She looks down at the floor. “I haven’t seen him in years. Not since my parents divorced. He didn’t have enough of a spine to stand up to her. I think he’s living in Malta now, with a new wife.”
Before I can probe more, she stands, grabbing her empty plate from the side table with a too-bright smile. “I can clean up since you cooked.”
“Let me help.” I reach for our wineglasses and the nearly finished bottle—how did that happen?—and straighten right as she takes a step.
We collide.
Not hard. I’m standing still, and she barely moved, so it’s less of a collision and more a brushing of bodies, and yet neither of us shifts to create more space.
Her breath brushes the base of my throat.
Her lips—God help me—they’re inches away. Soft and pink and wet from the wine.
For one suspended second, everything in the house goes quiet. The firelight flickers across her cheekbones.
I inhale lilac and spring, the scent going into my lungs and then sliding under my skin.
“Sorry.” I swallow, the sound too loud in the tiny space between us. I’m not sure what I’m apologizing for. The collision? The fact that I’m imagining tilting my head the slightest bit and pressing my lips to hers to see if she tastes as sweet as she smells?
I can’t do this. It takes all the willpower I can muster in my body, but I force myself to step back.
Her eyes flicker. I can’t tell if she’s surprised or relieved or disappointed or some combination of all three. “All good.”
Did I imagine the unsteadiness in her tone? Do I want her to be disappointed?
It doesn’t matter what I want. We can’t do this. I can’t do this.
In the kitchen, we move around each other with extra care. She washes and rinses the two plates and glasses, and I dry and put them away.
But something has changed, the air between us charged in a way that it wasn’t before.
It’s there as we finish doing the dishes and wiping the counter. It’s there when she says she should be getting to bed. It’s there when she thanks me for dinner.
It’s still there as I show her to the door, and we say good night in a way that’s somehow both awkward and loaded with meaning.
I stand in the entry after she leaves, trying to steady the part of me that didn’t want to step away from her, and didn’t want her to leave at all.
Lines are blurring—ethical ones I’m supposed to guard, not cross. And for the first time in my life, I’m not sure I trust myself to stay on the right side of them.
Chapter Ten
Vivien
* * *
“Are you sure this is going to work?” I hand Daphne another flyer.
“Are you kidding me?” She slaps it against the pole, lifts the staple gun, and shoots it into place, probably more times than necessary. “I have absolutely no idea.”
I stare at the paper mounted to the dark wood. The words are brightly colored, combining bold fonts with a flowery script. Perfect for a rom-com or feel-good story.
* * *
The Palace Theater Grand Reopening
Join us for a tribute inspired by the work of Graham Deadwyler!
A heartwarming coming-of-age story.
