Page 102 of If Only In Our Dreams

“What’s something that makes you irrationally angry?” Robin asked. It was an out-of-pocket question, and I had to fight back a laugh.

“When people don’t use their blinkers,” I responded immediately—because that had literally just happened.

“Tell me another one,” Robin wheedled, wiggling excitedly in his seat.

“Shouldn’t it be your turn?” I replied. We were getting close to the market, and I mourned the fact the conversation would have to end.

“No way,” Robin replied immediately. I snorted out a laugh and tried to come up with another one. It was surprisingly easy. Easier than telling him things I liked, anyway.

“I hate when Trent calls me Doc Ben Ben.”

“Huh.” Robin blinked. “Why?”

Snow glittered on the ground, crunching beneath the wheels of the car as we rounded a corner at a glacially slow pace.

“It feels derogatory,” I hummed, surprised by my own answer. I’d never really thought about it before. “I’m the only member of my family that went away for school. It’s always made me feel like a bit of a black sheep. I guess when he calls me that it only reminds me of that.”

“Why don’t you tell him that it bothers you?” Robin asked, frowning in commiseration like he understood what I meant. Like he understood not quite fitting in, especially when you desperately wanted to.

“Because I know he doesn’t mean to hurt me,” I replied. “And for me…intentions are everything.”

“Even if the person that has good intentions does stupid shit?” I got the feeling we weren’t talking about Trent anymore.

“Of course,” I replied evenly, meaning every word.

“I’m not like that,” Robin replied. “Like you. I’m not all…magnanimous or whatever.”

“That’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one.”

Robin laughed, reaching over to smack my leg—gently though, because he’d figured out pretty easily what would set off my anxiety, and being distracted at the wheel absolutely made that list.

“Alright, your turn,” I hummed. We turned another corner, and I waited, more than a little eager to hear what he had to say.

Robin hemmed and hawed for a moment before answering.

“I hate…pillow talk.”

“Pillow talk?” I blinked. “Interesting.”

“Okay, Hannibal Lecter, what does that say about me?” Robin teased. I could feel him watching me, and when I glanced over briefly, I was right. His eyes were bright and full of affection. He looked so fucking cute all snuggled up in the passenger seat it made me ache.

“I think…” I kept my tone light, heart thumping. “I think you hate pillow talk because you feel like you’re putting on a show.”

“Fuck.” Robin stared at me for a beat, the frankly cutest look of amazement on his face like I’d read his mind. “I think you’re right.”

“You’re a performer that hates to perform.”

“Damn.” Robin’s eyes were wide when I turned back to the road, wishing I wasn’t driving so I could watch him indefinitely. “You know…” his voice was softer. “I think that’s why talking to you doesn’t bother me.”

“Yeah?”

“Because I’ve never been anything but real with you. It’s easy, you know? Easy in a way it’s never been easy before.”

That had to be the sweetest thing anyone had ever said to me.

I made Robin dress up in his new coat and mittens—not borrowed from me, this time—in preparation for heading into the large warehouse-like building that the market was hosted inside. It was wedged deep inside the mountains, and the switchbacks that led to and from it had always given me the heebie-jeebies. The lighthearted conversation in the car had greatly distracted me from that, however, and I was more than a little grateful for that.

“Where are we?” Robin asked, swinging his door open with gusto, his new black puff coat clinging to him as he leapt out ofthe car. His boots crunched on the gravel underfoot. Above us, the sky was indigo, stars winking between the gaps in the trees.

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