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“I’m feeling you come alive,” he says, leaning forward slightly. A move that makes my lips part.

When his eyes drop to my mouth, they linger, then close, tight. As if the moment is a log being sawed in half, his jaw clenches at the same time his hand pulls away.

The instant he does, my breath rushes out of me in a gust, and I bring my own hands to my neck. As if trying to replicate a touch I never will.

We stand, staring at each other, inches between us, but there’s something crackling in the space. An exchange happening of something I can’t place.

Without a word, I slip into the driver’s seat of the van, my pulse pounding in my ears, and blow out another shaky breath as I buckle my seatbelt.

What just happened?

When I roll my window down, he takes it as an invitation to press a palm to either side of the opening, the sinewy lines of his arms on full display, and rounds his back slightly until his eyes meet mine.

“I can’t be with you, Bo,” I say, mustering every ounce of forced gumption.

“I can’t be with you either.”

“Then you can’t touch me like that again.” I shake my head “It’s confusing and…”Feels too good. “If we’re going to do this little list of yours, it has to be as friends.”

He nods. “I know.” He looks away from me, studying something across the parking lot before looking back, and when his eyes meet mine again, he pushes to a stand.

“‘Night, Birdie,” he says.

“‘Night, Bo.”

As I drive away, all I can think is: What did I just agree to?

Eight

Saturday greets me withan hour at the gym followed by running errands, one specifically for Veda after some research I do on arthritis, and the showdown I’m now having with Huck in my kitchen.

“C’mon, Huck, just try it,” I say as he stares at the ceiling with his mouth clamped shut.

“Please,” I beg, dragging the word out. “I made it red, just for you.”

He looks at the loaf of bread, eyes nearly closed with his skeptical squint.

When Huck and I first started spending time together, his food aversions drove me crazy. He showed up on my porch with an orange sports drink, orange lollipop, and a can of spray cheese. I nearly collapsed as every horrible ingredient and potential side effect he was holding raced through my mind.

My disgusted,Why don’t you just do a line of arsenic off the counter?!Was met with his,Why don’t you just do a line of arsenic off the counter?!

Now, after many deep breaths and months of getting to know him, I’ve learned to accommodate him in ways that don’t involve any frustrated shouting.

Huck’s current food color of preference is red, and while I understand that Miss Alice is doing the best she can, the red sports drink he shows up with today promptly ends up in the trash.

Today’s spread features strawberries, homemade bread I dyed using beet-based food coloring, a smoothie made with strawberries and raspberries, and meatballs in marinara sauce.

So far, he’s tried zero of them.

“I wonder if Huck would like to give a meatball to George Strait,” I say, switching tactics.

The slightest smile ghosts his lips.

“I wonder if Huck would like to give a meatball to George Straitandeat a meatball at the same time.”

Without warning, he pops one into his mouth while simultaneously dropping one on the floor for the dog. As George Strait laps his up, Huck chews, then smiles.

“Huck likes the meatballs,” he says loudly, grabbing another one for him and the dog.