Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
At least I’m just in my socks. Could’ve been my big-ass shoes squashing his undefended toes.
Then I realize he hasn’t pulled his foot away.
Neither have I.
“You seem less angry this evening.”
I look up at him, almost dropping my spoon. “Huh?”
“Calmer,” he clarifies. “You seem … calmer.”
His foot gently moves.
Stays next to mine.
My heart does something funny. “It’s the soup.”
He lifts his eyebrows, waiting for more.
I don’t say more.
His foot moves again, even gentler.
I can’t bear to move mine. It feels like I’m inviting something to happen if I do. And I’m not sure I know what would happen.
Doubt a game of footsy was on the menu tonight.
“It’s … g-good,” I say. Did I just stutter? “Real good.”
“I’ve got a lot of it,” he says back—foot moves again—then he gives a friendly smile. “So if you ever want some, just come over.”
He really knows how to choose his words.
I’m starting to think he knows exactly what he’s doing. To me. To my sanity. To my feet.
“So …”
I look up at the sound of Wyatt’s voice, spoon still in the bowl, frozen in place.
“Are we just …” He twirls his spoon in the soup bowl. “… never gonna talk about … the kiss?”
I swallow.
Stare at him.
Our feet still touching.
“We don’t have to,” he goes on, not quite looking at me. “But it’s … starting to feel weird. Not talking about it.”
I understand him. I even agree.
But what the hell are we supposed to say?
How am I supposed to open my mouth and make words or any sense out of how I’m feeling right now?
Kissing is easy.
Talking is terrifying.
I let go of my spoon and reach over the table.
Wyatt looks at my hand, startled, then at my eyes when my fingers reach his face, caressing the side of his cheek. He has no idea what the gesture means. Neither do I. Suddenly I’m over the table, closer and closer to his mouth, to those lips.
And we kiss.
Again.
But gentler.
Almost not even a kiss. Just a meeting of lips. An experiment. Dipping a toe in the pool again, still scared of falling all the way in.
Or maybe this is just my way of “talking about it”.
I’m still using my mouth, aren’t I?
—11—
Wyatt
We’re doing it again.
Kissing instead of talking.
I don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or kiss him even harder.
Maybe it’s sexier, this thing between us that keeps happening without any discussion or understanding.
It reminds me of my first kisses right after high school. Full of butterflies and terror. Bumbling. Uncertain. An explosive joy that makes me worry I’ll never feel something this good again.
I know nothing about Diego. If this is his first time with a guy.
Or if he’s kissed many men’s lips.
If he’s always this closed-off and reserved, never talking stuff out, preferring actions over words.
There’s something I really like about that. Something more trustworthy than promises.
Like a different, more literal form of “lip service”.
But there’s something more than just a kiss happening.
I can’t ignore the hand he just placed on my cheek.
It’s heavy. Warm. Soft. And shaking slightly.
I don’t think he knows his hand is shaking.
This kiss isn’t a statement. That’s why it’s so gentle. Diego is asking me something.
Maybe I should answer.
I lean in more, returning his strength, bringing my hand to the shelf of his shoulder.
The table is suddenly out of the way. I think we left our chairs, got to our feet, closer together, so the rest of our bodies can take part in this … conversation.
The kiss I return him is full of certainty.
Full of yes.
Full of the appetite I’m sure my soup did nothing to satisfy.
His other hand drags down my side, comes around to my back and tugs. Our hips press together. The kiss deepens.
I’m out of breath suddenly.
He’s kissing me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go.
Or maybe he’s the one afraid of disappearing.
Is that something he’s used to? People disappearing from his life? Is that why he came by himself to his aunt and uncle’s house? Why he seemed to have nothing he left behind?
Nothing to cling to?
Is that why he’s clinging to me?
I slide my hand into the back of his hair.
His breath catches.
The kissing turns calm again. Diego’s lips release from mine as our foreheads gently touch, coming together. His eyes are closed. We hold each other as we gather our breath.
Saying nothing.
Yet it feels like we just said everything.
I can’t explain it. These moments. When we’re not pretending to be okay. Not playing it cool. Not being polite. When it’s just a fit of physical madness, then calm, and for a moment, we understand each other better than people I’ve shared countless words with my whole life.
Obviously this is my assessment.
Independent from his.
He could just be freaked out and lonely.
Or horny and bad at communication.
Maybe this means nothing to him.
“Sorry,” he breathes out.