The snow is falling faster, now. Thick, heavy flakes are quickly covering everything within eyesight, and cold air seeps between us like a veil. We don't mind, though. We're in our own little bubble, here; perfectly content to wander the city at such a late hour, on a weeknight, when we should both be anywhere else, and telling stories older than our friendship. We laugh. We smile. We eat Italian food for dinner, I pay, and the pressures of the outside world are all but nonexistent. And it isn't until she slips beside me – in heels far too dangerous to wear on icy concrete, and with my right arm wrapped snugly around her waist – that things begin to feel… awkward.
Not bad, mind you.
Not even anything in the vicinity of bad, as a matter of fact.
Just awkward.
It's early December. The lampposts are wrapped in ribbon and evergreen, and a million twinkling bulbs paint the city with holiday cheer. It's far too cold to linger, but we're happy to do it anyway because freezing with a friend is far preferable to being warm and alone.
She tells me about her childhood Christmases as I try not to notice the scent of her hair, or the shape of her body beneath my palm, or a million other things that somehow seem impossible to ignore. An hour passes in the blink of an eye. My coat is wet, her hair is beginning to curl, and my toes shout angry warnings about frostbite and pneumonia. But please allow me to be perfectly clear, yeah? Despite the weather, I don't want to leave. Her. I don't want to leave her, specifically. Which ought to make me feel like a fool.
Newsflash, though? It doesn't.
Hindsight tells me that it was silly to leave our cars parked at work, and then walk to the restaurant when we could've easily driven. And it also tells me that I should've seen this coming; that being with this woman, in this setting, when my heart is torn to pieces and bits of it are spattered on my sleeve was just asking for trouble. That 'awkward' will soon be the least of my problems. That she's beautiful, and I need to keep my distance.
So when we're finally standing there – with keys in our respective hands, unlocking doors and fidgeting with things left unspoken – I hesitate. Deliberately. I'm torn between listening to reason, and following the foolish, foolish impulse that hindsight is trying so bloody hard to erase. The air feels colder now, without her pressed against me. It cuts. It numbs the space between where I stand, stone-faced and full of indecision, and where she waits: silently, patiently, still smiling as her gestures tell me that I'm welcome to stay.
With her. Specifically. The clarification isn't lost on me at all.
Her eyes, and her posture, and the tilt of her head… the whole package, really, is telling me that we can stand there for as long as I like. That she's in absolutely no hurry to leave. That the snow is the furthest thing from her mind, and foolishness has no place here tonight.
"We can sit for a little while," she suddenly offers. "My car's plenty roomy, Cal. Ten more minutes won't hurt anything, and it'll give us a chance to warm up before we drive home."
And it's totally innocent, see? She's suggesting we do no more than start both engines, let both sets of windows clear, and sit together in her front seat until both of us get warm. It's reasonable. And sweet. And it shouldn't make me waver at all…but it does. Mostly because now that I've started looking at her eyes, and her posture, and the tilt of her head – her smile, her damp, curly hair, and how beautiful she is by moonlight – I can't stop. And while there is no doubt in my mind that her intentions are pure, mine suddenly aren't.
Which means I can't stay.
So I nod and I fidget, stepping forward and back as I wrestle with how to say goodnight. The word itself is too small, and a hug seems too bland – and then before my brain can catch up to what my body is already doing, there it is: a kiss. My lips land right at the corner of her mouth, pressing gently as my hands fight the urge to touch her, and then it's over.
"Best we both go home now, love," I tell her, allowing myself one last look before I turn to walk away.
It isn't enough, though.
Not anymore.
And foolishness finally hits when I realize I'm playing with fire.
I've been picturing this night in my head for months, now – the tickets cost more than I will ever admit aloud – and if we don't leave in the next five minutes, then all of this will be a waste. On my birthday, no less. Which just feels like salt in the wound.
