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“It’s her,” he says with a chuckle, cutting into a log of salami. “And it’s better than if she would have askedwhyyou were there.”

I scoff, taking another sip of Coke. “That’s because sheknewwhy I was there.”

The song switches to a new track, a bird cuts across the twilight-colored sky, and I pluck another grape from the bunch, offering it to him—he nibbles it out of my fingers, eyes smiling as his lips linger on my fingertips. I notice. He notices I notice. My vagina, that thirsty bitch, really notices.

When he pulls his mouth away, he chews and swallows slowly, then says, “I liked why you were there.”

I snort a laugh, stealing a slice of cheese. “Of course you liked why I was there, you pervert.”

“Oh!” He laughs, making a stack with cheese, salami and a cracker. “You have a dog eating your vibrator but I’m the pervert?” He takes a bite, crumbs sticking to his chin; I wipe them.

“You jealous of my battery-operated boyfriends?” I make a cheese-meat-cracker stack.

“Depends.” He takes a swig of Coke.

“Oh?” I say around a crumbly bite. “On what?”

“On who you’re thinking of when you use it.”

My jaw drops; the years have done a lot to Ford, including making him more forward. I like it very,verymuch.

“Cat got your tongue, Viper?” He pops an olive in his mouth with a smirk.

“No,” I say with a haughty tone, “I was just thinking how awkward you’ll feel when I tell you I get off thinking about math.”

He laughs, and before I can register his movements, he leans over and pecks a kiss at the corner of my mouth. He pulls back—slightly—floating his knuckles over the place his lips just were. Face inches from mine, knuckles warm on my skin. I lean into his hand; his palm opens. Cups my face. And says, “I feel like I’ve spent the last twenty years trying to get to the back of this truck with you, Scotty.”

The words penetrate my flesh and alter my chemistry. The moment is nothing—twenty-year-old me would have called it boring—but here in the glow of string lights, it’s a glimpse of who we would have been if life hadn’t gone so wrong.

Same, I think.I’ve been waiting and it took you too damn long,I want to shout.

When I don’t respond out of fear of having a complete come apart, he pecks one more kiss on my lips, pulls away, and makes another salami-cheese-cracker stack.

“Don’t hold back, Scotty,” he coos before taking his first bite. “Tell me about this math you love so much.” When I laugh too hard and slap him playfully on the arm, our conversation slips into nothing important as the sun dips into the cornfield, and we sit in the back of his truck like nothing else exists. No hurts and no heartaches. No past mistakes or regrets. Just us, a string of lights, a basket of food, and Mexican Cokes.

By the time the food is gone, the sky is pitch-black and the only light around us is from the strands in the truck and the sliver of moon in the sky. “Thank you for this. It was—I don’t know—different than Iexpected.”

We scoot down the bed of the truck until we’re at the tailgate.

“Better I hope,” he says, hopping from the truck and positioning himself so he’s standing between my knees. He takes one of my hands in his, intertwining our fingers. What comes next is familiar: He brings my thumb to his lips and dusts a kiss on the end. At once: I’m a teenager.

“You remember the first time I did that?” he asks.

“No,” I lie, wanting to hear him tell the story.

He vibrates with a laugh. “Well, I do.” He kisses my thumb again. “I took you out on our first date—we were out at that weird pancake house that sells hats and dolls over in Springer, remember? Puddy’s?”

I fail to hide my smile; I remember. Every bit. “Maybe.”

“Liar.” He kisses my thumb again. “But to jog your memory, I walked you out to my truck, we were holding hands, and I said,‘I want to kiss you, Scotty.’And you said,‘You can kiss my ass.’”

A laugh bursts out of me; it’s so on-brand for both of us. Him telling me exactly how he feels, me saying the complete opposite. Even all these years later, even with all the darts life’s thrown at us, we’re those two teens a couple decades removed.

“And then I said,” he continues, holding our hands up between us and tapping my thumbnail with his free index finger, “‘I’ll kiss whatever you’ll give me. Even your thumb.’”

He did and I loved it. At sixteen, I knew I loved him.

“You always were desperate,” I tease.