Terms and Conditions

He brings chili.

That's how negotiations open on Friday night: Shane at your door with a dented Dutch oven in two pot holders and a sleeve of saltines under one arm, Pickles hopping in behind him on three legs like she pays rent.

"You cook for the meeting," you say, "and I don't, because..."

"Because I want to live." He puts the pot on your stove and gives the stove a long, wary look. "Don't touch anything."

You sit on the couch with a legal pad. He sits on the floor with his back against the couch, close enough that his shoulder brushes your knee, and eats chili out of the pot with a wooden spoon. Pickles lies across his feet. It is extremely difficult to run a professional meeting under these conditions.

"Rules," you say. "One. It's one week. Monday the ninth to Sunday the fifteenth. After that, we break up."

"How do we break up?"

"Amicably. You're too married to the job."

"Ouch. Accurate." He points the spoon at you. "Two?"

"Two. No feelings."

He doesn't say anything to that. He scrapes the side of the pot. "Sure," he says, after a second. "Three?"

"You drive, I pay for gas. Four, we need a story. My family will ask everything. My mother will ask your blood type."

"O positive." He grins up at you. "Story's easy. We met because you tried to burn the building down."

"That's not romantic."

"It's very romantic. I carried a ladder. You were in a towel."

"I was in a robe, and that was the hair straightener, and we agreed not to bring it up."

"We agreed not to bring up the crème brûlée." He sets the pot aside and looks at you, and he has a way of looking at you that makes you feel like the only lit window on a dark street. "Okay, real question. How long have we been dating?"

You chew your pen. "Three months?"

"Since the popcorn," he says, like he has the date written down. "First date?"

"You tell me."

"I took you to the Bay View Bowl and you threw a gutter ball so hard it jumped into the next lane. Then frozen custard. You got butter pecan. You always get butter pecan."

You stare at him. "How do you know I always get butter pecan?"

"I'm a trained observer, Ava." He says it lightly. He doesn't quite look at you.

After that, the texts start.

You don't know who sends the first one. Maybe him. You're in bed on Saturday night with your sketchbook, drawing a badger in a scarf for a book about winter, and your phone lights up.

Pop quiz. What's my middle name.

You never told me your middle name.

Correct. Trick question. It's Robert. Study harder.

You smile at the ceiling. Then you realize he's twelve steps away. You could hear him if he coughed.

You know you could just knock.

Knocking means you have to get out of bed. I'm a considerate fake boyfriend.

It becomes a thing. Every night, across twelve steps of hallway. Fake anniversary? (November 1. Popcorn. I wept.) Fake pet names? (Absolutely not. / Too late, I'm calling you 3B.) Who said I love you first? (A long pause. Then: Nobody yet. We're taking it slow. We're mature.)

On Tuesday he knocks for real at seven, after his shift, smelling like cold air and diesel, and says, "Practice."

"Practice what?"

He holds out his hand. "Hand-holding. Your mother will notice if you hold my hand like it's a dead fish."

You take it. His hand is enormous, warm, rough across the palm, with a healing burn on the side of his thumb. He laces his fingers through yours, slowly, giving you every chance to let go. You don't.

"Okay," he says, and his voice is lower than usual. "That's. Yeah. You're a natural."

"You're the one who's good at this."

"I'm good at most things." He doesn't let go. "Ask me what I like about you."

"What?"

"Your mother will ask. 'What do you see in her?' You need to hear me say it so you don't look surprised."

You swallow. "Fine. What do you like about me?"

He doesn't hesitate. Not even a breath. "You talk to your plants. You draw animals in tiny sweaters and get mad when they don't look brave enough. You laugh with your whole face. You carried Mrs. Ferenc's cat to the vet in a snowstorm because the cab wouldn't take it. You say sorry to furniture when you bump into it." The corner of his mouth lifts. "And you're very bad at broccoli."

You don't say anything for a second. Neither does he. His thumb moves across your knuckles once, like he's checking they're all there.

"That was fast," you finally manage.

"I'm a fast study." He lets go, steps back into the hallway, scratches the back of his neck. "Same time tomorrow? We'll do the slow dance."

"There's a slow dance?"

"It's a wedding, 3B. There's always a slow dance."

You do ask him, once. Thursday night, over takeout from the Mexican place on KK, his feet on your coffee table.

"Why are you doing this? Honestly."

He takes a long time with a chip. "I've got vacation I never use. I like you. You need help." A shrug. "Also, I've never been to a wedding where I didn't have to carry somebody's uncle to the car."

It's a good answer. It's three good answers. You notice later, brushing your teeth, that he didn't look at you for any of them.

Sunday night. The truck is packed, or your half is. You leave at seven tomorrow. You're in pajamas, triple-checking your bridesmaid dress (dusty rose, Sadie's choice, unforgiving), when your phone rings.

Kendrick.

You haven't heard his voice since August. Your heart does a stupid, old thing.

You answer, because not answering looks like it matters. "Hi."

"Hey. Hey, Ava." His voice is warm, low, the voice he uses for clients and waitresses. "I just wanted to clear the air before this week. I don't want it to be weird. We're adults."

"It's not weird."

"Good. Great." A pause. "So Sadie says you're bringing someone."

"I am."

"That's great. Really. I'm happy for you." Another pause, and you can hear the smile in it, the smile you know. "He's real, right? You're not, like... I just know how hard this year's been for you. Nobody would blame you."

Your face goes hot. Your mouth opens and nothing comes out.

A knock. You didn't lock the door. Shane leans in, Dutch oven returned, washed, and sees your face.

He crosses the room in three steps. He holds out his hand, palm up, and raises his eyebrows: May I?

You give him the phone.

"Hey, Kendrick," Shane says, easy and warm, like a man answering his own kitchen phone. "This is the plus-one. See you up north."

He hangs up. He hands the phone back.

You stare at him.

"What," he says, all innocence, and then his face breaks into the widest grin you've ever seen. "Oh, he's going to hate me."