Page 100 of Nineteen Letters
“Well, if you did I must have had the same dream.”
“So, we really kissed, danced in the rain, and I felt your torch?”
Your reply made me laugh, but I was cringing on the inside.
“We kissed and danced in the rain, but the torch part never happened; you must have dreamed that.” I heard you giggle on the other end of the line, and it made me smile. “So, what do you want to do today?”
“Make out.”
My smile grew. “Okay, we can definitely do that. What else?”
“We could go to the beach.”
I had a feeling you would say that. You always wanted to go to the beach. “Sounds great. Let me have some breakfast and I’ll come over.”
“Brax?” you said before I hung up.
“What?”
“Eat fast, I can’t wait to kiss you again.”
“Okay,” I replied chuckling. The feeling was mutual.
Twenty minutes later I knocked on your front door. You were already dressed in your bikini and a white sundress. Your long brown hair was pulled back into a high ponytail. You looked beautiful—for once I didn’t feel guilty for thinking that. You were my girlfriend now, so I was allowed to think those kinds of things.
You glanced over your shoulder to make sure your parents weren’t nearby, and then you grabbed the frontof my T-shirt and pulled me in for a scorching-hot kiss. You tasted like a combination of mint and sweetness.
I sat at the kitchen table with you and your father while your mother cooked your breakfast.
“Have you eaten, Braxton?” she asked, placing a coffee down in front of your father.
“Thanks, love,” he said, smiling up at her from behind his newspaper.
“Yes, I’ve already eaten,” I replied, without taking my eyes off you. You were staring at me too, and I’m pretty sure we were both wearing goofy grins.
“What are you two up to?” your mother asked as her eyes darted between us. Your father folded down the front of his paper to study us both as well.
“Nothing,” you quickly answered, glancing down at your orange juice.
“You both look like the cat who ate the canary.”
“Nope, wasn’t me,” I said. “What about you, Jem—did you eat the canary?”
“No way … not me,” you replied, vigorously shaking your head. “I don’t like canaries, they taste too … feathery.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. Your father just shook his head and smiled before going back to his paper. Your mother, however, continued to eye us both sceptically.
When you’d finished breakfast, you packed sunscreen, snacks and cold drinks into a bag for us.
You handed me the keys to your car as we walked across the front lawn. You used to prefer me driving. Even though you had improved, I must admit I felt safer being the one behind the wheel.
I reached for your hand as soon as I reversed out into the street. Being able to touch you was going to take some getting used to, but I was happy, and I could tell you were as well.
“Pull over,” you said as I turned the corner.
“Why? Did you forget something?”
“Just pull over,” you demanded.
