Page 70 of Solar Eclipse of the Heart

Up until a moment ago, I had things semi-figured out. The couch logistics were clear in my head, but now he’s gone and introduced a blanket into the equation.

Slowly, I approach the couch, popcorn in hand, and assess. He has left me ample blanket real estate, therefore cutting off the option to simply flop down next to him and forcing me to make a call: sit on top of it or slide in underneath with him.

In a snap decision I opt for the safe route and decide to sit on top.

However, as I set the bowl down, he makes the call for me, peeling back the blanket and then tossing it back over my legs once I sit.

“Are you ready?” He looks over, his eyebrows raised. It’s the same question he asked me at the market, with the same straightforward situational connotations, yet it makes me pause and think, Is this really what I want?

I nod, knowing my answer hasn’t changed. “Let’s do it.”

He hits play. It’s this one about the two Christmas travelers stuck in snowy Nova Scotia instead of beachy Australia. They have been crowned king and queen of the hot chocolate festival and are staring into each other’s eyes as they share their first dance.

The plot is straightforward, but it’s taking all of my concentration to follow along because I notice every time Mackenzie shifts in his seat, hikes the blanket higher, or reaches into the popcorn bowl. I have to stop myself from staring at the way his jaw flexes when he chews or the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs at the funny parts, which apparently there are a lot of in this movie.

When we both reach into the popcorn bowl and brush hands, I almost have a heart attack. And when he returns after taking the empty bowl to the sink and sits back down, I analyze the angle of our feet down to the millimeter to see if he’s moved any closer. Finally, when he scoots his hand under the blanket, and it knocks into mine, I think, This is it, here it comes, he is finally going to cross the line from wherever we are right now to where we are supposed to be.

I am willing him to make a move. To brush his fingers against the back of mine, to look over and smile as he slowly laces our fingers together.

But nothing happens.

And when he removes his hand to reach forward and swipe his phone from the coffee table, everything inside me sinks.

What if I’ve been reading this wrong the entire time?

What if he’s texting someone else right now? Not the wholesome “you up?” texts he sent me all month but a “you up” for sex.

What if—

My phone lights up next to me.

The notification flashes and disappears. I think I catch the name, but it happens so quickly, and I don’t trust myself.

My heart begins to pound so hard I worry it’s going to beat its way right through my rib cage as I reach over, slide open the screen, and click.

I read the message and blink twice just to make sure it’s not some weird trick of my eyes, but when the message is still there, an electric thrill zips through my entire body.

Mackenzie: