We made small talk as we waited in line and ordered. When it came time to pay, Luke slid a bill across the counter before I could.
“I got it,” he said. I flushed. If there had been any doubt that this was adatedate, this erased it.
“Thanks,” I said. “Do you care where we sit?”
“Probably shouldn’t sit too close to the window. Mom and Ro think I’m already on my way back to school.”
I smiled. “Okay, how’s this?” We settled into a table for two near the back of the store.
As we dipped into our respective cups, the awkwardness threatened to engulf us again.
Without permission from my brain, I heard myself speaking. “When did you know?”
Luke didn’t pretend not to know what I was talking about. “Honestly? One day you were just different to me.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “So, when I got boobs?”
He laughed. “You didn’t get boobs at fourteen.”
“Oh my God, does that mean you were looking?”
He gave me a smile that could only be interpreted as devilish, but what he said was, “I mean, just a basic knowledge of human biology and reproductive health tells me you didn’t get boobs at fourteen.
“When didyouknow?” he asked me.
We had just spent the last minute discussing my boobs, so I didn’t bother trying to hide anything. “Pretty much the day we met.”
Luke raised his eyebrows skeptically. “You had a thing for nearsighted eight-year-olds?”
“Your glasses were cute.”
He looked at me like he didn’t quite believe me, but he didn’t argue. We continued talking about random things, and soon I’d forgotten I was on a date with Luke Cohen. I was just hanging out with one of the people I knew and loved best on the planet, and it was easy and comfortable and nice.
When we finished, we stood outside in front of my car.
“So, did you change your mind?” he asked.
“About?”
“Wanting to kiss me.”
“Did you?” I asked.
“I wish I did,” he said before leaning down and pressing his mouth to mine. This kiss was slow and soft, a complete one-eighty from yesterday’s frenzied kisses. When what he’d said registered, I took a small step back.
“Why do you wish you did?”
He pushed his hand through his hair and looked at me. “Mom’s going to kill me.”
“That’s it?” I asked, relief seeping into my body. “That’s all you’re worried about?”
He shrugged.
I closed the distance between us again and covered his lips with mine. “Let me worry about Mel.”
NOW
It’s not like I ever stopped worrying about Mel. She’s always been a thought lingering in my mind, and I never stopped missing her. Knowing I’d lost the woman who made me so many of the things I am was like having a thin film between me and the world. It changed the way I saw things, the way music sounded, the way good things and bad things and mundane things felt. I was always wondering what Mel would think of this or what Mel would say about that or what Mel would tell me to do. When I really wanted to torture myself, I would go online and read the Winchester obituaries, bracing myself to see her name, her picture, survived by, predeceased by.
