One night, before I got out, I asked him, "Why do you keep driving me home?"
He blinked, caught off guard. "It's on my way."
I looked at him.
His ears went red.
"Okay," he said, ducking his head. "It's not entirely on my way."
I didn't say anything. I got out of the car.
A few steps later, he called after me. "Lydia!"
I turned around.
"Can I... take you out? Like, pursue you?"
Under the streetlight, he stood beside his car, watching me with a nervous look on his face.
I thought about it. "My last relationship messed me up pretty badly."
"I know."
"You know?"
"The whole office talks about it. They say your ex was a real piece of work."
I stared at him for a second, then laughed.
"And you still want to try?"
He looked at me, dead serious. "That just means you had bad taste. But you don't have to pick anymore. I'll do the picking for you."
That night, I lay in bed and thought for a long time.
Not about him. About myself.
Did I still have it in me to try again?
In early November, I said yes.
Not because of anything he said. It was because of something he did.