Between Us

Chapter 17 — Saturday

He picked me up at 10am exactly.

I'd been ready since 9:45 which I will never admit to anyone including myself.

Denise had opinions about my outfit — she always had opinions about my outfit — but this time I'd actually listened because it was a real date and real dates apparently required civilian input. I ended up in something simple and comfortable like he'd asked, which Denise said was fine but accessorized, which I didn't fully understand but trusted.

Zane was waiting outside the hostel when I came down. Not leaning against the wall this time — just standing, hands in his pockets, looking at his phone. He looked up when he heard me and did that thing where he took in the full picture before his expression settled.

"You look nice," he said.

"You said comfortable."

"You can look nice and be comfortable."

"That feels like a trap."

He smiled. "Come on."

He took me to the botanical gardens.

Not the small campus one — a proper one, about twenty minutes away by trotro, which we took because Zane said driving would take longer with Saturday traffic and I appreciated that he'd thought about it practically instead of just showing up with a car to be impressive.

I'd never been before.

It was — I don't have a better word for it — quiet. The good kind of quiet, the kind that feels intentional. Wide paths and old trees and sections organized by type, and almost nobody there on a Saturday morning except a few older people walking and a couple of students sketching near the pond.

"How did you find this place?" I asked.

"Failed BIO 215 the first time remember?" He glanced at me sideways. "I used to come here when campus felt like too much. Just walk around and think."

I looked at him. "You brought me to your thinking place."

"Don't make it weird."

"I'm not making it weird. I'm noting it."

"Note it quietly."

We walked for a long time.

He knew things about the plants — not everything, but specific things, the kind of knowledge you pick up from paying attention rather than studying. He'd stop occasionally and say something about a particular tree or flower, casual and unprompted, and I'd add something from my actual biology knowledge and it turned into this easy back and forth that felt more like conversation than information exchange.

At one point he stopped in front of a large tree I didn't recognize and just looked at it.

"My grandfather had one of these in his compound," he said. "I used to climb it when I was small. Before everything got—" he paused, "—complicated."

"Complicated how?"

He was quiet for a moment. "My dad has this idea of what the family is supposed to look like. What I'm supposed to look like. My grandfather was different — he just wanted to know what you were interested in. Didn't matter if it was practical or profitable." A beat. "He died when I was fourteen."

I didn't say I'm sorry the way people automatically do.

I just stood beside him and looked at the tree too.

After a moment he said — "He would have liked you."

Something warm moved through my chest.

"Why?" I asked quietly.

"Because you ask real questions." He looked at me. "Most people ask questions they already know the answer to. You actually want to know."

I looked at the tree.

"Tell me more about him," I said.

And he did.

We found a bench near the pond around noon and sat there longer than we meant to, the kind of sitting that happens when neither person wants to be the one to suggest leaving.

He bought us coconut from a vendor near the gate — negotiated the price with a confidence that made the vendor laugh and give him extra — and we sat with them and watched a small bird do something extremely dramatic near the water's edge.

"Denise knows about us," I said at some point.

"Kofi knows about us," he said.

"Denise told Serena."

"Kofi told Bello."

We looked at each other.

"The whole campus knows," I said.

"The whole campus knew before we did," he said.

I laughed — a real one, surprised out of me. He looked at the sound of it like it was something he wanted to remember.

On the trotro back he fell asleep.

Just for twenty minutes, head tipping slowly toward my shoulder and then landing there with the particular surrender of someone who's been running on not enough sleep for too long. I stayed very still so I wouldn't wake him.

Outside the window the city moved past — hawkers and traffic and late afternoon light going golden.

I thought about the garden and the tree and his grandfather and the way he'd said he would have liked you like it was just obvious.

I thought about the fact that three weeks ago I'd had a plan — invisible, focused, drama-free — and it was completely gone now and I couldn't bring myself to be sorry about it.

When we got to our stop I said his name quietly and he woke up immediately, the way light sleepers do, and lifted his head and looked at me with that unguarded just-woken expression that people only let you see when they trust you completely.

"Sorry," he said, voice slightly rough.

"Don't be," I said.

He looked at me for a moment.

Then he smiled — slow, warm, still half asleep.

I was in serious trouble and I knew it and I didn't mind at all.