Page 39 of Just One Moment

Ihad a very fortunate upbringing, with my parents being able to put all four kids through college and having a roof over our heads.It’sthe memories we made together thatI’mmost grateful for though.

Wegrew up with a small forest in our backyard, the scent of pine mingling with the salt air.Thehouse is exactly asIremember it whenIwas younger.Thewhite cladding wrappedaround the exterior remains the same; a perfect backdrop for the pale pink, blue, and purple hydrangeas that will be back in bloom next summer.

“Wow,”Quinnwhispers beside me. “Itmust have been amazing growing up here.”Shegasps, andIfollow her line of sight through the windshield. “Getout, you have a tire swing?”There’sa forlorn expression on her face.I’vetried a couple of times to inquire about her childhood, and from what she revealed minutes ago,Idon’t think we had the same experiences.

“Youwanna go on it?”Iturn off the engine and climb out.

Shehurries to follow, with my dog trotting right behind her, and meets me at the hood with wide eyes. “Now?”

“Whynot?C’mon.”Iunlatch the gate leading up the path and head toward the side of the house.Thetall oak tree has been here since before the house was built, draping it in shadows and protecting it from the harsh easterly winds.

Quinn’sfootsteps crunch over the blanket of leaves covering the lawn; spots of orange and yellow sitting against the bright green blades.Thesky is clear today, but the ground is waterlogged from the heavy rain we had yesterday.

“You’llhave to trade those for boots soon.”Inod to her muddy sneakers.

Shelooks down. “Ican’t imagineI’llbe doing much walking, butIhave a pair of old hiking boots.Eventhough the weather inCaliforniawas nothing like this,Iremember growing up wishingIhad a pair of yellow rain boots.Agirl in my class brought in a photo album from a family vacation for show-and-tell, andIremember being so jealous whenIsaw pictures of her in yellow rain boots.”Herhand swats at the air, as if to shoo away the idea. “Sodumb of me.”

Iwant to ask what she brought in for show-and-tell but think better of it.Instead,Igrab hold of the old tire and pat theworn, black rubber. “Right, hop up.Ordo you need help, shortcake?”

“Rude.”Shesticks out her chest proudly, drawing my eyes downward. “Youwon’t be able to pick me up anyway.”

Thathas my eyes snapping to her face. “Wannabet?”

Istep forward, and before she can make a break for it,Iscoop her up and deposit her on top of the tire.Theweight of her means nothing to me;I’mjust thankful for the excuse to feel her pressed up against me again.

She’sstill laughing whenIgrab hold of the rope and rock her gently back and forth. “You’rejust showing off your muscles.”Boothmust be rubbing off on me, becauseIflex said muscles when she wraps her hand around my bicep. “Ifelt that, you meathead.”

“Ihave no idea what you’re on about.”Ichuckle, and she laughs hysterically whenIpuff out my chest, the sound a melodic masterpieceIwant to play on repeat.

Sheleans back, taking control of the swing, and her smile widens every time she flies by me.Howeasy it would be to brush my lips across that smile.

Afew steps is all it would take.

BeforeIget carried away, my older brother’s voice interrupts us.

“Whatthe fuck is that hideous thing you’re wearing?Waita min—oh, this is brilliant.Thedog is wearing a matching one.”

Myeyes shoot daggers atPatrick. “It’smy new sweater thatQuinnbought me,”Ireply, before mouthing,Don’tsay a fucking thing.

“Oh.It’s, uh, nice?” he says, but shoves his fingers down his throat whenQuinnisn’t looking, earning him a slap across the back of the head. “Ifyou two love birds are done out here,Momis itching to see you both.Almostas itchy as that sweater.”Hewhispers that last part with a barely contained laugh.

“Ifyou don’t stop,I’lltellMomyou’ve been researching rings,”Ihiss.

Hiseyes flare. “Don’tyou dare.”

Iwouldn’t, but my threat does the trick.

Wegrab the cake from my car and followPatrickinto the house, wiping our shoes on the welcome mat before kicking them off.Lottie’shappy squeal is heard through the house whenCurlyscampers into the den to greet everyone.

“I’mnervous,”Quinnconfesses quietly next to me.

“Why?”Ihelp her out of her jacket and hang it up in the closet.

“Whatif she doesn’t like me?”Thisversion ofQuinnis rare; white-knuckling the cake tin in her hands, chin tucked to her chest.It’ssimilar to the sideIsaw when she wanted to ask for help but didn’t know how to.

She’squelled my nervousness plenty of times in the few short days we’ve been living together.Andthat’s whatIwant to do for her now.

Mythumb and forefinger lightly pinch her chin to raise her gaze to meet mine. “That’simpossible.Shealways gushes about you after a visit to the bakery.Andnot just about the cakes.Butyou.”

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