She rolls her eyes, sick of my antics. “If I knew dating you meantanotherperson commenting on my reading choices, I would’ve just dated Ava,” she says exasperated, but I hear the attitude too. Her spark, that defiance, is intoxicating.
Gone is my shy, timid Rumi who sat in the corner of the bar, holding her daughter close to her chest, in need of a friend yet wishing she could fade into the background of everyone else.
Here, and here to stay, is my strong, confident Rumi, who doesn’t have to take shit from anyone—even me.
And I’ll never get sick of hearing her say how she’s datingme.
“But I can’t wait to hear all about the vampire/werewolf epic love story on our next late-night reading date.” I reach for her hips, pulling her into me. She wraps her arms around my neck as I press my forehead to hers. “You almost ready to go, pretty girl?”
“Almost,” she answers, going up on her tiptoes to press a quick kiss to my lips, as if she’s been doing it her whole life, as if it doesn’t make my heart feel like it’ll beat right out of my chest.
As if it doesn’t leave me wanting so much more.
She pulls away from me to grab her purse on her bed, and I take the moment to admire the dress from the back. The dress has a playful mix of greens, purples, and pinks—the pale colors contrasting perfectly with her dark hair, making her look effortlessly beautiful.
She turns to look at me, catching me staring, and I feel blood rush up to my neck as I bring my eyes up to meet hers.
“Is it okay?” she asks, her face falling, and it’s not at all what I expect. I thought she’d tease me again with one of her flirty remarks, but the confidence I saw in her a moment ago is replaced by worry—worry I’ve learned she gets when she thinks she’s done something wrong.
“It’s perfect,” I reassure. “But it doesn’t matter what I think. Doyouthink it’s okay?”
She looks down, wiping her hands down the front to smooth the fabric. “It’s a little short,” she admits, and it’s like she’s looking for something from me.
Permission?
“If you feel like it’s too short, then you should wear something you feel more comfortable in,” I tell her, wanting her to know that what she wants to wear is up to her and only her. I don’t tell her that the only problem I see with it is that she might get cold when the sun goes down, not when that has such an easy solution—either my clothes on her or my body wrapped around hers.
Or both.
“N-no. I like it,” she stammers, her rosy cheeks matching the pink in the dress. “I just want to make sure that—” she stops, shaking her head. She squares her shoulders and lifts her chin. “You know what? Nevermind. I’m ready.”
That’s my girl.
CHAPTER 30
RUMI
It’s beenover a month since Jack barged into Hey Honey’s, yet it feels like we’ve known each other for so much longer. When I was explaining the idea of soulmates to him last weekend, I was really just sharing the thoughts I’ve always had.
But something about that part of our conversation has stuck with me this last week, something that I can’t seem to shake.
I’ve always thought of a soulmate as someone you feel like you’ve known your whole life, even after just meeting.
And there’s something about Jack that makes me feel like I’ve known him before, maybe in another life—or maybe our souls just understand each other in ways no one else does.
“We’ll meet you guys there!” Ava yells to me from the passenger seat of Anderson’s car just before he closes it for her before giving us a quick wave as he rounds the car to get in the driver’s side.
Both Jack and I wave back as we walk to his truck. The sun is still high in the sky, and the warm June evening is a little humid from the rain this morning. Jack steps ahead of me, opening the passenger side of his truck, his hand on my back as I step up onto the bar on the side.
The drive to the drive-in theater is similar to our dozens of phone calls and FaceTimes this week—both of us catching each other up on our day, allowing the conversation to ebb and flow toward different tangents, resulting in us getting to know each other more and more every time we talk.
When there’s a lull of comfortable silence, the music playing from the radio the only sound aside from the air rushing in through the cracked windows, I take a moment to admire the man in the driver’s side—the man I could listen to until my ears bleed; the man who lets me walk him through what I’m feeling, patient every step of the way; the man who makes my knees weak when he runs a hand through his hair before setting in on my bare knee.
The warmth of my skin makes an unfamiliar tension rise in my lower belly, a feeling I don’t remember ever having when Trevor touched me.
A feeling I’m wanting to explore more and more.
I find myself wrapping my hand around his arm, the fabric of the flannel he has on over his T-shirt soft against my palms. I sneak a peek at the ink on his muscular legs, finding a bunch of different black and gray designs that somehow look like they were made to be together on his skin.
