Page 46 of The Moment of Letting Go

Me: Me too. : -)

Luke: You can’t wait to see you tomorrow?

Me: You know what I mean. :-P

Luke: Come on, throw me a bone and just say it. You can’t wait to see me.

Now the six-second response time is all on me.

Luke: *pouty face*

Do I do it? No! I shouldn’t. We’ve not known each other long and he might think I’m easy or vulnerable or naïve or desperate.

Luke: Sienna?

Me: *kisses your cheek*

Six more long seconds.

Luke: : -) See you tomorrow.

Me: : -) Good night.

I don’t care if Kendra is threatened by me or if the two of them used to have a thing. The past is the past. The only thing that worries me is the future.

I have to go home sometime.

THIRTEEN

Sienna

The alarm on my phone wakes me to the sound of crickets the next morning. My eyes open a slit to see the clock on the nightstand glaring eight a.m. back at me. Immediately, I leap out of the bed, nearly tripping over my shoes. I’m going to be late for work—I’m always up at seven to get ready. My heart is racing something fierce by the time I realize that I don’t have work today, or tomorrow, or the day after that. Letting out a long breath, I press my palm against my heart.

“Get a grip,” I tell myself.

I walk over and open the long curtains on the windows to let the sun shine through. Then I hop in the shower and shave again even though I showered and shaved last night. I don’t want even a millimeter of regrowth anywhere on my body. Not that I plan on letting Luke feel me up, but … well … he might touch my knee again, or pat my leg like he did yesterday. Or, take it upon himself to remove my shoes, which, in turn, means he’ll touch my ankles.

OK, I think I’m losing it. Why do I feel like a high schooler with a crush on the quarterback?

My room is a mess before I even halfway figure out what to wear. Clothes are strewn all over the bed and the floor and the chair by the wall.

I don’t want to over-or underdress—why didn’t I ask him last night if I should dress casual?

I try on several different outfits, mixing and matching this and that, until finally settling on my cream-colored dress, with orange, black, and light blue flowers around the waist and the bottom, which stops just above my ankles. I top it off with my matching orange purse—big enough to carry my larger camera—orange sandals, and gold bracelets and matching earrings. I pull my hair into a cute braided bun at the back of my head and leave a few wisps to hang about my face.

And I’m incredibly nervous.

This feels like a date. Yes, I think that’s exactly what this is. I mean, he never said it was a date, and I never said it was a date, but it really does seem like—

My phone chimes, interrupting my rambling thoughts, telling me I have a text message. I check it quickly, automatically thinking it will be Luke, until I realize it’s still pretty early.

Paige: I want details!

I text her back telling her that she’ll get the details if there are any, which I highly doubt because this isn’t a date and—

OK, it’s definitely a date.

And it’s the first date I’ve ever been on where I felt a little nauseous beforehand. Where I can’t think straight and where I actually got up two hours before I’m supposed to meet him, just to get ready. The last guy I dated was lucky enough to get a thirty-minute prep time—I liked to date like any girl, but it was often hard for me because I’ve always been so focused on my career and helping my parents.

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