“Just a feeling,” I say instead with a shrug. “Call it quarterback instinct.”
She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling now. “Your quarterback instinct is making you territorial. Chris is just a friend.”
“If you say so.”
Without warning, she’s off my lap and back in her seat.
Great. I’ve pissed her off, but what am I supposed to do? Let her walk into the fire knowingly? This might be something we disagree on, but at least she knows my position.
I dig back into the plate, chewing through the tension that’s now thicker than the sauce coating my lukewarm chicken parm. “This is really good, by the way.”
“Thanks,” she says lightly, but her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Found the recipe online and I thought you could use the protein after practice.”
“Always taking care of me,” I say with a soft smile. “That's why I need to marry you. Who else is going to feed me like this?”
She huffs out a laugh, the tension finally breaking. “Is that the only reason?”
“No,” I say, leveling her with a look. “Also, because you look criminal in my jersey. Oh, and let’s not forget that thing with your tongue that—”
“Zach!” Her cheeks flush, but I see the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You can’t keep saying things like that.”
Oh, shestilldoesn’t think I’m serious, does she?
I set down my fork, reaching for her hand. “I want to marry you because you're it for me, Honey. You've always been it. Since that first time we practiced kissing in your car. Since you put my necklace around your neck and haven’t taken it off since. My biggest goal in life is to marry you and show you all the ways I love you for the rest of it.”
Her expression softens as she shifts her vegetables across the plate. “I know.”
“Do you?” I press. “Because sometimes I wonder if you really understand how serious I am about us. About our future.”
She doesn’t speak for a moment. Then—quietly, achingly honest—she says, “I do understand. I just… I need to figure out who I am first. Not as a daughter or a girlfriend.”
It stings. Of course it does, because I’m so fucking sure about her, and I can feel it. I know she is about me too; she’s just not ready to admit it.
“I know,” I say softly. “And I'll wait. As long as it takes.”
Her eyes glisten, but she blinks it back like she always does. “What if it takes years?”
“Then I'll wait years,” I say simply. “Hell, I’ll wait forever, Honeycomb. I'm not going anywhere.”
She smiles, really smiles, bringing my hand to her lips and pressing a kiss to my knuckles. “Good, because neither am I.”
The knot in my stomach doesn’t go away. Not really.
How can it when I’m leaving her with two people I don’t trust?
But you trust her. That’s the most important thing.
I pull her into my arms and press a kiss into her hair. “You know you’re my home, right?”
Her body stiffens ever-so-slightly before she relaxes into my arms. “I know,” she says.
I close my eyes and pretend her answer is enough, ignoring the fact that I’m already bracing for the distance between us.
Sinking into the worn leather couch, I ignore the hustle and bustle of the Holy Ground café and stare at the blank Word document on my laptop.
Keyword: blank.
What the hell am I supposed to write?