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I groan inwardly, unable to stop myself from wondering how warm her mouth is.
I clear my throat. “Uh, I completely forgot candles,” I admit, moving for the drawer behind me, “but I know you have to do this, so...”
I pick out a box of matchsticks next to the pot holders and light one, going to stick it in the center of the cake, but I stop. “Should we call Cole inside?”
She glances out the window and then waves me off. I stick the matchstick into the cake.
I watch as she closes her eyes, exhales a breath and relaxes her shoulders, and then slowly, a small smile curves her lips. Instinctively, I smile, too, like I don’t know what she’s thinking, but I think I know what she’s feeling in that moment.
She blows out the matchstick and opens her eyes, the stream of white smoke billowing in front of her face.
I stay by her side for a moment, not wanting to budge.
Someone should be holding her right now. Someone should be coming to stand in front of her, putting both his hands on the counter at her sides, and feeling her breath against his face.
I breathe a little faster, imagining what she tastes like.
And then I reach for the soda can I’d set on the counter and fist it until the aluminum crackles.
That’s not good. Those thoughts aren’t good.
I walk away, swallowing three times to wet my throat, and I grab the cassette tape container from my truck off the counter and slide it across the island to her.
“And that’s for you, Birthday Girl,” I say to distract from any vibe I might’ve just been giving off. “You’re welcome.”
Her eyes fall on the black container, recognizing it, and widen, her jaw dropping. “What?!” she exclaims. “Are you seri—no way!” She smiles brightly. “I can’t take these! They were your dad’s.”
I nod, now feeling safer with the island between us. “My dad would want someone to have them who’s going to love them. You’ll love them, right?”
It’s not like I ever play the damn things. I just listen to whatever’s on the radio. She seemed pretty in awe of them, so it was the only thing I could think to give her that she’d want.
She holds up her hands animatedly and makes a face like she doesn’t know what to do with me. “But…” She trails off, scoffing. “Pike, I…”
“You want them, right?” I ask.
She scoffs again, making a face. I can see the struggle in her eyes. To her, it’s a valuable gift, and she doesn’t have a right to them. But she’s also dying to take them.
“Are you serious?” she asks, cupping her face in her hands.
I can’t help but laugh. She’s fun to make happy.
She scoops them up and hugs them. “I have tapes. I have a collection. Shit!” she bursts out. “I feel so bad, but…I want them, too. So, I’ll take them.”
She feigns an apologetic look but laughs which amuses me even more.
“Good,” I say.
And I feel better now, too. At least I’ve hopefully made up for my behavior earlier in the week. With this and the garden, she seems elated.
I move away from the counter to take my leave, but she stops me. “Oh, wait.”
Spinning around, she removes a tray from the fridge and walks over to me, setting a bag of tortilla chips on top and handing it all over to me. “I made an extra taco dip for you and the guys.”
I look down at it, my stomach immediately growling. “Oh, you didn’t have to do that.” We usually order wings and pizza. But this actually looks really good. “Thank you. They’ll love it.”
She smiles, and for three long seconds we’re locked there, in each other’s stares. Almost as if the air is so heavy with something else that we can’t move.
Finally, I inhale a breath and back away. “Make sure they clean up when they’re done, okay?” Not make you do everything, I want to add but don’t.
