This moment.
Him.
“So,” I say finally, setting down my half-eaten sandwich, “are you really thinking of moving out soon? Like, for real?”
Connor nods, then takes a sip of wine before answering, his eyes staying on mine. “Actually, yeah. What I said to your parents is true. I’ve been saving for a down payment for almost two years now. I could move out next month if I actually found the right place.”
“Oh.” The single syllable falls between us, and I hope to God I don’t sound as disappointed as I feel. “That’s good. Really smart. Good for you.”
Okay, now I sound like I’m jealous of his savings account, which I’m not. I just hate the sudden, stupid realization that Connor might actually leave, and I don’t even have the right to be sad about it.
“I’ve got enough for something decent in one of the outer boroughs,” he continues, picking at the edge of his sandwich. “Maybe Queens or Brooklyn.”
I nod, trying to ignore the hollow feeling spreading beneath my ribs.
It’s stupid to feel disappointed. What did I expect? That after one night together, he’d want to—what? Include me in his future plans? Ask me to come with him? Stay in our stupid old building just because I suddenly can’t handle the idea of him leaving?
We barely know each other, no matter how good last night was.
“That’s great,” I say, forcing enthusiasm into my voice. “When do you think you’ll start seeing places?”
Connor shrugs. “I’ve been browsing listings for a while but haven’t gone to see anything yet. I’ve been too busy with work.” He pauses, looking down at his glass. “Actually, I was going to start looking more seriously next week.”
“Oh.” There’s that hollow feeling again, spreading through my chest. “Well, I’ll miss having you across the hall.” I attempt a smile, but it feels strained even to me.
Connor looks at me for a long moment, something shifting in his expression. Then he sets down his wine glass and moves closer, close enough that our knees touch on the blanket.
“Noah,” he says, my name soft on his lips. “I—”
His gaze drops to my mouth, and whatever he was trying to say seems to get lost somewhere between us, because a second later he leans in and kisses me instead.
His lips are warm and taste like wine, and my brain turns off completely. It’s less cautious than the kiss back at the cottage, more intent. His hand comes up to cup the back of my neck, fingers sliding into my hair.
To my utter disappointment, the kiss doesn’t last long, and when we pull apart, I’m breathing like I’ve just run amile. Connor looks flushed, his eyes bright, his hand trembling slightly as he touches my face.
“Noah,” he says again, and there’s something in his voice that makes my heart stumble. “I like you.”
I blink at him, a smile already forming on my lips. “I like you too.”
My heart is beating like a drum now.
Connor’s expression shifts, frustration flickering across his face. “No, I mean—” He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up in a way that makes him look so casually attractive I want to roll my eyes.
“I’m not good with this.” He sighs, clearly fighting with the words. “What I’m trying to say is—” He stops, his eyes searching mine like he’s looking for some kind of understanding I’m not giving him. “I’m not explaining this right.”
I stare at him, heart racing as I try to figure out what’s happening. The wine, the warmth of the sun on my skin, and the memory of last night all blur together, making it hard to think clearly. Connor looks so earnest, so intent on getting something important across, and I have no idea what it is.
“Hey, it’s okay,” I say quickly, because watching him struggle is making my chest hurt. “You don’t have to explain anything.”
His eyebrows draw together. “I really do.”
He looks down for a second, then back at me. “What I’m trying to say is that last night wasn’t just…” He exhales, annoyed with himself. “I wasn’t drunk. I mean, I was drunk, obviously, but that’s not why I…”
He trails off, looking at me with those impossibly blue eyes that make my stomach flip. I want to help him, to pull him out of whatever conversational quicksand he’s sinking into, but I’m also terrified of what he might be trying to say.
“Really, it’s fine,” I insist, waving a hand like I can physically brush the whole conversation away. “Last night was great. For me, at least. But we don’t have to analyze it or anything. Or talk about your sexuality if you don’t want to. Like, if you’re straight, or bi, or whatever. It’s all good.”
Oh my God. I can’t shut up.
