Page 67 of Crease Collision

“Sorry.” I try to pull away, but he holds on tighter.

“Don’t. I like you sweaty.”

I look over, and his eyes tell me he’s thinking about a different kind of sweaty.

Dear God. Now I am too.

Not tonight. This is about making sure we’re solid.

As we wade into the sea of people at Restaurant Row, every muscle in me tenses. Eateries, bars, and businesses are everywhere, and the noise is much louder. Food smells fill the air, adding to my unease.

My stride shortens as we navigate the crowded sidewalk, something I don’t realize until Oskar adjusts his pace to match mine.

Without comment. Without making it a thing.

He gently pulls me toward a crosswalk. “Better light over there,” he says.

When we reach the other sidewalk, I look over and squeeze his hand. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“The better light.”

He nods, as if it’s nothing.

It’s a little quieter when we turn onto West 46th. We pass several tall brownstones before St. Luke’s Lutheran Church appears. It’s built of stone and brick, and people are scattered on the wide steps leading up to the door.

“Is this it?” Oskar asks.

“Yeah. Pretty impressive, right?”

“I like it.”

Inside, the air smells of old wood and wax. Thousands of LED candles are set around the sanctuary, on the floor and altar, and along the Gothic arches.

We find our seats about midway up, close enough to see but far enough back not to feel claustrophobic. Oskar sits close, his knee touching mine, and rests his arm on the pew behind me.

“Hope this is okay,” I say, resisting the urge to lean against him.

“It is perfect.”

He points at a Viking-style ship hanging near the altar.

I look twice to be sure it’s what I think it is. “That’s amazing. I promise I didn’t tell them I was bringing a Viking.”

He chuckles softly. “Sweden is a Lutheran country, or at least used to be. Sailing ships in churches are common there.”

“Wow. Do you know why?”

“Nja. Something about going to the promised land.”

Before I can ask more, the lights dim, and the musicians come out and take their seats. The room goes quiet as they tune their instruments and start playing. I recognize the Bach piece from one of my reset playlists. I love Bach because of all the patterns. The math in the music helps steady my thoughts.

Oskar’s eyes are closed, and there’s a smile on his lips. He isn’t putting up with this for me; he’s enjoying it. A peace settles over me that has nothing to do with the Bach.

The music shifts to something else I recognize, by Vivaldi. Oskar’s face relaxes even more.

When the string quartet moves on to Mozart, my foot taps in time with the music. I try to stop, but can’t. Oskar stills it by putting a hand on my knee.