Page 87 of Crease Collision

“There,” he says. “Problem solved.”

A little later, we stop at a tea stand where the samples smell amazing. Soon I’m stuck again while a guy with a long scraggly beard explains Darjeeling harvests to me like I’m preparing for a final exam.

Second flush. Muscatel notes. Six thousand feet…

Kill me now.

Oskar slides a hand against my lower back and rubs circles there.

“Buy one of each,” he whispers.

I exhale hard enough to fog the air between us. “You’re ridiculously good at this.”

“At tea?”

“At me.” I toss my sample cup into a nearby wastebasket. “That’s enough for Mom,” I say. Then, before I can second-guess it, I add, “I told her about you.”

The look he gives me is unreadable. “What did she say?”

Oh God. Maybe I should’ve stayed quiet.

“She asked how long we’d been seeing each other. I told her since August.”

“And?”

“She wants me to bring you over sometime. Said she can’t believe I’ve been seeing someone for months and haven’t told her. Honestly, I think she wants to be sure I’m not hallucinating.”

“Hmm. Are we going to visit her?”

“I don’t think we can. She leaves on the twenty-third for Mustique, and we’re both playing until then. She won’t be back until after Easter.”

“Maybe it’s for the best. I won’t have to worry she might smell my lavender soap.”

“You don’t use lavender soap.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Why do you think that?”

“Because I’d smell it. And I’ve taken showers at your apartment.”

“Maybe I bought some.” He holds a straight face for a few seconds, then laughs so hard I can’t resist joining in.

As we carry our bags deeper into the market, Oskar shivers in the cold. We’re both wearing coats, and I feel snug in the beautiful sweater he gave me on Thanksgiving. We pause now and then at booths selling things nobody needs but suddenly can’t live without in December.

At one stop, Oskar picks up a ridiculous felt moose wearing a plaid scarf and tiny hockey skates.

I snort. “That thing looks drunk.”

“It’s perfect.”

“You’re buying the drunk hockey moose?”

“Obviously.”

I laugh so hard people turn to look. That would usually bother me, but today I hardly notice.

The market gets more crowded as the afternoon wears on. Every few minutes someone bumps into me or cuts too close, but Oskar’s always ready with a hand against my back or his fingers brushing mine. A couple of times, he wedges his body between me and the thickest parts of the crowd.

Thank God.