You and I, Me and You by MaryJanice Davidson

check in on Paul first thing in the morning because we still had to ease him into the news about BOFFO’s funding loss?
    No. I was thinking how dreeeeamy Max Gallo was. And I was thinking that because I was in Max Gallo’s car. And I was in Max Gallo’s car because he was giving me a ride home.
    Right about the time we all decided to quit for the night, I remembered George’s awful car had swallowed me, brought me here, then spit me out on the sidewalk. Max rightly interpreted the look of dismay on my face and quickly offered to give me a ride. And I quickly took him up on it. Because when I’m not an FBI agent, I’m apparently a great big ninny.
    â€œIt’s just down along here,” I said, giving him directions to the house. “Maybe five more miles.”
    â€œNo problem.”
    â€œI really appreciate this.”
    â€œNo problem.”
    Was it out of his way? Did I want it to be? Maybe he lived across the street; I hadn’t met any of our neighbors yet. Maybe he lived in South Dakota and had a killer commute. Did I care? I cared. I definitely should not care.
    We rode in silence most of the way, but it didn’t feel especially charged or awkward. He was thinking his thoughts, I figured, and I was thinking mine. Or not thinking mine. Mostly I was thinking that I wasn’t thinking about what I should be thinking about. Oh, and wondering where he lived but too scared to ask.
    Max’s car was like his clothes: worn, but immaculately maintained. It was a black Volkswagen Passat, at least five years old. It had been recently vacuumed. There was a small garbage can on the passenger-side floor (empty), and several issues of NEJM, The Lancet, and People in the backseat. That was it, though I hadn’t gotten a look at the glove compartment or the trunk. At my glance at the mags when we got in and buckled our seat belts, he grinned and said, “I enjoy sitting in judgment on celebrities I’ve never met and don’t know and shouldn’t judge but do anyway to feel better about my non-celebrity lifestyle.”
    â€œNo wonder you run a group for guys thinking about suicide.”
    He laughed. “Oddly, reading People doesn’t make me wish I had a gun.”
    I kept mum about my addiction to Us Weekly . And about my collection of guns.
    â€œDid I hear right, you were moving today?” he asked as we passed out of Mendota Heights and into Eagan, where Patrick and I now lived.
    â€œYes, my baker and I moved in this morning.”
    â€œYour what?”
    â€œBoyfriend,” I corrected myself. I could feel myself blushing like a loser ninny idiot. “My boyfriend and I moved in. To the house you’re driving me to. Today.”
    â€œOh. I…” He didn’t finish. Did I want him to?
    No, I preferred to spend these last five minutes of alone-time imaging what he might have said.
    I … was going to whisk you away, but since you’ve got a baker, I’ll just forget about the whole thing.
    I … hoped you were single, but since you aren’t, I’m doing a Mafia drop. Ready … jump!
    I … can’t believe I’m wasting my time giving you a ride to your baker. D’you know what unleaded premium costs these days?
    I … will think of you while I’m writing GoT fan fiction later tonight.
    I sighed, which he interpreted as … I dunno, a shiver? Because what he said was, “I can turn the heater up if you want.”
    Hopeless. Goddamned hopeless.
    â€œSorry?”
    Damn it! Spoke out loud again. I didn’t mind so much when I did it in front of Jesus. Doing it in front of Max was not cool. Ditto all the swearing. Stupid goddamned swearing.
    â€œSorry. Thinking out loud. The case, you know.” Not that we said things like the case or the perp , probably like he didn’t ever say Stat! But Max wouldn’t know that. Probably. He was different, and knew all kinds of