Total pages in book: 22
Estimated words: 20192 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 101(@200wpm)___ 81(@250wpm)___ 67(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 20192 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 101(@200wpm)___ 81(@250wpm)___ 67(@300wpm)
That intuition between two people is no small thing, and in the wee hours of the morning, I’m so grateful I have her, I forget how to breathe. I need a way to say thank you for seeing me so clearly. For not giving up on me, even though it took years for me to wake up.
I want Margot to be my girlfriend.
Something in my gut even tells me she’ll be more than my girlfriend someday, but that possibility is too much to hope for. One step at a time.
For now, I need her to know how special she is to me. That I see her too.
Margot eventually exhausts herself by talking and drifts off, her face half buried in my pillow, the moonlight outlining the curve of her naked hip in silver. This girl . . .
She’s not just someone a man asks to be his girlfriend in a conventional way.
She needs flash and drama and . . .
My Eagle Scout sash full of badges catches my eye where we left it on the bedside table after she finally took it off—and it gives me an idea.
Throwing on a pair of sweatpants, I head downstairs as quietly as possible, hanging a left once I reach the first floor, pausing at the entrance to my mother’s craft room before making my way inside. Her sewing machine sits in front of the window, right where she left it. But I don’t feel hollow and sick anymore seeing the machine. I feel . . . reassured.
I feel ready to move forward.
And I think my mother would love knowing that the first time I touch her sewing machine in years has an important purpose.
To show my girl what she means to me, once and for all.
Margot
I wake up in the final moments before dawn, turning over to find rays of summer sun just beginning to reach between the gaps in the tree line. Trees that are outside of Dean’s house. I’m at Dean’s house. The whole magical night wasn’t a dream.
My campers are still asleep, but I’ll need to be there when they wake up, because there will inevitably be missing camp T-shirts and stragglers and hair that needs to be braided. Still, I lie there for a moment, awash in the magic from the night before.
I’m in love with Dean Ingram.
Have been for years, but the feeling is so big now, I can barely contain it.
Pressing a hand to my stomach and the teeming butterflies inside, I sit up in bed—and that’s when I hear the noise downstairs. When I woke up alone, I assumed Dean would be downstairs making coffee or organizing himself for the day, but . . . what is that rhythmic whir?
I find a T-shirt in his drawer and pull it on over my head, making a quick stop in the bathroom to finger-brush my teeth and wash the sleep from my eyes. I take my time going down each step of the staircase so I can remember this. Waking up in Dean’s house. Saying good morning to him after sleeping in his arms. My body is sore in new places, and I’m warm everywhere. Of course I am. I fell asleep last night with him watching over me, his deep voice mingling with my rambling whispers, his hand reaching out to tuck hair behind my ear every so often, or gather the comforter more securely around my shoulders.
I’m so positive that I’m floating that I stumble on the final step leading into the kitchen, and the whir cuts out abruptly, followed by the scrape of a chair.
Dean emerges to my left, shirtless in low-hanging sweatpants, holding his sash of Eagle Scout badges in his hand. His brow is drawn in concern.
“Margot.” He comes forward, examining me. “Did you fall?”
Oh yeah.
I fell.
I fell hard.
This thing between us is really happening. Right?
In the dawning light of day, I’m suddenly worried I’m dramatizing everything, as usual. Turning normal things between two adults who had sex into a movie-style happy ending, complete with a swelling orchestra crescendo and rolling credits.
“No, I just forgot there was a bottom step,” I sort of blurt, my heart starting to knock loudly. “Good morning.”
He tilts his head, studying my face.
Takes a step closer and strokes his free hand down my hair.
I’m so enraptured by the sight of his morning stubble, I’m caught off guard when he wraps an arm around my waist and picks me up, looking me in the eye as he carries me to the kitchen table and sets me down on the end of it, tilting my chin. Stroking my hair again.
Kissing me softly.
The thrum of my heart grows more confident. Less skittered.
And I feel instantly foolish, because the magic we wove last night is still here in the light of day. It’s never going anywhere. Maybe it can’t when it’s this potent.