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I wipe my finger off on the leg of my jeans. It’s just hot chocolate. Come on, Mercer. Get it together.
I take a sip to hide my face and reconsider my judgment. It’s reallynotjust hot chocolate. It’s the greatest hot chocolate in the world.
“This is delicious,” I say, hoping that normal small talk will reverse the effects of what didn’t just happen.
“Best cocoa ever,” she says.
“It’s divine,” I say, taking another sip.
“Mmm,” she says, considering. “That’s probably true. People could start a religion based on its glory and greatness.” She says this as if people think this way, as if it’s a perfectly normal conversational turn.
I nod along. “I’d join that church,” I say.
“Can you imagine communion?” she asks, pretending to hold her cup out to me then pulling it back and taking another drink. “No priest would ever share.”
“I mean you’d have to take special precautions with your clergy. You could really only ordain people who don’t like cocoa to the job.”
“The high priesthood of the lactose intolerant,” she adds, laughing.
“They wear brown robes,” I say.
“Obviously,” she says. “With white frothy Shakespeare collars.”
She takes another sip of her cocoa and grins at me. “Can you even imagine the baptism ritual?” she says.
“Sign me up,” I tell her. “I’m in.”
I’m not making much progress as far as drinking this hot chocolate is going, but I don’t care. I can’t remember a date where the talking part was so easy.
Of course, as soon as I think it, we go silent.
I stir the spoon through my drink, releasing new sources of sugar and endorphins into the mix. Sage finishes her cocoa and wipes her mouth with a napkin. Napkin. Right. I could have used a napkin to clean whipped cream from her face. I mean, here it is, wrapped around my cup. I don’t regret the contact, though. I don’t need much excuse to reach out and touch her again.
I should get rid of this garbage first. I drop our cups in the recycling bin, and when I turn back to her, she’s got her hands in her pockets.
“Want to walk toward the trails?” I ask. The whole east side of campus is a forested hill full of equestrian trails. They’re great for running, but you have to watch your step.
We walk into the canopy of trees, the light dimming immediately. It’s nearly dusk, but here it feels darker. The leaves both overhead and at our feet are turning all the perfect fall colors, but they’re muted in the almost-dark.
We go in a few yards, and she walks slowly, staring at the ground.
“Leaves make walking here kind of dangerous,” she says.
I wonder where her brain is taking her now. Is she imagining slipping on damp foliage and spraining an ankle? Sliding down the hill?
“I won’t let you fall,” I say, channeling some macho movie hero. I hold out my arm for her to take.
She laughs at me.
“What?” I ask. “I’m saving you from danger. You’re not supposed to make fun of me for that.”
She shakes her head. “Not that kind of danger. With the leaves covering the path, you can’t see where the horses have been.”
Fair point. “Okay, maybe we should save trail walking for a time we’re going earlier in the day.” I think about walking here with her, dappled sunlight setting her curls on fire.
“And when I’m wearing different shoes.”
I look down and notice she’s got suede boots on. They look expensive. “Come on,” I say, motioning for her to climb up on my back. “I don’t want to risk any shoe damage.”
