Then I went and blew my own inner declaration by asking, “Where did you go last night?”

“I had to go have drinks with this journalist, Mike something, for an interview about my upcoming release. Have I told you about that yet? It’s about the life of Blackbeard. It was fun playing a pirate. Anyway, I ended up being a little bit late for it because of your mom’s play.”

Given Noah’s loose relationship with time, I realized that his little bit late was probably quite a bit late, and I melted at the thought that he had done that for me. I’d been jealous for no reason.

Not that I was even allowed to feel envious of what he was doing or who he was with.

“Wait,” he said. “What’s with that tone? Are you jealous?”

“No.”

“You are,” he practically gloated. “You’re jealous. You thought I was with another woman.”

“You’re allowed to date whoever you want. We’re friends. It’s fine.”

“You don’t seem fine.” He was enjoying this way too much. “But you don’t have to worry. You’re the only person I’m sort of kissing and then making ill.”

“Good.” I hadn’t meant that word to slip out, and I ignored his goofy grin. “Back to driving. Have you ever played Mario Kart?”

“No.”

“That’s a relief, because real driving is nothing like video games. You have to take the car out of park and put it in drive. You steer with the steering wheel and let your foot off the brake and then press slowly on the gas. Don’t run into stuff and press the brake when you want to stop. That’s pretty much it.”

He did as I’d instructed him, inching the van forward. And he didn’t accelerate. At all. While he didn’t strike me as a cautious person, he was driving like he was eighty and had cataracts.

“You can go a little faster,” I told him. “If you were driving any slower, we’d be going backward.”

He had hunched over the steering wheel, and I could see the strain in his shoulders and his forearms. His very excellent forearms.

The van lurched forward as he gave it too much gas.

I put my hand on his thigh. “You have to do it slowly. You can’t push it that hard. Ease into it. Just go slowly.”

He glanced down at my hand. “That’s not helping me relax.”

I quickly pulled back. “Sorry.”

We did more lurches and slamming stops, and I was glad that I was wearing a seat belt. Part of me wanted to tease him, but his frustration was palpable. This went on for about five minutes before he’d apparently had enough.

He swore and put the car in park. “I don’t like being bad at things.”

“I can’t imagine it happens to you very often.”