Devon holds my hand to walk me to his car. Because of the ice, he says. We both have mittens on, so the grasp is soft and clumsy and reminds me mostly of being a little kid. Devon in general reminds me of when I was a little kid. So does snow. We don’t speak on the ride to my house, except when Devon asks me if I’m sure I don’t want to grab a pizza, and I shake my head really fast back and forth. Zed will be disappointed when I share this part. I should say yes. To everything, I think. As I’m getting out of the car, Devon tilts his head. He can’t see my mouth or my forehead—I’m all wrapped up in a scarf and an oversize winter hat. Safe from scrutiny. “Call me if you need another ride,” he says. “It was nice of you to come,” I say. He has to ask me to repeat myself, the sound is so muffled by my thick fleece scarf. “Or stay. It was nice of you to stay and make sure I didn’t, like, implode or whatever.” It looks like there’s more he wants to say, but the snow’s coming down harder now, so I pretend it’s urgent that I get out of the car this instant.