Full disclosure? I probably shouldn't be surprised. He's terrible with commitment and terrible with remembering dates, and none of that is anything new. And if it weren't for the dozen ridiculously juvenile balloons that he sent today – during a client meeting, of all things, along with an obnoxious singing card that joked about being 'Over the Hill' – then I would probably assume he'd forgotten altogether. But he didn't. Clearly. So to hell with my bad luck.
I kick off my heels and curse as loudly as my lungs will allow, and I'm right on the verge of tearing the tickets in half when the doorbell catches me mid-rant. Four-letter words have painted a blue streak all over my foyer, and when I open the door – anger flashing in neon across my face, and one hand balled into a fist – Cal's very first reaction is to grin. At me. While gesturing in that disarming, cat-who-swallowed-the-canary, impish little pain-in-the-ass way of his that makes me want to giggle and smack him simultaneously… because he isn't the one at the root of my anger. He isn't the one who is two hours late, who was stupid enough to send a bouquet of helium to my office, or who has, apparently, ditched me in favor of God knows what, without so much as a phone call.
Cal is here, and Alec is not.
Doesn't that just speak volumes?
"You must've been a sailor in a past life, then," he says, still grinning, because of course he must've heard me swearing through the door. "But for whatever it's worth, love? Anyone who has the privilege of seeing you look so exquisite in that new dress tonight will be glad to know you've chosen a different career path in this one."
Damn him, anyway.
Just for the record, I have no idea what he's doing. We don't have plans this evening. He's clean-shaven and wearing the leather jacket I gave him last year, and he's… well, he looks quite handsome, actually. He's just paid me the best compliment I've gotten in ages, from anyone, and the truth behind his words cuts my anger in half almost immediately, although I wasn't quite ready to let it go.
"Red looks good on you, Gill," he adds, fidgeting with something in his right hand as he waits for me to ask the obvious question. Or let him inside. Or give him some kind of signal as to why I'm alone, on my birthday, wearing this dress and no shoes.
So I sigh, quirking a smile in spite of my mood and refusing to admit that I'm starting to feel better. "Yeah, well, that jacket looks good on you, too," I tell him. Which suddenly makes him stop fidgeting with whatever is in his hand, as I watch his impishness fade into something… else.
I'm running out of time – and unless I leave right now and manage to defy every traffic law known to man, then the entire evening will likely fall apart. I don't want to go alone, though. I don't want to go alone, and I also don't want to not go, either, if that makes sense. But before I can spiral down the path of self-pity any farther, he offers me a small box wrapped in pink ribbon.
"Didn't want to give it to you at the office," he shrugs, looking somewhat sheepish. And then just because he's Cal, he adds a lighthearted jab. "Especially when those sodding balloons and that stupid card had you plotting Alec's castration all afternoon. Adding fuel to that fire wasn't something I could bring myself to do, so here I am. No helium in sight, but I could be persuaded to sing a bit of Sinatra, if you're so inclined."
To be honest, I don't have the foggiest idea of what to say to any of that – so I opt to stall until my heart and my head find themselves on the same page again, and until I can look at him without feeling like my stomach is upside down. Nervous tension hits me in one large wave, and I can't seem to hold still. I step back into my shoes… tuck the tickets in my purse… pick invisible lint from the front of my dress… and then I pause, mid-motion, as the sight of him standing there – handsome, kind, and exactly what I didn't even know I needed – knocks me completely off guard.
Seconds pass.
Silence builds.
He places the gift in the palm of my hand, then nods ever so slightly as his eyes lock with mine. And he sees it, then. This… this… thing that's been building between us since that night in December, when we lingered too long in the snow. He sees the way my breath catches as his fingertips graze my skin. He sees all of the indecision I'm trying to hide. He sees my dress, and my state of mind, and everything that skirts the line we've tried so hard to strengthen, lest its boundary blur beyond repair. He sees all of those things because I let him. And for once, it doesn't seem so scary.
"It's a bracelet," he confesses, breaking the tension because one of us really needs to, and he doesn't want to put the pressure on me. "Silver. With your birthstone. But if you'd rather have something else, then I can…"
The weight of his gaze lands on my shoulders as I untie the ribbon and lift the lid. He doesn't finish the sentence – but then again he doesn't need to, either, because it's easy to see how much I love what he chose. It's absolutely perfect. It's delicate and lovely, exactly my taste, and I'm struck by how small 'Thank You' suddenly sounds in my head. Two simple words don't do it justice at all.
