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I want love to wrap me up and swallow me whole. I want fire and passion. A love so powerful, I can’t picture life without it. A partner that challenges me in life and lifts me up when I’m down. An indisputable connection no one can break.
Kirsten toys with the balled-up wrapper of her straw. “I get that,” she mumbles. “I’ve never been in a long-term relationship.” She scoffs. “Or any kind of relationship beyond one night.” Lifting her gaze, she shrugs. “Can’t seem to open up that part of myself.”
I ignore the mention of one-night stands. “Because of your dad?”
A sad smile curves her lips. “Maybe.” She dunks a celery stalk in bleu cheese dressing. “Probably.”
“Hey.”
I wait for her to look up. Wait for her stormy-blue eyes to lock onto mine. When they do, I see the years of hurt she has kept to herself. Years of thoughts she locked away and cloaked with smiles.
“There’s no rule book on how to live your life,” I say. “Just because someone declared centuries ago men and women had to get married, have babies, and live a certain way to be happy …” Leaning in, I lay my hand on the table near her. “It doesn’t make it true.” I swallow and nod imperceptibly. “There is more than one way to live. The only thing that matters is that you’re happy.” My knee bounces beneath the table. “And your happiness will look different than someone else’s. Some people are content with solitude, while others never want to be alone.” I sit back in my seat, pulling my hand away. “There’s no deadline. No rush. And you’re allowed to change your mind at any time.”
Warmth blooms in my chest as she smiles at my long-winded answer. I can’t help but smile in return.
“When did you become a philosopher, Benjamin Wilks?”
I chuckle. “Sometime between age ten and twenty-three.”
She picks up the last wing in her basket and points it in my direction. “I like philosophical Benji.” Then she bites the wing and says nothing more.
The rest of dinner passes in comfortable silence and mixed emotions. Every time I glance her way, she drops her gaze and futzes with a celery stalk. This minor glimpse at a bashful Kirsten—an odd trait for the girl I knew—wakes something inside me. A dull hum from years past. A familiar sensation with a new edge.
It’s enthralling yet alarming.
When it’s time to settle the tab, I snatch the check from the table and pay. We push back from the table and stand, slipping on our coats. As we walk out of Dalton’s, Kirsten waves to a few people while I resist the urge to settle my hand on the small of her back.
I walk her to her car, a red SUV with a pink, moon-shaped crystal dangling from the rearview mirror.So very Kirsten.
We reach her driver’s side door and she spins to face me, her lips rolling between her teeth. She opens her mouth to say something, then snaps it shut. Then without warning, she steps into me and wraps her arms around my middle.
“I’ve missed you, Benji,” she whispers, her breath warm on my ear.
I circle her waist with my arms, close my eyes, and breathe in her sweet floral scent. “Missed you too, sparkles.”
She takes a deep breath, drops her arms, and steps back. Reaching into her purse, she pulls out her phone and taps the screen a few times before holding it out. “Will you add your contact info?” She tucks her lips between her teeth. “Only if you want to. I’m at the restaurant most days.”
I take her phone and stare down at the blank contact. Smiling, my fingers dance over the screen a moment before I hand it back to her.
Unlocking her car, she tosses her purse inside and cranks the engine. Then she steps out from behind the door and surprises me with another hug. “Night, Benji.” Her lips press to my cheek and I stop breathing.
“Night, sparkles,” I whisper.
She hops in her car, waves at me through the window, then backs out and drives off.
Hour-long minutes pass before I unstick my feet and walk toward the inn, my cheek on fire and heart rattling my rib cage.
NINE
TRAVIS
Dark clouds loomover the bay as I cruise through town, the forecasted storm rolling in hours early, a reflection of my dismal mood.
This morning, my plan was to profusely apologize to Kirsten. Again. Beg for her forgiveness. Swear my undying fealty. Do whatever it takes to be in her good graces again. Yesterday, I not only embarrassed her with my barbaric behavior, I embarrassed myself.
And until I redeem myself, I won’t be free of this pang in my gut. Until I see the corners of her eyes lift as she gifts me her smile, I won’t take a full breath.
I humiliated her in front of dozens of townsfolk. Treated her like a child. Behaved like an asshole. Her mercy is the last thing I deserve, but I pray she grants it nonetheless.
