Page 33 of Secret Bump

Watching carefully, I follow her through the bookstore to the Discovery Wall at the back.

Isabelle points the torch up one of the ladders. “Do you want to go first?”

“What are we doing?”

“Climbing a ladder,” she says like it’s obvious. “And finding books.”

“Books for me? Or books for you?”

She flashes a bright smile that breaks through the darkness. “Both? One of each? Tell me why you pick them.”

“We need a bit more light,” I mutter.

“Do we?” She’s enjoying herself.

So I suppose the answer is no.

I stride past her and grab the ladder. It’s too dark to see any of the books above us, so I randomly move it two shelves over, then start climbing. Up close, I can see the books and the recommendation cards. A sci-fi novel catches my attention, something I might read for myself. Then a romance novel that I wonder if she might like.

But I keep climbing, because I want to do this exercise fully. And I find even better options. A self-help book for adult children of narcissistic parents—very on the nose. A how to book on starting a small business. That makes me smile. On the top shelf, I hit jackpot. A poetry collection about love and adventure. I grab it, and the information card, and then climb back down, pausing to pick the self-help book as well.

“What did you pick?” Isabelle’s voice is disembodied, coming from behind the harsh beam of the flashlight.

I’m pinned down and spotlit. Not a position I’ve ever allowed myself to be in as an adult. I grip the book on narcissistic parents a little tighter, and hold it out. “Something that might help me understand why I ran from you,” I say coarsely. “And a volume of love poems.”

“Oh!” The flashlight sweeps down, pointing at the floor now, and I blink to readjust my sight to the darkness.

Isabelle comes closer. “Poems?”

“Not my usual thing, but I thought you might like it.” I hold out the collection and she takes it from me, staying close.

I wrap my arm around her waist, needing to hold her, needing her near to soothe my galloping heartbeat. She doesn’t pull away, and I exhale, softening around her.

“Thank you for thinking of me,” she whispers as she flips through the pages. “In the rain-darkness,” she reads after stopping on a page with an e.e. cummings poem. “The sunset being sheathed i sit and think of you…”

“That’s how it felt while I was gone,” I confess, my words low and raw.

She tips her face up to mine.

God, I want to kiss her.

Instead, I keep reading the poem over her shoulder. “The holy city which is your face…” I swallow hard. “Your little cheeks…”

She picks up the next line. “The streets of smiles.”

“Your eyes half-thrush half-angel and your drowsy lips…”

I go still as I read the last bit of that stanza.Where float flowers of kiss.

“Where float flowers of kiss,” Isabelle breathes.

I crush my mouth to hers, the books tumbling to our feet. She squeaks and wraps her arms around me, lifting into my body, holding me as tightly as I’m holding her and—even better—kissing me back.

This isn’t a flower of a kiss, it’s a feast instead. It’s desperation and relief tangled together.

She tastes like heaven. Like home, a long-awaited sweetness I’ve missed so much. She tastes like I’m hers, like she loves me, like I didn’t ruin everything, and I’m so fucking grateful.

“Your little cheeks,” I whisper. “That was the line that undid me.”

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