“Would you need to go to an office for this new job?” he asks, bending to push a bag toward the back of my trunk. I pull another bag out of the cart and he reaches for it, quietly telling me, “Let me.”
“No,” I answer. “All the programs I need are on my laptop, so I can work from home. Maybe at a coffee shop once or twice a week for a change of scenery.”
“What you’re saying is, you could live anywhere?” he asks, and the question is full of hope.
“I could.” A storm of birds is flapping around in my chest.
With the last bag unloaded, he looks down at me for a moment before leaning in, kissing me softly. It’s the faintest, slowest, most featherlight kiss I’ve ever had, and I want to ask him for about a hundred more.
Can I ovulate from a kiss?
“That’s good to know,” he says, and then points the cart in the direction of his car. “See you at Fred’s tonight, Logan.”
* * *
FRED IS BEHIND the bar when I get to work, and I feel the first real pang of sadness at the possibility of leaving, even to do something I love. I don’t have a particularly close relationship with my own father, so getting to hang out with Fred most nights has become something I really look forward to.
Nana would have loved Fred.
Most only-children bear the burden of being their parents’ entire focus, carrying the weight of their collective hopes and dreams on their shoulders. My parents—particularly my mom—discovered early on that I wasn’t the perfect little Mini-Me she’d always wanted, and opted for disapproval rather than trying to relate to me. I wasn’t outright rebellious, but I wasn’t a people-pleaser, either, and I spent most of my teen years being reprimanded for one thing or another.
My grandmother, on the other hand, just got me, and even though I’m sure there were more times than not where my headstrong personality made her want to sell me to the nearest traveling circus, she knew that the traits that made me a challenging teenager would make me a confident, independent woman.
I do a lot of thinking as I start my shift, about what I should do with my life and where, about how many changes could be on the horizon. I keep going back to my conversation with Luke at the store, and it feels heavier, more important with every passing hour. Luke seems to have settled on moving to Berkeley, but we haven’t really talked about it yet. Something in my chest curls in on itself at the idea of being away from him, even now. San Diego has always been my home—even when I was only here visiting during the summer it felt that way. Could I leave it now?
There’s a big game on tonight and the place is packed. I see a lot of regulars, and even more new faces. It’s a good mix: some younger, some older, and a few in between. I keep track of the drinks of the people sitting at the bar, and carefully monitor a particularly rowdy group of sorority-type girls in a booth near the jukebox.
Luke comes in around ten, slipping up to the bar while I’m covering for one of the waitresses. He’s laughing with Fred when I join them, and he reaches out, snags one of my belt loops, and smiles, so fucking wide.
My entire body is full of tiny bombs that detonate when he gives me that smile.
“Hey,” he says.
He’s changed into a pair of dark jeans and a blue T-shirt that stretches tight across his biceps and across his lats. I run my hands up his sides, feeling him. His hair is soft and falling over his forehead and his smile straightens into hunger when I say, “There you are.”
“Can I drive you home?”
“My car is here,” I remind him. “Don’t you have work in the morning?” I put a coaster in front of him, reaching into the cooler to grab a cold pint glass, and begin filling it with a new IPA I’m sure he’ll love.
He catches my hand for a second as I place the glass in front of him, just long enough for his fingers to ghost over my wrist. “You’re the one who closes here and gets up with the sun to go surfing. I want to come home with you. I haven’t been in your bed yet.”
He says it without a hint of trepidation, and suddenly it’s all I can think about.
Luke in my bed.
Luke naked in my sheets.
Luke with his head thrown back against my pillow when he comes.
My voice is noticeably shaky when I tell him, “Okay,” and nod to someone trying to get my attention at the other end of the bar. “Go play with your friends so I can work.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, picking up his beer and standing. “And Logan?”
“Yeah?” I ask.
“You look beautiful tonight.”
* * *
IT DOESN’T ESCAPE my notice—or Fred’s, for that matter—that I track where Luke is all night. He talks animatedly with his friends and even joins them in a game of pool, but keeps checking his watch, meeting my eyes when he looks up to find me watching him, too.
My breath catches every time. I’m nearly drunk with the giddy feeling that rises like carbonation in my chest and the words that seem intent on making their way up my throat.
I love you.