I open my mouth to educate him further on what a snack should and should not be, but then I see it. The ultimate of ultimate gas station amenities—a kitchen. I squeal, beelining for the counter. The man behind it stares at me, dead-eyed, as all gas station kitchen workers should be. “I’ll have a slice of pepperoni, three chicken strips, nachos, and a soft pretzel.” I spin, catching Roman as he peers into the fruit basket at an endcap across the store. I sigh, then yell,“Salty! What do you want?”
He joins me. “For you to stop yelling in public, maybe?”
“It’s agas station. They don’t care. Right?” I ask my dead-eyed friend. He shrugs. “See? It’s all good. Now tell the man what you want.”
“I don’t suppose you guys have anything green back there?”
Ugh. “Roman, stop being a snob.”
“We have some oregano you can shake onto your pizza,” the counter guy says slowly, pointing to a reused shelf-stable parmesan cheese bottle full of oregano. A piece of paper with “ORGAYNO” written across it is taped over the red grocery store label.
Roman recoils.
“He’ll have a slice of pepperoni too,” I tell the guy. “And a burger. And an order of fries, thanks.”
He nods, presses a few buttons on his register, then gestures to it. I elbow Roman when he doesn’t move.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” he says. “I’ll be paying for this lapse in judgment in plenty of ways, but monetary isn’t one of them. You want us to guzzle carcinogens? Thenyoucan sponsor it.”
Fair enough, I suppose. I stick my tongue out at him anyway, then I pay using the household emergency fund account, which Roman puts money into monthly. When he gave me the card, he said, “This is forhousehold emergenciesonly. The ceiling collapses. The driveway cracks and needs repair. A tornado rolls through and steals our roof.Emergencies.”
This is, surely, just such a household emergency. We are the household, and starvation is imminent. It’s beenhourssince we ate last. Why, we only haveweeksleft at this rate!
“Lets go raid the aisles.” I grab Roman’s hand and lead him to the chips.
“You ordered half the stuff that guy sells,” Roman replies, twining our fingers together to pull me to a stop. “When are we even going to eat all of this junk?”
Uh. “In the car.” Duh.
“The drive is six hours, not twelve months.”
I eye him. “Six hours, yes, but you’re the size of a truck, and I’m not exactly small myself. We need sustenance.”
Incredulous blue eyes sweep over me. “What do you mean‘not exactly small?' You’re tall, sure, but you’re slender. I could pick you up with one arm.”
I very much doubt that.
I raise an eyebrow, and then watch for the moment he takes it for what it is: a challenge.
Smug pride washes over his face as he lets go of my hand, squats, and deftly lifts me until I’m sitting on his shoulder, looking over the gas station like some sort of convenience store goddess.
“Whoa,” I whisper, hand grappling over his short hair in a vain attempt at finding purchase before moving lower, where I fist the collar of his shirt instead. “It’s very high up here.”
“Going down,” he warns before popping me forward on his shoulder and sliding me down his body, my back to his front. His hands steady me at my waist as I fall, twisting in my panic to keep hold of his collar.
“Roman!” I yell.
By the time I hit the floor, I’m plastered to him, arms around his neck, heart beating its way out of my chest. “Have you,” I wheeze, “lost your mind?”
His eyes drift, roaming over my curls, the contours of my face, and around, pausing on my nose, my eyes, my… lips.
I stop breathing.
Is he…
My eyes widen as his darken.
Heis. He’s thinking aboutkissingme.
