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I turn the lights off and take the last seat on the couch—the one next to Krew. He leans against Meg, and there goes another corner of my heart. By the end of the night, she will have filled every hole that was left when Kristen died.
I want to look over at Meg every time she laughs during the movie, or glance and see where her hand is so that maybe I can hold it, but I’m currently being barricaded from her by a seven-year-old.
“Who wants popcorn?” I hop up, needing to work off the tension that’s building inside me.
“I do!” Krew says.
“Coming right up.” I walk into the kitchen and throw a bag of popcorn into the microwave. I stand there for a few seconds, watching it spin around as my mind skips to Meg and the moment before dinner when we almost kissed.
Does everything have to be so difficult? Couldn’t we have just kissed? I push both hands through my hair and then bang my forehead against the microwave several times until the popcorn’s done. Then I return back to the couch with one bowl.
Onebowl.
All hands will be in that one bowl. I hope Meg’s not a germaphobe, but I’m a man trying desperately to break down the physical barrier between myself and a beautiful woman. One popcorn bowl is currently my best friend.
Krew sits up and holds the bowl between us. I act like I’m watching the movie, but really I’m timing when Meg’s fingers reach for the popcorn. It takes me a few tries, but I manage to reach for the popcorn at the same time as her. Our fingers tangle together in the middle, and she glances over at me. I turn my head, meeting her stare. The side of her face is lit up from the light of the television, and her lips slip into a smile.
She’s perfect.
“Dad, move your hand. I can’t get any popcorn.”
Leave it to Krew to ruin the moment.
Meg laughs as she scoops up a handful.
Okay, this is getting ridiculous. I can’t hold hands inside a popcorn bowl. So I adjust my position, swinging my arm around Krew so that my fingers end right at Meg’s shoulder. I hope I look a little better than every movie where the guy yawns as he puts his arm around a girl. And really, my arm isn’t even around her. It’s around Krew, but I can make this shoulder thing work.
My fingers move slightly.
Then I wait.
They move again—not a lot, but enough for her to know I’m there.
Meg shifts her position, putting her shoulder closer to me.
That’s all the cue I need.
I begin rubbing her shoulder, tracing small circles over the edges. It’s not a lot, but it’s enough to send my heart beating out of my chest. I don’t know how long we sit like that with me rubbing her shoulder, but the attraction between us builds more and more with each second.
At least for me.
I find the edge of her shirt collar and slip my fingers under the fabric, tracing over the side of her collarbone. Her skin is warm against my touch, burning the tips of my fingers with each brush of my hand. We play the game all over again, me drawing a circle pattern over her shoulder, but this time under her shirt.
My fingers run into her bra strap, and I swallow. It’s been a long time since I’ve dealt with a bra strap. I’m not complaining. Just making a mental announcement.
We’ve touched a bra strap, people. Stay calm.
“Dad, I’m thirsty.”
“Of course you are.” It’s as if an alarm went off in his little brain that I had entered bra strap territory.
“I’ll get him a drink,” Meg says. She stands and heads toward the kitchen before I can even protest.
I look down at Krew, rubbing the top of his hair. “You don’t make things easy for your dad, do you, buddy?”
He laughs and snuggles into my side.
It’s a good thing I love him.