"You like it, then?" he says on an exhale – which is the very definition of stating the obvious, but hey: sometimes that's just what we do. We're two sides of the same coin, apparently. He's trying to get a better read on how I feel about his gift, while also trying not to look desperate in the process… and my insides are turning somersaults while my brain plays referee, and how are we so bad at all of this, anyway?
We're adults.
We're best friends.
We share a business, and a love of our work, and we're happier together than we are apart.
And yet we are two pathetic balls of awkwardness when it comes to matter of the heart.
Case in point? I drape the bracelet across my wrist, then proceed to blush like a teenager when my breath catches again as he fastens the clasp. "It's beautiful," I tell him sincerely, even though those words sound too small, too.
It doesn't hit me until a few moments later – when his right hand claims the small of my back and I realize how close together we're still standing – that I really don't want him to let go. I don't want him to let go, see? My brain is being very specific about that detail, because I'm not the type of girl who abandons her morality in favor of a few hours of fun. This is Cal touching me, and Cal making me feel things I haven't felt for a very long time, and how did that even happen? I'm not sure I'll ever understand.
We both seem to sense that we're playing with fire, here. But then again, neither one of us has ever backed down from a challenge, so why start now? And why feel guilty for something we haven't even done? Or for something we will probably never do?
It's a toxic emotion, that guilt.
And I refuse to let it win.
Resolve washes over me as I pull him into a quick hug and try not to notice how good he smells. Running late is the furthest thing from my mind, now, and I have no intentions of letting those tickets go to waste. "Feel like seeing a concert with me tonight?" I ask, already knowing that the answer will be yes. Mostly because he doesn't want to let go either, and this is the closest thing to a compromise that our circumstances will allow.
He nods, grinning as his gaze sweeps over me from head to toe, and then grinning even wider when I notice his reaction. Subtlety is on hiatus, apparently. But neither one of us seems to care.
I lock the door behind us and let him lead me to his car, then wait beside it as he opens the passenger side like a gentleman. Chivalry isn't his forte – I probably know this better than anyone, actually – but there it is, just for me. And there goes my brain again, being very specific about that detail too, because it matters.
"Gill?"
Of course it matters.
"Is everything alright, love?"
My hand lands on his chest before I even realize I've moved it, and I feel him grow tense as he watches me with wide eyes. His jaw slackens. He tilts his head. The first half of my name drops off the tip of his tongue, but whatever he's about to tell me is gone the moment I pull – not too hard, but hard enough to bring him closer – on his jacket and align his body with mine. And he looks a bit shell-shocked, actually; like I've just given him a taste of his own medicine and he quite enjoyed how it felt. I've never heard him use that tone of voice with me before.
"Thank you," I whisper, just before my lips find the corner of his mouth and press down, feather soft.
It isn't enough, though – not anymore.
But for now, it's the only piece of myself I can give.
Gravity can be an evil, evil bastard sometimes. As can staircases. And errant shoes. And as far as my terrible luck goes, those three? Together? Are the trifecta of cruelty. My ankle is throbbing, it's doubtful I'll be able to stand without help… and my pride is bruised all to hell. Mostly because the one person who just witnessed my clumsiest moment in the last decade – give or take a few years – is also the one person I'd prefer never see me as being vulnerable.
Gillian is a worrier. She's nurturing. She's empathetic and kind… brilliant and stubborn… and she's a perfectionist. And please allow me to be perfectly clear, here: I love all of those things about her. Truly. I couldn't ask for a better friend or a better partner, and most days I marvel at the fact that she's stood by my side for so long. Especially when anyone else would've run for the hills sometime between my post-divorce pity party, and my regularly scheduled scuffles with danger.
She's fantastic, I tell you.
…and therein lies the problem.
I'll illustrate, yeah?
