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“Who’s Bo?”
“My mom’s boyfriend. She and Frankie live with him. ”
“Why did you dump me after break?”
I’m not expecting the question. My eyes flick to the darkness past her shoulder. “Do you think … if I promise to tell you anything you want, will you come back to my place?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she plucks the flowers out of my hand, peels back the clear plastic and tissue paper around the top, and studies them. “If this is just a cheap attempt to get laid on Valentine’s Day, it’s not going to work. ”
“It’s not that. ”
After a long moment, she looks up.
I’ve seen her face a hundred ways. Cautious and hopeful, brave and fierce, happy and crying. I’ve seen her soft and open, her mouth thoroughly kissed. I haven’t seen her look like this but once: that first night when I walked out to her car and invited her into the bakery.
Scared. She’s scared of what’s going to happen.
But she wants it anyway.
“What is this, then?” she asks.
I wish I could think of something perfect to say. I wish I had words that took in her and me, eighteen months of watching and waiting, nights I’ve lain awake, midnights we’ve passed together mixing dough and making each other laugh. Every dream I’ve had about her. Every time I heard her voice or got a text that made me smile or shake my head. Every night I held the phone to my ear and said whatever I could think of to make her squeak and moan and fall apart.
With all the ways I know her, I still don’t know how to make her understand how I can be standing here, completely unsure what it is I’m doing, where we’re headed, what this is—and how I can still be so positive this is where I belong.
She’s what I want. More than my plans, more than I want to be smart, more than I want to follow the rules—I want to be with her.
I need to. I have to. I want to.
I can’t waste any more time trying to figure out which of those it is. Not when I doubt we have all that much time left to waste.
“I want to be your boyfriend,” I blurt out.
Immediately I wish I’d thought of another way to put it. I want to be your boyfriend—worse than lame. Childish. The words drop into my gut, leaden.
I’ve never said them before.
Caroline is looking right at me, those big brown eyes full of interest and … sympathy, maybe.
Fuck it all, she feels sorry for me.
Too late. You waited too long.
But her mouth is soft, and so is her voice when she says, “Hang on a second. ”
I wait in the doorway, a hook tied to a line held in Caroline’s hand. Just waiting to see where she’ll drag me.
Keys jingle. She comes back with her coat and the lanyard she uses as a key chain dangling from her fingers. Her boots are by the door. She shoves her feet into them, yanking them over her pajama pants. “Don’t wait up, Bridge,” she says, and moves through the door, closing it behind her, jiggling the handle to make sure it’s locked.
She’s coming with me.
She turns around, her face close to mine, her body close, the flowers pressing into my coat, rustling and crinkling.
“Am I driving?”
I just stare at her. I haven’t got a clue what I said to get this lucky.
Maybe she’s a gift. The universe paying me back for my dad being such a hopeless shithead.
