Page 63 of Wyatt

“Dumb question. I could never hate you. Especially not when you show up with caffeine.” Our fingers brush when I take the coffees. My pulse jumps. “You wanna come in?”

Sally eyes the pair of nearby rocking chairs. “It’s a beautiful morning.”

So she’s worried about what will happen if we go inside together too. That a good sign? Or a bad one?

That don’t matter though, does it? We’re not hooking up. I’m never putting my hands on her again.

Never ever, ever. Even if she is showing her hand by turning up like this, doing the difficult thing of facing the consequences of our actions rather than sweeping them under the rug. Takes guts to do that.

I love her for it.

“Not gonna be too chilly for you?” I ask.

“I’m good if you are.”

Why am I thinking about Johnny Cash and how he said heaven was having coffee in the morning with June, his wife?

Might be just as dangerous staying outside with Sally as it would be going inside with her. ’Cause all of a sudden, I’m thinking about marriage and shit.

I’m notgood. I really am in heaven. Which is a big fucking problem. Wasn’t I just swearing up and down that I was gonna keep my distance? Tell Sally we can’t do this thing, whatever it is?

“I’m great.”

“Okay.” Sally sits, and I hand her a cup of coffee.

“What’d ya get us?” I land in the chair beside her.

The sun slants onto the porch, and I stretch out my legs to feel its warmth. Birds flit through the trees nearby, filling the air with their chatter. The smell of freshly fallen leaves and woodsmoke is everywhere.

“Lattes. Two pumps of hazelnut, extra hot.”

“A shameless appeal to my sweet tooth then.”

She grins at me as she folds over the little drinking tab on her cup, securing it so that steam escapes from the tiny opening. “Yes.”

I sip, and she sips. The latte is hot and sweet with just the right amount of hazelnut flavor.

It tastes like Sally.

Our eyes meet.

She thinking about the kiss too? What is she thinking in general?

She doesn’t look teary or angry, like she regrets what we did. Neither of us drank much. And it was just a little making out. If I did that with anyone else, I wouldn’t think twice about it. We’re not in eighth grade anymore.

With Sally though, making out feels monumental. Probably because it is. We crossed a line I’d thought we’d never cross, and I admitted things to her I’d never thought I’d have the courage to say. Granted, I said them with my lips, mybody, my hands. But Sally’s a smart girl. She has to know I was very much into what we did in the front seat of my old Dodge.

An awkward beat of silence stretches between us, and I scramble to think of something to say.

Do I play it safe, make small talk? Pretend like it never happened?

Or do I jump in with both feet and tell my best friend I’ve been in love with her for over a decade? Ask her to stay at my place tonight and every night after that, please and thank you?

“So…about last night.” Sally looks at me as she runs her free hand up and down her thigh.

I chuckle. “I’m glad you wanna talk about it because I do too.”

“I loved it,” she blurts. “Every minute, Wy. I loved every damn minute of it. You—everything—you are so,sogood at it. That’s what I came here to tell you. I was able to just be in the moment—I wasn’t in my head at all—and that felt liberating in a way I can’t quite describe.”

---