Mia
Noah had asked me the same question three times in two weeks.
The first time, we were leaving a restaurant after midnight.
The second time, he was driving me home from one of his games.
The third time, he stood in my kitchen holding a spoon and asked, “What are we doing?”
Each time, I found a way not to answer.
At the restaurant, I blamed the cold and hurried toward the car.
After the game, I kissed him before he could finish the conversation.
In my kitchen, I told him the ice cream was melting.
It had worked temporarily.
Noah was patient.
He was not stupid.
By the fourth week of casually dating, the question had begun appearing in everything he did not say.
When he arrived with coffee, I wondered whether a boyfriend was supposed to remember my order.
When he stayed on th
