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Kit: No.
Piper: But you want to.
Kit: Yes.
Piper: I appreciate that you respect me enough to bite your tongue.
Kit: Nothing to do with respect. If I tell you to do something, you'll do the opposite.
Piper: I will not.
Kit: Yeah, you will. So go naked at your next Bikram class.
Piper: Maybe I will.
Kit: Maybe I'll ask you to take a pic to prove it.
Piper: Last I heard, that's tacky.
Kit: It is.
Piper: So?
Kit: I'm a rock star. I'm allowed to be tacky. Don't go to your class naked. You'll get arrested.
Piper: Noted.
Kit: Still don't like thinking about some guy staring at your ass while you're in downward dog.
Piper: Will it make you feel better knowing my class is mostly women?
Kit: Yeah.
Piper: It is.
Kit: Good.
I lay the phone on my chest and lie back on the deck. The sun is warm on my skin, but that isn't why I feel hot. It's not the flush I worked up in my yoga class either.
It's Kit.
He's protective of me.
Possessive even.
And not in a she's my friend's baby sister way.
In a much, much more exciting kind of way.
My post-Bikram selfie starts a beautiful chain reaction. Kit starts sending pictures. We share the little moments that highlight our days.
He sends a post-workout selfie, proving that he really did spend three hours at the gym. Not that I care about math when I have a picture of Kit dripping with sweat on my phone.
I send a post-yoga selfie, proving that I am incredibly coherent after ninety minutes in a nearly 100 degree room.
He sends pictures of Joel making a fool of himself. I send the A I get on my literature term paper.
It becomes a part of our routine. We share our days with words and pictures. It makes it easier to come home to an empty house, to get through on-campus lunch or coffee alone—Rory is still in boyfriend land and most of my other friends ask about my brothers by minute five of our conversations.
