Page 152 of ClickBack

“Come over to this side.”

“You’re offering to trade dinners?”

“I’m offering you another piece. Don’t get carried away.”

I give him a bite of mine so I can stop feeling indebted. He likes it enough to ask for another. We finish the plates we ordered, with enough crossing between them to make the original decision less important.

The conversation wanders to music. I tell him about a small place I used to go with Di where she would request a song, then disappear to the bathroom when it came on. He tells me Von used to borrow his headphones without asking and return them with one side dead.

“Every time?”

“Enough times for him to stop calling it borrowing.”

“Did you keep lending them?”

“He kept taking them.”

I ask what he listened to when he was young, and he names an album I remember buying when it came out. Neither of us calculates the difference. He asks which song I played most. I tell him, and he argues for another one until I admit I skipped a track he loves.

“I almost took you home after the gallery,” he says. “Should’ve trusted myself.”

“You can’t abandon me over a song.”

“I can get you a car.”

I laugh hard enough that the server pauses before asking about dessert. We choose one to share. Jarrett lets me have the first bite, then moves the plate closer to the center when I go back before he has tried it.

“You said share.”

“I meant emotionally.”

He takes the spoon from my hand and tastes it. “I feel left out.”

By the time we leave, I have forgotten to check my phone for nearly two hours. Rae has sent one message about her interview going well and another asking if I am out. I answer in the elevator and tell her I’ll talk to her tomorrow.

In the SUV, I settle beside Jarrett while Graves pulls into traffic. The gallery purchases are on the seat opposite us. Jarrett has checked twice that neither package is bent.

“I owe your painting an apology,” I tell him.

“For what?”

“I thought somebody chose it because it matched the couch.”

He turns toward me. “The couch?”

“You said the designer did most of it.”

“And you looked at that painting and thought, good job with the sofa?”

“When you say it that way, it sounds bad.”

“That’s foul, Giselle.”

“To you or the painting?”

“Both.”

I lean against him, laughing. He puts his arm around me and keeps it there when the car stops at a light.