For the entire ride, I clutch my ticket for the light rail. It’s an idiotic thing to do. It won’t get lost in my bag. But it feels like a talisman, and I feel like a gaping tourist again.
“It’s okay to have fun,” Malcolm says, as if he’s reading my thoughts.
We’re sitting side by side. Even with the blast of air that comes with the doors opening and closing, I catch his scent—nutmeg and Ivory soap. His hair gleams. I can’t decide if he adds product or if it’s naturally shiny. Once upon a time, I might have reached out to test a strand in my fingers to see. That was before. Before what? This, I don’t know. All I know is I can’t bring myself to tease him about it the way I might have. I’m not sure I like this either.
It’s only a few stops and a few blocks to The Taste of Persia. Inside, t
