Page 29 of Love on the Waiver Wire

“Yeah, I brought them for you,” I tell her, handing them to her.

She takes them, examining the package before looking back at me. “Why would you get these for me?”

It’s my turn to be confused.

“Your brother and I went Christmas shopping two years ago and he bought like fifty bags of them. He said that he was filling your stocking with them because they’re your favorite.”

She stares at me for a second before looking back down, tucking a strand of her hair left out of her bun behind her ear. “I like to eat them when I paint. Helps me concentrate.” She pauses. “Thank you,”

“No problem. I just want to watch you.”

She studies me for a few more moments before accepting that this is what it’s going to be and heading back into the room. She stands in front of her current piece before looking behind her one last time, watching me sit on her couch.

Her place is beautiful, and much more homey than Leo’s, that’s for sure. While his place has been kept a little stale, all greys and hard lines, Isla has made a significant effort to make this place warm.

Her couch is deep and cushy, a deep green color, while the walls are cream. She’s wallpapered a couple of the smaller walls, creating a statement. A cozy plush rug covers a large portion of the family room.

Her kitchen is both tidy and chaotic, with colorful mugs, plates, and kitchen equipment lining the counter. A vase of flowers—an assortment of white and yellows—sits at the end of her marble kitchen island, and I make a mental note to get her the same kind at some point. Maybe a lot of them.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. This may not even be anything.

But the more I think about it, the more I watch as she takes the clip out of her hair, letting the chocolate brown tendrils loose before picking them up once more and clipping them a different way, the more I realize that I think I’ve felt something for her since the very first moment I met her when she came to watch our practice with her parents.

Isla Warner has always been off-limits. Always been like this shiny prize that I can’t possibly get. Better than the Superbowl. Better than one of the most prestigious awards.

I had a chance of winning those.

I never had a chance with her.

Being here now, watching as she dots her canvas with precise strokes of the most beautiful blue, feels like a dream.

And even though it’s early, even though this is totally stupid, I can’t help but feel like I’m free falling.

I sit there for hours as she goes about her business. Her headphones are on, and I wonder what she’s listening to. Her face is a mask of concentration as she works on one corner of her painting. A beautiful landscape of an ocean, a boat floating in the distance, the beautiful pinks and blues of the sun setting on the horizon reflecting on the water.

Does she only do landscapes?

I want to know more, but I can’t interrupt her. I want to be invited back, and interrupting her peace while she’s focusing isn’t the way to ensure that.

Suddenly she opens the bag of peach rings beside her and pops one into her mouth, tilting her head as she looks at her work from a new angle, using her finger to smudge two colors together.

I don’t know much about art, but the style looks familiar, but all hers at once.

She sits up, taking out one of her headphones, but she doesn’t turn, instead adding some small white lines to the waves.

“Why now?” she asks suddenly.

It takes me by surprise, and I take a moment to respond. “What do you mean why now?”

“Why are you talking to me now?”

I shrug, aware she can’t see it. “I don’t know. Sometimes things just have to feel right.”

She turns, biting her lip. “And now feels right?”

“I think it does.”

She nods, going back to work.

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