Step one: A cantankerous Englishman accidently meets the wrong side of his daughter's misplaced shoe, and then proceeds to fall – gracelessly, loudly, and with far more decibels of swearing than one would expect – down his stairs, where he lands with pitiful sigh.
Step two: His kind-hearted and ridiculously beautiful friend-slash-partner-slash-blind-spot-extraordinaire not only witnesses the entire thing… but then insists upon playing nursemaid to both his wounded ankle and his wounded dignity, until every last ounce of emotional armor he possesses has rusted beyond repair.
Step three: Denial. In spades. Because the only thing better than silently lying to himself for months on end and insisting that everything is perfectly, platonically fine… is doing so aloud. Repeatedly. To someone who not only sees the physicality behind every bloody lie, but hears it as well. Syllable by syllable. Inflection by inflection. Until 'Fight or Flight' hits him squarely in the balls, and frustration seeps from his pores.
"You need an x-ray, Cal," she tells me. "You can barely walk, you're obviously in pain, and it'll be easier on both of us if you'd stop trying to be a hero for once and just let me help you to the car."
And mind you, she's bearing at least half my weight during this whole debate, too, because she's Gillian and that's just what she does. She won't leave well enough alone, and she certainly won't let me sit there on the floor, grumbling and grouching to my heart's content. She's surprisingly strong for her size, actually. How endearing.
Step four: More denial comes in on the heels of the last. Those aforementioned stubborn, nurturing, and perfectionistic qualities have now banded together in the war against male pride, and the nursemaid angle has been abandoned in favor of persistence. Which means that physical contact is occurring far more than Captain Cantankerous would prefer, and our hero is running out of ways to hide. She smells good, and her hands are surprisingly brave, and spending the entire evening in a hospital, in a tiny room, with nothing for entertainment but the type of conversation he's hell-bent to avoid… sounds like torture.
"It's an ankle, Gill, not a bloody heart attack," I counter – up to my eyeballs in the middle of step four, without much hope of escape. "And for your information, I do not need an x-ray, alright? I'm still in one piece. I'm a grown man, and I'm perfectly capable of handling my own medical care. So if you'll kindly spare me the guilt trip, I'll promise to take it easy for the rest of the night. Deal?"
Step five: The devil truly does live in the details, and this the point at which it all begins to go sideways – from the flash of fire in her eyes, to the way she's tugging and pulling on limbs, to the way she laughs when she hears the weak retort about a guilt trip. Her scent, and the press of her fingertips… the reassuring hug and the insistence that she will help you, by God, whether you like it or not. Because she cares. Because she wants to. Because she simply won't let the matter drop until you fold, hands up as you finally admit that she's right, and then simultaneously hate yourself for not being stronger.
…for lying to her in the first place.
…for wanting her so badly, despite the fact that her divorce papers are barely dry and the last thing she needs right now is more baggage – in the form of a full-blown, no holds barred, head-over-heels whirlwind of a love affair, because like hell could you ever settle for anything less.
Step six: This one is the hardest, because it's supposed to be the end of the list. Meaning closure. But technicalities are as much of a bitch as gravity itself, and you aren't stupid enough to think that closure will ever apply, here. Not with Gillian. Love doesn't necessarily work that way. So you dance around the obvious – pretending that you're perfectly happy with the way things are, rather than take a leap of faith and risk another fall.
It's exhausting, though. All that pretending.
And sooner or later something is bound to implode.
I'm not blind, yeah? I see the way she looks at me – squinting and sighing, like I've sprouted a third eyebrow and have named it George. She's… she's humoring me, but just barely. She's cataloguing the deflections and smirking at the way I'm hobble-shuffling around the living room, cursing all shoes everywhere and trying to cover my pain with bravado. She listens and she nods along – but then everything changes course and she sneakily begins to steer me towards the front door.
