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Exciting. Exhilarating. Amazing.
“Yeah.” He huffs a laugh and glances down the aisle. Still empty. He doesn’t step all the way back. “I’ve been wanting to do that since you called my dad sir.”
I wrinkle my nose. “That was manners.”
“That was cute.” He fixes my glasses with one finger, careful, and the tenderness of it almost undoes me more than the kiss. “We should buy something so it doesn’t look like we came back here to make out.”
“We came back here because you wanted to show me something.”
He grins. “I showed you already.” He doesn’t look sorry. “I’ll buy you whatever book you want. We can call it a souvenir so you can remember this moment.”
He brushes my hair back and to the side before he steps fully away from me. His eyes on my lips.
“But we should leave this aisle before we get caught.”
I nod, because he’s right. If I stay here, I might pull him back in. I follow him out of the aisle, and we grab our jackets. I decide on the Lighthouse paperback because I want to learn about something his dad likes. He pays before I can argue and slides the bag into the inside pocket of his coat.
Outside, the wind slaps against us, but it doesn’t feel as cold as before. He lets his hand brush mine, his fingers curling over mine, and he doesn’t pull away. I wait for the usual tightness, but it doesn’t come. Instead, I’m pretty sure my heart swells with happiness that he’d be okay with being seen with me.
I really like him.
Especially in his hometown with his gloves on my hands and the ghost of his mouth on mine. None of my internet searches mentioned kissing in bookstores between friends with benefits.
I curl my fingers into his anyway and let him walk me the long way back toward his house, and I don’t ask him to let go.
FORTY-FIVE
DANIEL
The house is already loud when I come downstairs. It always is on the tree lighting day. Oven on with last minute brownies cooking. Radio on. Mom talking to someone who is on her phone while she moves around the kitchen like it’s a production and she’s the star. And she really is. The kitchen counters have disappeared under foil pans and cooling racks, and she has a clipboard with a list of everything we need to pack up in the truck.
“Urns,” she says, the second she sees me. “They are in the garage. We need both of them. Wash them out, they smell musty from storage. Mike, I asked you an hour ago. Don’t look at me like that. Quinn—oh, good, you’re up. Can you stir that pot? Just don’t let it skin over, it will change the texture of the rest of it.”
I open my mouth to run interference. Quinn doesn’t need to be drafted into cocoa duty. But he’s already at the stove with a smile.
“Okay,” he says, like she just handed him the most important task in the room. He takes the wooden spoon, adjusts the heat a fraction, and stirs. He’s in socks and sleep pants and an oversized hoodie that looks a little like one of mine with sleep still in his eyes and he’s helping.
I stand there like an idiot with my hand on the door that leads out to the attached garage.
“Daniel,” Mom says. “Urns.”
“Yeah. Going.”
The garage is cold enough to wake me the rest of the way up. I haul the first urn down and set it on the workbench before dragging the second one down. Then I carry them back into the house to wash them out. When I come back inside, Quinn has been promoted. He’s lining up brownies on a tray in even rows. Not approximately even. Even. Mom watches him with a fond smile.
“You don’t have to do that,” I tell him, setting the urn in the sink. “My mom tries to get everyone in on the action, but you’re our guest.” I shoot my mom a look with the last word, and she arches an eyebrow at me.
“I offered.” He doesn’t look up. He rotates a brownie a quarter turn so the corner matches the others.
Dad snorts from the table. “Kid’s going to put the Methodist ladies out of a job.”
“The Methodist ladies can fight me,” Mom says, and drops a kiss on my cheek as she passes with more foil. “Eat something before we leave. Both of you. It’s a long day, so I packed us sandwiches. They’re in the blue bag. Not the green bag, the green bag is extra cookies.”
It’s the same speech as last year, minus the cookies being in a different bag. The difference is that Quinn is nodding along like he’s mentally taking notes of everything he needs to remember. When she hands him a piece of toast, he takes it and eats it without comment. And it hits me that he’s not shrinking himself here in the chaos of my kitchen. When Hank leans on his knee, he wipes his hands off and scratches behind his ears, talking to him softly.
I could watch this all morning. Unfortunately, I don’t have all morning.
After eating and changing, we load the truck. It’s so cold our breath puffs out in thick white clouds, almost freezing the second it hits the air. Urns. Folding tables. Two bins of cups. A crate of pies. Quinn carries the crate like its glassware from the lab and sets it where she points.
