Page 68 of Romantic

I call Annie as soon as I can. “You were right. It’s not a man cold. I have pneumonia.”

“Oh no! People die of pneumonia!”

“I’m not going to die. I’m going to take some antibiotics and then a really long nap, and perhaps by tomorrow I’ll feel a little better.”

“Call me when you wake up?”

“Planning on it.” I hang up, but when my head finally hits the pillow, I find I can’t fall asleep. I’m too excited thinking about calling Annie after my nap. After thirty minutes of tossing and turning, I call her.

“Brandon, what are you doing up?” I love when Annie scolds me. “You haven’t slept long enough.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” I admit.

“Are you in much pain?”

“A little.”

“I feel terrible that you got sick because I was being a drama queen.”

“I like that you’re a drama queen.” I’m not sure if it’s the drugs or that I’m finally feeling some relief, but tonight my tongue is loose.

“That’s sweet of you to say. . . .” She hesitates. “Brandon?”

Something about Annie’s tone takes me from drowsy to completely awake. “Yes?”

“We should talk about that kiss.”

I’ve never been more tempted to pretend I’m asleep. I’m not sure I’m ready for this conversation. I’ve been uncertain of Annie’s feelings for me all summer, but the way she begged for that kiss gave me hope—enough to carry her down the mountain. I could have powered a city block with the hope that kiss provided. But I still feel a little sheepish about kissing her when she was injured and exhausted—and possibly not in her full senses.

“Brandon? Are you still awake?”

“I am.”

“Why did you call that kiss a mistake? I thought it was nice.”

“It was—very nice. But you were hurt. I should have waited until you were safely back home. I just . . . I was so relieved that you were okay, and I . . . I had been wanting to kiss you for so long, I got carried away.”

“Well, I’m extremely glad you didn’t wait,” Annie says with a mischievous note in her eye.

“Is that so?”

“Yeah . . . so . . . what are the chances you might kiss me again?”

“Very high—that is if you’d like it.”

“I would. Very much so.”

“Now how am I supposed to sleep?”

“Sweet dreams,” she coos.

“Oh, they will be.”

***

We talk nearly every day. We are limited to phone calls and video chats while I’m still recovering and Annie is swamped with the Labor Day crowd. We talk about anything and everything. Annie tells me about her flower garden, the customers at the cafe, and her continuing job search.

“I still think you should do something with flowers. You should do what you love.”