Same Time Next Year

Problem is, I’m even more obsessed with her than I was three months ago—and that is saying a lot, because I have been blind to anyone but Britta since the moment I saw her slide a foamy pint of beer down the bar in Sluggers. This is the first deep conversation we’ve had in a good while, because she has built a forty-story wall between us, and I’m absorbing the weight of it like an eager sponge . . . and I went too far.

“Britta,” I say, lunging to my feet, the impulse to wrap my arms around her, keep her from leaving, blaring in my head. But in nothing but socks, I’m still a foot taller than her, and I remind myself that I’ll never use that size difference against her. Words. With women, problems need to be solved with words. My father taught me that lesson early and reiterated it throughout my life. It’s engraved in my psyche. “Will you please stay?”

“No, I remembered I . . . um. I agreed to cover a shift—”

“Look at me.”

She won’t. All I can see is the center part of her blonde hair.

My heart twists like a doorknob.

Start talking. Fast.

“Listen, I’ve known for three months that you’re not a relationship person. I don’t know why. I’m not aware of the cause, but it’s obviously a sore spot, and I prodded it anyway.” God, I have to fist my hands to keep from cupping her fragile jaw. “I apologize.”

After a beat, she gives a stiff nod, but she still won’t let me see her eyes. “Could we just talk about, like, astrological signs and where we went to high school?” She’s twisting the notebook in her hands, and I gently take it from her before she rips it in half. I don’t want that to happen after she put so much work into something that will ultimately benefit me. “I doubt the green card interviewer is going to ask about our outlook on marriage.”

“No, probably not,” I say.

I lower myself back into my seat, releasing a breath when she does the same. “I’m a Libra.”

Her throat works with a swallow, and she finally, finally looks at me again, a couple of shadows lingering in her eyes. What happened to this girl? I want to know. I want to know the root of what is hurting her so I can rip it clean out of the ground. “Aquarius,” she murmurs. “We’re both air signs.”

Does that mean we’re compatible? I want to ask, but I’m not that stupid.

Plus, I already know we are.

“I went to McNally High School. Played hockey and wrestled. My dad was the woodshop teacher, and he coached the wrestling team too.”

“You had one of those families that was a household name in your town, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” I admit. “You?”

She nods. “For different reasons, though.” Instead of explaining that, she changes the subject quickly. “Favorite food?”

“Broccoli cheddar soup.”

“Oh my . . . God. I wasn’t expecting that. I thought you’d say steak or poutine.”

“Poutine? You stereotyping me?”

She winces but doesn’t take it back.

“Fine. Poutine is a very close second,” I say, making her laugh.

A lush garden springs to life inside me at the sound. It’s the most beautiful noise I’ve ever heard, and I want to tell her that Lark is the perfect middle name for someone with a laugh so perfect, but I can’t. So I lock it down tight and order myself to respect her wishes.

“What’s your favorite food?” I ask her.

“Breakfast.”

My lips jump. “That’s not necessarily a food.”

“I love all of it equally.”

She tilts her head back, blissfully lost in her thoughts, and I can’t help myself: I use the moment to look at her tits. Fuck. The way I want to suck them. Just ride my tongue all over those nipples and draw hard on them when she least expects it. I’d get two fingers inside her pussy and keep them tucked in extra deep, too, so I could feel her getting wetter right at the source. I haven’t been with a lot of women, not compared to some of the guys on the team, but the times I have spent being intimate with another person? I’ve paid close attention. Enough to know exactly how to satisfy Britta. Just give me one motherfucking shot.

“Eggs, pancakes, waffles,” she says. “And syrup on everything.”

Pay. Attention. “You even put syrup on your eggs?”

“Don’t yuck my yum.”

“I wasn’t yucking.” I pretend to write something in her notebook, and she laughs again, turning me inside out. “I was taking notes.”

“Ahhh. Underline and highlight that.”

“Unfortunately, you haven’t had the best syrup. You’d have to go to Canada for that.”

“Are you . . . ?”

She was going to say Are you inviting me? I know it in my bones.

When she lets herself relax with me, even for a minute, she forgets not to flirt. I live for those fleeting moments. If I still sent a Christmas list to Santa every year, it would say a lifetime of flirting with Britta. I’m convinced it’s the only thing I’d need to survive. And I’m not quite ready to let it come to a screeching halt this time.

“I have tentative plans to go home in the offseason this summer. I could bring you back some syrup for your eggs. Or you could come pick it out yourself.”

She huffs a laugh, like she thinks I’m kidding. When it becomes obvious that I’m not, she shakes her head at me. “As much as I would like to see your dad’s infamous wall of devotion, obviously the answer is no.” A flush climbs her cheeks, and she seems to surprise herself by asking, “But just out of curiosity, what would one of your family gatherings look like?

I’ll need to know this kind of thing for the green card interview,” she rushes to tack on.

I’m not buying it, though. She’s curious. Does that mean something?

“Well, we’d have it at my parents’ house. Of course, my four sisters would be there—”

“Four sisters?”

“Yup. I’m the baby.”

“No way you have ever been a baby. You were born six foot five.”

I crack a laugh. “Nope. Not until sophomore year of high school.”

Briefly, she stares off over my shoulder. “You having four sisters explains a lot.”

“What do you mean?”

She hums in her throat. “You’re polite. You give off this sense of . . .”

“What?”

It’s like she can’t find the right word, so she flutters her fingers for a few beats. “Safety. You respect women. I can tell. You’re not just pretending to listen to me. You look at me in a thoughtful way that doesn’t make me feel like I’m rambling—and I always feel like that. Sometimes even when I’m talking to other women. You’re not just pretending to listen while ogling my chest and wondering when you’ll get to see me with my shirt off.”

Silence passes. “Confession. I just ogled.”

“Oh, honey.” She gives me the cutest pout. Like it makes me want to slam my head into a wall. “You were doing so well.”

“I’m sorry.” I drag my hands down my face. “You have incredible tits.”

“Thank you.”

“I can listen and absorb everything you’re saying and still hope your shirt accidentally rips and they come popping out of your bra.”

“I don’t think you understand the mechanics of breasts. Or clothing.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t be surprised. I haven’t laid a finger on a woman since . . .”

Her eyes narrow curiously, her smile playful, but I see the way she digs her fingertips into her knee. Is she nervous about my answer? “Since when?”