“I love hanging out with you,” he comments happily. “Let’s do bookstore first.” “Okay. Are you looking for something, or?” “No”—he shrugs, glancing up at the rearview—“I just figured you’d want to go. You said the other day that the pickings had been slim on books at the thrift store.” Self-conscious, I shift in my seat, fiddling with the strap across my chest. Did he really offer to go only because he knew that’s what I would want to do? “We don’t have to,” I tell him quietly. “We could do whatever.” “Nope,” he replies cheerfully. “We’re going to the bookstore, and the library. Those stuffy
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