Page 15 of Storytime and Sawdust
"So," Diana drawls the moment he's gone, "cleaning up, huh?"
"Don't start," I warn, but there's no heat in it.
"That man looks at you like you hung the stars." She nods toward the painted constellations above us. "Literally, in this case."
I sink into one of the reading nook's cushioned seats, suddenly exhausted. "It's complicated."
"It usually is." Diana sits beside me. "Want to talk about it?"
"I don't know what there is to say. We're working together. He's..." I search for words that won't reveal too much. "He's different."
"Different good?"
"Different everything." I run my fingers over the intricate wood carving beside me—a tiny owl peering from a knothole. "He listens when I talk. Really listens. And he sees things in me that I thought I needed to hide."
Diana's teasing expression softens. "Sounds serious."
"It's probably nothing," I say, but my heart doesn't believe it. "A professional collaboration, that's all."
"Mmhmm. That's why you two were about to kiss when I so rudely interrupted."
I cover my face with my hands. "Was it that obvious?"
"Honey, the sexual tension in here was thick enough to shelve in the adult section." She pats my knee. "For what it's worth, I think he's good for you. Steady. Grounded."
"We're complete opposites."
"Exactly." Diana stands, returning to her book cart. "You light up every room you enter. He builds rooms worth entering. Seems complementary to me."
Her words follow me home that night, echoing as I feed Winston and change into pajamas. Complementary. Not opposite, not incompatible—complementary.
I think about Cal's quiet strength, the way he listens so intently, how his rare smiles feel like treasures. How he makes me feel both calm and exhilarated at once.
For the first time in longer than I can remember, I don't worry about being too much. With Cal, I have the strangest feeling that I might be exactly enough.
I touch my cheek where his fingers brushed away imaginary paint, wondering what would have happened if Diana hadn't interrupted us.
Thursday suddenly feels very far away.
In bed, I pull out my journal, opening to a fresh page.
Wednesday, November 3rd
We almost kissed tonight. Cal and I. Standing beneath a ceiling of stars we painted together, his hand on my face like I was something precious.
Diana interrupted before anything happened, but I can't stopthinking about it. About him. The way he listens. The way he sees me—really sees me—and doesn't flinch from what he finds.
He told me tonight that being passionate isn't a flaw. That maybe we're both exactly as we should be.
What if he's right? What if all this time, I haven't been too much at all? What if I've just been waiting for someone who could handle all of me?
Someone steady. Someone who builds beautiful things with his hands and speaks volumes in the spaces between words.
Someone like Cal.
I'm scared. Not of him, but of how much I already feel. Of how easily he's slipped past all my defenses. Of how much it will hurt if this turns out to be nothing more than a temporary connection over a shared project.
But for once in my life, I think the risk might be worth it.