"No deal," she says bluntly. "Face it, Cal, you're not exactly in the position to fight me on this, and even if you were? I'd win. So. You're going to let me drive you to the hospital, then you're going to cooperate while someone in scrubs deals with your ankle – because yes, you most certainly do need an x-ray, and we both know I'll never let the subject drop until you get one. Which means that instead of getting the Good Cop-Bad Cop version of the injury police, you get me: Doctor Gillian, who can pull off both of those roles without breaking a sweat and is already well-versed in how to deal with your bullshit."
She's so close. Our bodies are pressed side by side, and each clumsy step leaves my leg knocking into hers. It's safe and risky and ridiculous and weird, all at the same time, and she is so bloody stubborn that I can't see a way out of this particular mess aside from going through it, head on.
And trust me, surrender is on the tip of my tongue, yeah? She wins. I lose. I'll get the sodding x-ray, I'll cooperate with the hospital staff, and I'll –
"We're a team, remember?"
…I'll…
"One of us gets hurt, and the other is right there to pick up the pieces. Whether that means a busted ankle or a broken heart, we're there. Period. So you better get used to this, okay? Because I'm not going anywhere."
Christ.
My heart throws itself into my throat at the sound of those words, and one hand grabs for the wall. I can't do this anymore, you know? I can't just limp along like a blind man, pretending not to feel, while she says things that make my insides fuzzy. We are a team. There's nothing in this world I wouldn't do to help her, and she's right: we're there, day or night, no matter the circumstances. I'm not going anywhere either.
She's waiting for me to say something, here. To give her an actual, audible answer, because she knows that's why I stopped. She can see it. So when I turn – limping like a fool, and looking like a disheveled mess – to face her fully, she's very clearly expecting more of my piss-poor attitude, by way of a sarcastic retort or some such thing. She watches my mouth open and close a few times, trying to sift through words that are either too big or too small for what I want to say, and recognition doesn't dawn until one of my palms lands on her forearm and the other rides the curve of her waist.
Her eyebrows go up, and her head tilts closer to mine, and she just… she's beautiful.
"Cal?"
She's absolutely beautiful.
Her voice drops to a whisper, and her cheeks are turning pink. "Are you going to stare at me all night, then?" she asks – mostly because I still haven't spoken, and one of us really needs to say something. "Or are we actually going to go?"
And honestly? Up until the point of no return, my intentions were simply to talk to her. To pay her a compliment. To say something sweet and sincere that would tell her how lucky I feel to have her in my life. But the palm that had been resting on her forearm slides lower to graze her hip… and I shuffle forward half a step, until discretion begins laughing at both of us… and then I'm kissing her – gently, gently, just the press of my lips against the corner of her perfect mouth – and the taste of her is so lovely that I don't quite know how to stop.
I don't want to.
Bloody hell, I really don't want to.
My eyes lock with hers as I pull away, and I watch eight different emotions skate across them in turn. She knows. How I feel. Of course she does, right? Because she isn't blind, either, and all of my defenses are gone. And for as badly as I want to taste her again… I don't think it's our time yet.
So I smile, and I sigh, and I run the back of my hand along the length of her cheek – all soft skin and unspoken desire – and then I start shuffling forward again, bit by bit.
"An x-ray, then," I tell her. It's my way of conceding defeat, and I hear the quiet little puff of surprise she gives a beat later when I don't resist being helped into the car.
She is right, after all.
And I suppose a little vulnerability won't kill me.
It's roughly one hundred and sixteen degrees in the shade, and sweat is beginning to pool in places I didn't even know I had. July. Mid-day sun. Thick-soled shoes, safety gear, ridiculously steep hillsides, and a guide who barely looks old enough to drive, let alone be left in charge of something that requires not one… not two… but three liability waivers, a training course, and an impressive amount of trust.
Adrenaline? Yes, that's in play, here, too. I feel it. My hands are trembling, my stomach is in knots – and by the time we reach the first platform, I'm torn between peeing my pants and doubling over in a fit of nervous laughter. Neither of which would go over well with the rest of our group, I'm sure.
