“Ask me again tomorrow,” I said. Her eyebrows drew together, and she shifted toward me as far as the seat belt allowed. “Why?” she asked, softly enough that I could hear the heater under her voice. I kept my eyes on the road and said, “Because tonight you think traffic cones are judging us, and tomorrow I want you to be able to trust my answer.”
“That sounds like a lawyer answer,” she said. “I’m an engineer,” I reminded her, and she sighed as if I had admitted to something worse. The light changed, a car behind us nudged its horn, and I drove forward with my pulse beating hard in my throat. I wanted to tell her that she was the first name I looked for on my phone, that Sunday mornings belonged to her before I had ever admitted it, and that friendship had stopped explaining what I felt a long time ago.
