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I don’t say more.

His foot moves again, even gentler.

I can’t bear to move mine. It feels like I’m inviting something to happen if I do. And I’m not sure I know what would happen.

Doubt a game of footsy was on the menu tonight.

“It’s … g-good,” I say. Did I just stutter? “Real good.”

“I’ve got a lot of it,” he says back—foot moves again—then he gives a friendly smile. “So if you ever want some, just come over.”

He really knows how to choose his words.

I’m starting to think he knows exactly what he’s doing. To me. To my sanity. To my feet.

“So …”

I look up at the sound of Wyatt’s voice, spoon still in the bowl, frozen in place.

“Are we just …” He twirls his spoon in the soup bowl. “… never gonna talk about … the kiss?”

I swallow.

Stare at him.

Our feet still touching.

“We don’t have to,” he goes on, not quite looking at me. “But it’s … starting to feel weird. Not talking about it.”

I understand him. I even agree.

But what the hell are we supposed to say?

How am I supposed to open my mouth and make words or any sense out of how I’m feeling right now?

Kissing is easy.

Talking is terrifying.

I let go of my spoon and reach over the table.

Wyatt looks at my hand, startled, then at my eyes when my fingers reach his face, caressing the side of his cheek. He has no idea what the gesture means. Neither do I. Suddenly I’m over the table, closer and closer to his mouth, to those lips.

And we kiss.

Again.

But gentler.

Almost not even a kiss. Just a meeting of lips. An experiment. Dipping a toe in the pool again, still scared of falling all the way in.

Or maybe this is just my way of “talking about it”.

I’m still using my mouth, aren’t I?

—11—

Wyatt