There are eight of us today: two teenage girls, a family of four, Cal, and myself. Plus the guide. Plus the gut-punching realizations that A: all of this looked far less scary inside my head, and B: any conversation regarding one's bucket list should probably be had while sober, lest one friend get the well-intentioned-yet-slightly-insane impulse to arrange for item number twenty-four to be knocked off within a week. Just for fun. Just because he cares. Just because he's Cal, and that's what he does, and I really should've seen this coming, shouldn't I?
"You okay, love?" he asks – for at least the tenth time in the last twenty minutes. Mostly because the answer is no, and he can see it from a mile away. "Because if you want to turn around, we can. It's fine. We can just walk back down to the base, ditch the gear, and go home."
Reverse psychology doesn't suit him, so I scoff. Loudly. Which triggers him to sport a grin the size of a skyscraper while leering at the harness around my waist – and as surely as I know my own name, I just know he's itching to say something about…
"Right about now, you'd probably give anything to erase that little confession of yours, wouldn't you? The one about being tied up?"
…about that. Damn him, anyway. He's like a dog with a bone. And just when I think I have the upper hand with something, he cranks the sexual tension to high and sits back to watch me squirm.
The man isn't blind. I'm most certainly not okay, but there's also no way in hell I'll ever quit, either. I'm not wired that way. So that jab? That not-at-all innocent reminder that I once told him about a bondage fantasy? It's his way of taking my mind off the fact that we're about to fly above the treetops, three hundred feet in the air, with nothing but a bit of rope and metal to save us from certain death… and putting it onto him. Which is rather ingenious when you think about it.
"And deprive you of all those fantasy-fueled evenings? Nope. No way," I retort, as his jaw drops open a bit and he shakes his head in surprise. Hey – now is not the time to be modest, and there's absolutely no harm in flirting. It's fun. It's Cal, and it's me, and I'm too caught up in my sweating and my anxiety to worry about playing with fire.
Granted, the whole thing looks easy enough. You just stand at the edge, keep your hand in the right position, remember how to steer, and then just sit down into your harness as gravity takes over – it's as simple as that. Or rather, it's as simple as letting gravity pull you off the side of a cliff could be, while remembering not to vomit and not to cry and not to scream obscenities at mother nature, as you soar through open air and hope you don't die. Ziplining, they call it. Which seems like far too innocent a name.
Our young guide asks for volunteers to go first, and I try to make myself invisible by hiding behind Cal. Quitting is off limits, yes, but like hell am I going to be anyone's guinea pig. Someone else can go first. Someone else can blaze that trail. As for me? I'm perfectly content to go last. It doesn't have to be a race.
I watch the two teenagers make it across unscathed, and then I watch one of them collapse into tears – which does nothing for my nerves at all, so I grab onto Cal's hand for support.
"S'perfectly safe, Gill," he reminds me. "Do you honestly think I'd bring you out here if I thought there was any chance you'd get hurt? Listen, I happen to like you very much, and I'd gladly jump in front of a bullet to save your life, and this is something you've wanted to do for a very long time, yeah? Number twenty-four on your list, it was."
The next two zippers take their turns – a dad and his son, all smiles laughter – and my palm starts to sweat as my anxiety creeps closer to full-blown panic. This is crazy, see? I'm not a quitter and I'm not a coward, but I'm also not suicidal either. We are three hundred feet above where we started, and this suddenly seems like a terrible idea.
Cal, however, doesn't seem to share my opinion. He just keeps right on talking, as though we're strolling along a beach rather than standing at the edge of a cliff.
"So when it's my turn," he continues, "I'm going to step up to that line and enjoy the ride. And I'm going to think about how happy I am that we're here together. Having fun. Living life. Holding hands, and flirting, and just all of it, really. Then you're going to follow right behind me – soaring, flying, feeling free – and when you reach the second platform, I'll be right there. Waiting for you. Hugging you. I might even spin you 'round, too, just for the hell of it. So trust me, love: this part is easy. Everything else we've been through together up until today? That was the hard stuff. Now we get the reward."
