Page 62 of Lotus

Oy. I wonder if we’ll ever make it farther than one driveway. Glancing up, I spot a fellow neighbor, Evan, walking with his daughter, Summer. He’s probably taking notes for his new novel:The Blasphemous Adventures of Sydney Neville. “Hi. Your daughter is getting so big.”

Summer spins around, her ear buds in place, her oversized t-shirt twirling with her as she dances.

My spirit animal.

“She really is,” Evan remarks, scratching at his dark hair. “Hey, I was actually wondering if you could babysit this Saturday night. I’m going to a concert and my usual girl is busy.”

“Yeah, of course.” I work at the club on Friday, but the rest of my weekend is free. “But only if you put in a good word to Lorna about me.”

Evan chuckles, his sparkling smile and Paul Newman eyes leaving no mystery as to why Lorna gushes over the man. “She only likes me because I mow her lawn.”

Yeah, okay.

“Hey, man,” Evan greets, bending down and lowering his hands to his knees, nodding through the open window at Oliver.

Oliver looks beyond lost. “Hello.”

We smile our goodbyes when Summer skips ahead of her father, and I can’t help but laugh as I roll the window up. Oliver and I share an amused glance. “Joyrides are not usually this eventful,” I assure him.

Oliver fiddles with the gears, a small grin brightening his face. “Everything is eventful with you.”

Swoon.

An hour later, we’re lounging on the couch, needing a break from the scorching midsummer heat. But despite the welcomed draft from the air conditioner, the heat doesn’t leave me entirely as I snuggle up beside Oliver, my knees pressed into the side of his thigh, our shoulders fused together.

He’s tense, his hands folded tightly in his lap, and part of me wonders if I’m giving him mixed signals by touching him, by being so close. That’s just me, though—I’ve always been a hugger, a feeler, an invader of personal space. I’m like a tidal wave, crashing onto a sandy shoreline, even on the days it wants to stay dry.

And maybe I’m just eager to soak him up as much I can.

The TV drones on from across the room, some reality show drama providing background noise to our otherwise quiet moment. Oliver’s eyes drift to me every so often. I feel them in the same way that I felthimfor two long decades—a sixth sense. An inherent tingle beneath my skin that would trigger my nerve endings to dance to life every so often, unannounced.

I glance up, seizing his curious gaze with my own, watching an assortment of emotions darken his cinnamon-tinged eyes.

I’ve seen the way he looks at you.

God, me too.

Before the moment can lapse into something heavier, the front door springs open and Gabe’s voice greets us from the foyer below.

“Honey, I’m home. Best Monday ever. I—” His footsteps cease when he spots me cozied up beside Oliver on the sofa. “Oh. Hey.”

I twist my neck around in time to see him pull his eyes from me, pacing into the kitchen and tossing his car keys onto the counter. “Hey.”

Even Oliver can sense the tension that just boiled to the surface. He frowns down at me in question.

A sigh passes through my lips as I commit to damage control. I give Oliver’s thigh a squeeze before standing, noting the way his whole body stiffens at the gesture. “I’ll be right back. I need to talk to Gabe about something.”

His nod sees me off, and I traipse into the kitchen, swinging my arms back and forth like some futile attempt to quell the awkwardness. Gabe spares me a brief glance before rummaging through a cabinet—looking for nothing, I’m sure.

“Can we talk?” I ask him, stuffing my fingers into my back pockets in order to stop them from aimlessly swinging.

Gabe pauses his unproductive perusal, his chest puffing out with a resigned sigh. “Yeah, sure.”

I tilt my head towards the hall, encouraging him to follow, and soon we’re standing face-to-face behind his closed bedroom door. I’m quick to slice the silence. “Can we be done? This sucks.”

He studies me with folded arms, his expression stoic.

My eyes are pleading and sorry as I pucker out my bottom lip, my lashes fluttering, begging for his submission. “You know you can’t stay mad at me.”

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