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“No dog, though?”
“No. My parents were never fond of animals. Said they were too much work, too dirty, too expensive.” I sigh, “which they are, I’m sure, but I was convinced the negatives were far fewer than the positives. I loved the idea of having someone be excited to see me when I came home from school. Someone to run and play with, other than my sister, someone to pet and cuddle when I was sick or sad. I think I just really wanted to feel loved and less alone.”
He reaches over and slides his fingers through mine, squeezing my hand. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. He’s listening to things I’ve never told anyone before. And it feels good, therapeutic even to talk to him, to share.
“What would you name a dog if you had one?” he asks.
“Clifford,” I say, and he laughs.
“Like the big red dog?”
“Of course, he’s fantastic, and I loved those books as a child. Our nanny would read them to us and they became favorites of mine.”
“They are fun,” he agrees.
“You never answered the question,” I point out.
He hums, pondering. “I don’t think I ever wished on a star. I was too practical for that.”
“You mean dull?” I quip, and he laughs.
“Do you like dogs, or animals in general?”
“Yeah, I do. We never had one either, though. Mom was always too busy.”
“Will you get one when you’re finished with school?”
“Maybe.”
We lie in comfortable silence again before he says, “You have a favorite color?”
I smile. “Green.”
“Like lime green, or forest green, or like bad diarrhea green?”
“Diarrhea green?” I say, picking my head up off the blanket. “Is that how people describe it?”
He laughs and shrugs. “I don’t know, maybe olive green is a better description.”
I laugh, too. “Maybe? God, I don’t think you’ve set the bar very high with diarrhea. You would be hard pressed to find something worse.” He laughs again and it’s so warm and vibrant that it makes my entire body tingle.
“I would say dark green and emerald green, probably. You?”
“Orange.”
“Like orange, orange, or pumpkin orange, or red orange?” He smirks at me and I chuckle.
“Like, sunrise orange,” he says, thoughtfully. “Like new beginnings and possibilities.”
I hum, stroking my thumb over his hand still clinging to mine. “Tell me more,” I say, and he looks at me again.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. All of it. What’s your favorite candy? Do you like mustard or ketchup on your hot dogs? Baked or mashed potatoes? Fruit salad or regular salad? What’s your favorite season? Do you prefer snow or rain? What makes you happy, what infuriates you, what thrills you and what drives you bonkers. I want to know it all.”
He stares at me, and I wonder if I’ve gone too far, but then he smiles and says, “Nerds.”
I blink. “Pardon?”
