Page 78 of Reggie and Delilah's Year of Falling

“Let’s just, um, watch a movie?” I suggest, pointing at the flatscreen in the corner. “And then we can discuss... sleeping arrangements.”

“Yeah. Uh, yes, let’s.” He lets out a long breath, clearly relieved. “I got the snacks,” he adds, digging in his backpack and pulling out some candy he bought at the chocolate shop earlier.

Except, the only movie we can find playing on TV is some cheesy romance with two thirty-somethings playing teens andnot going more than five minutes without kissing or touching or doing... other things. And so even though I’m sitting up by the pillows and Reggie is sitting on the floor, his back against the bed, and even though we’re sitting here munching on licorice and orange sticks and chocolate-covered marzipan, making jokes about the corniness with our mouths full and wearing the same sweaty clothes we’ve been in all day—basically theleastromantic situation possible—all I can think about is kissing and touching and doing... other things with Reggie.

But does he want the same?

With most guys, this wouldn’t even be a question. We’re in a hotel room, miles away from any distractions or interruptions, and I think I’m giving out the vibes that I want this. That I want him. I don’t want to think about Charlie, but Charlie would make a move right now—not because he cared about me, just because he could. I know Reggie cares about me, but I also know what message I gave him, loud and clear, when I rejected his kiss in June. How do I show him that it’s different now, that I’m finally ready? How can I be sure this is still what he wants too?

“Well, uh, that was pretty good.” He turns around as the movie credits roll, and I try to study his face for a sign. Except every sign—the way he’s biting his lip, how much he’s blinking—could be read one way... and also the complete opposite way.

“Yeah. It was good,” I say.

“Good.” Are we doomed to repeat this same adjective for the rest of the night?

“So, we better get to sleep. To drive back in the morning. I texted my mom that I was back at Ryan’s, but she’s going to startgetting suspicious if I show up all late.” He nods in agreement and stands up, and I do the same. My heartbeat is so thunderous, he must be able to hear it.

“Shit, we don’t have toothbrushes or toothpaste... and oh no, your hair.”

“My hair?” I ask, confused.

“Yeah, your hair. You probably don’t have a bonnet. Or, like, a scarf? Whatever you use. My mom always forgets hers on trips and then sends my dad out to get her one at CVS. I can go to CVS if you want... or whatever the Solvang equivalent of a CVS is.”

“No, no—that’s okay.” I’m actually really bad about consistently wearing my bonnet, and that’s why my curls are permanently frizzy. But the fact that he’s worrying about my curls? That’s a sign.

“Wait, I have an idea.” He holds up a finger and then walks over to the closet, pulling down some extra bedding. He holds out a pillowcase. “Maybe you can wrap this around it? I know it’s not satin or anything, and actually, sorry, maybe this is a really stupid idea...”

“I’ll try it,” I say taking it from him. I wrap it around my head, tying it in the back and then I strike a pose. He looks at me funny, with his lips slightly parted and his eyelids heavy. His short, curly eyelashes sparkle in the low light of the room.

“What? I look ridiculous, don’t I?” I start searching for a mirror, but he stops me, a finger lightly brushing my wrist. “No, you look beautiful. You always do.”

Another sign. Acrystal-freaking-clearsign.

This is it. He’s going to kiss me. I want him to kiss me. My whole body is screaming for him to kiss me. He must feel it.

But a second later, he steps back, rubs the side of his head, and looks around the room. “Yeah... so yeah. Now that your hair is good, we’re, uh, good.”

There’s that stupid word again. What in the world just happened?

“Anyway, so, I’m going to sleep on the floor,” he says, taking another step back.

“You don’t have to sleep on the floor, Reggie.”

“Really, it’s okay.”

“No, actually it’s not. Have youseenthose black light videos of hotel rooms?” I smile big at him, wishing all the awkwardness away. Because this is all just so awkward. Why isn’t he making a move? “If you sleep on the floor, you’re going to catch some rare disease, like scarlet fever, and I can’t have that on my conscience. Sleep on the bed. It’s fine.”

“Are you sure?” His voice is quiet, wobbly.

“I’m sure.” I turn and get into the bed, so he can’t protest anymore. Every time he does, it makes me doubt myself and my instincts even more.

“Okay, well, we can sleep head-to-toe,” he says, taking the slowest steps ever to the other side. He puts a knee on the bed delicately, like he’s testing the waters. “Except my feet are pretty funky. They’re not, like, always this funky, but all the walking...”

I snort out a laugh. “It’s fine,” I repeat. “I’m comfortable. I promise.”

That seems to be the last reassurance that he needs, because he finally, finally gets into the bed. There’s still a significant space in between us, like there’s an invisible line he’s trying not to cross.But I can still feel the warmth of his body and smell his scent—sweat, yes, but also the lingering smell of his cocoa butter lotion. I want to inch closer and lay my head on his chest. I want to press one perfect kiss to his lips. But it also feels too big, too bold, to make the first move. I wish I could know for sure it would end well.

“Should we turn out the light?” he asks. He takes his glasses off and puts them on the nightstand, and it’s like seeing a secret side of him. I never noticed the thin rim of gray circling his dark brown eyes before, or the little indents his frames leave on the sides of his nose.

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