole drive to work, we talk about nothing meaningful. I don’t ask what these calls mean, and he doesn’t offer up any explanation.

Despite that, I’m in a good mood all morning. Rose regales me with a dramatic retelling of her date last night over Caesar salad. When she’s finished making fun of the way he ordered wine in a French accent, she shifts her attention to me.

“What about you?”

“What about me?” I ask, playing dumb.