The mother and daughter follow on the heels of the father and son, and then it's our turn. And rather than thinking about the height, or all the sweating, or the risk involved in what we are about to do, my thoughts have shifted. To paper snowflakes and glasses of wine. To floral aprons and walks in the snow. To balconies and miner's hats, birthday concerts and twisted ankles. To the work we share, the tears we've shed, and all the smiles in between.
Cal is right.
Of course he's right.
And all of a sudden, my nerves begin to fade.
He's a breath away from letting gravity take over when he stops to give me one last look. "That harness really does look very good on you," he says – waggling his brows in that impish way that sends heat straight to my face – and then he's gone. Flying. Soaring. Whooping with joy as he takes in all the scenery, then lands at the second platform without a hitch.
By the time our guide gives me the final safety run down and I'm standing at the edge, ready to go, all I can think is that Cal really is waiting for me on the other side. He's waving and grinning and I have no doubt that he'll catch me when I get there, just as he promised. Fear isn't a factor for either one of us anymore, it seems.
So I take a deep breath… give a little wave back at him… and then I let go.
I fly.
I live in the moment.
And it's absolutely exhilarating.
It's one of the best things I've ever experienced in my life – and rather than scream as the wind whips past me, I'm overcome with full-blown joy. I've never felt so safe or so free, and it's all because of him.
I stick my feet out in front of me and 'walk' up the second platform as instructed, and Cal catches me around the waist and wraps me in a hug. Meaning that I'm not even unhooked from the line yet, and there he goes keeping his promise. As for me? I'm still giddy. Not… not 'happy,' see, because that word is too small for this. I'm giddy. I feel like I could touch the sky.
So when someone finally unclips me from the line and Cal actually does swoop me up and spin me around, all that giddiness and joy streamlines into a singular urge – one that's been simmering in the background of my heart for far longer than I've ever admitted aloud, and one that will no doubt change everything.
"I'm so proud of you, love – you did it! Wasn't that amazing?" he starts, as the spinning stops and he squeezes me tighter. And then once my feet touch the ground again, he frames my face in his hands and grins so widely, so purely, that I can't help but mirror it. It truly is that contagious, you know? The delight we both feel. It's adrenaline and happiness and relief and love, all rolled into one, and for once he's too distracted to see what I'm about to do.
And there isn't this poetic, clichéd, delay, either, between when my decision is made and when I actually carry it through. I don't pause. I don't waste time. I don't glance around to see if anyone else is watching it, or to overthink what it all means. Quite frankly, I don't care if anyone else is watching, and we've already wasted enough time all these years, and I know exactly what it all means: I love Cal, and he loves me. Why deny it any longer? And why wait another second to show him how I feel?
I'm ready.
And this time, I know we aren't just playing with fire.
No sooner does the word "amazing" leave Cal's lips than mine are on them – not on the corner of his mouth, and not in neutral territory, but right on them, without any shyness at all – and I'm telling him things with my heart that cannot be put into sentences. And he's stunned, you know? Just for a second. Because it's us, and it's brand new… and after dancing around the obvious for far too long, kissing him in public, where a handful of strangers form our unsuspecting audience and we can't exactly get carried away, is a bit of a shock. He isn't used to being so completely caught off-guard.
He's nothing if not a quick study, though, and once the shock wears off he is all in. He isn't a shy man.
Lest we be sent back to base for being wholly inappropriate, I do have enough sense to pull back pretty quickly. Which is definitely a good thing, because his eyes are as dark as I've ever seen them, and although I'm sure he'll deny it a thousand times over, I could swear he's blushing. At me. Because of me. So three cheers for spontaneity and the power of a well-timed urge.
"Amazing doesn't even come close," I tell him – still flirting, still playful, like it's perfectly normal to have gone three hundred feet in the air just to find our future.
Then again, for us?
Maybe it is.
Maybe this is what it took for us to finally see how far we've come together, and to appreciate where the journey will take us next.
A/N: I just wanted to give a quick wave hello to my wonderful friend Dee, who mentioned something to me last week that kicked my muse into gear. Much appreciated! Up next: finally, finally, the next chapter of "Home."