Page 68 of Petals and Plot Twists
Peter
Always.
The next morning, I wake up to Saturday morning sun streaming through my curtains. It’s just past nine, which is later than I usually sleep, but my rest was fitful last night, my brain flitting in and out of dreams that were a little too vivid. I dreamed of kissing Peter, but it was more than that, too. Snatches of a possible life together played out in my mind like scenes from a movie. Peter laughing at the kitchen table. Peter napping on the couch with a baby on his chest. Peter dancing with me in the rooftop garden.
I pull my pillow out from under my head and press it against my face, fighting the urge to squeal. Or maybe scream. Can I do both at one time? Is there a word for that? A screal, maybe? A squeam?
I want to be happy. Iamhappy. But I’m also terrified. The waffling back and forth between emotions already has me feeling exhausted, and I haven’t even gotten out of bed yet.
“You can do it, Soph,” I say to myself as I toss off my covers. “You can get up!”
I groan as the cool air hits my bare legs and I pull my blankets back over me.
Maybe just five more minutes.
I wonder how Peter slept last night. If his apartmentlethim sleep last night. Is he still in bed right now? Thinking about me like I’m thinking about him?
Even after the way things ended last night, a part of me still hopes he’ll eventually come around to the idea of visiting the garden. But what if he doesn’t?
Is that a dealbreaker for me?
Will I refuse to see him again? Date him? Unless he’s willing to give me what I want?
I climb out of bed and head to the kitchen to make some coffee. I kicked off my pajama pants sometime in the middle of the night, but since Peter slept at home last night, I don’t bother grabbing them. I only need a minute to make some coffee, then I’m going to jump in the shower anyway.
“I feel obligated to tell you I’m here, but I promise I’m not looking.”
I startle at the sound of Peter’s voice and spin around, nearly dropping the coffee mug I just pulled out of the cabinet.
Peter is sitting in the living room, hair mussed like he just woke up, his hand pressed over his eyes. I lift a hand to my chest and take several deep breaths, then look down at my lace-trimmed, pink and purple heart-covered underwear. They aren’t my most scandalous pair, but they are a little cheeky, and the thought of Peter looking up and seeing me pantsless makes my face flush a deep red.
“Peter! You scared me!” I say.
“I know. I’m sorry. But that seemed like a better alternative than lurking while you’re pantsless…and unaware.”
“How gentlemanly of you,” I say. “Hang on. I’ll be right back.”
I put down the coffee mug I’ve been clutching to my chest and hurry back to my room to grab a pair of leggings, hoping my blush will subside before I return to the living room.
The trouble is, I’m not blushingjustbecause Peter saw me in my underwear. I’m blushing because he’shere.He came back.
And now I have to talk to him. Look at that mouth, which I thoroughly kissed last night. Think about something besides the feel of his skin when I slipped my hands under the sleeves of his t-shirt and wrapped my fingers around his biceps. Focus on actual words instead of replaying the noise he made when I pressed a kiss to his neck just below his ear.
I take a slight detour before I go back to the living room and stop in the bathroom to look in the mirror.
My hair iswild.Frizzy, out-of-control curls stand up every which way, and mascara smudges make dark rings under both of my eyes.
I don’t have time to tame the curls, so I force them into a bun, then tackle my face, cleaning up just enough that I won’t look like a walking hangover but not so much that I look like I made an effort.
Even though I’m absolutely making an effort.
I finish by brushing my teeth and putting on a little bit of lip balm. I should probably go grab a bra, but I’m still wearing Peter’s hoodie, and it’s thick enough that I’ll be okay without one.
And now I’veofficiallythought about my appearance more than I ever have with Peter before.
He’s up and making coffee when I get back to the kitchen. Glasses on. Hair tamed a little. He turns and glances at me over his shoulder, a new uncertainty to his expression.
It’s comforting to see because it means he’s probably feeling a little nervous, too.
