T? Just T? I go with it. “You left your hat.” I offer it back.
He squints at it, then gently takes it from me. He turns it over. Gives it a little flick in the air. Then puts it onmyhead.
And after all the trouble I went through frantically fixing my hair in T&S’s tiny bathroom… “I, uh … oh …”
“Looks good on you,” he decides.
I step back, checking my reflection in the window. “Does it?”
“Yep.”
I’ve never been a hat person, but decide to go with it. Like the T thing. Then I realize something and pull it right back off. “Wait. You don’t want to give this up. Why’re you giving this to me?” He stares blankly, not following. “You got Chase Holt’s autograph on it, right here under the bill.”
He purses his lips and tilts his head, considering the hat. Then he shrugs. “I’ve got other signed things.”
That doesn’t surprise me. “Yeah, but—”
“Keep it. I insist.” He smiles.
That smile could make me do anything… “Fine.” I put it back on, but this time with care. Adjusting it in the reflection, I ask, “How’s your head? Looks less bumpy. Guess it didn’t swell too badly?”
He lifts a hand absently to it, as if having forgotten. “Yeah, it’s good.” He smiles. “Must’ve had quite a good nurse carin’ for it.”
I’m no nurse, I almost say, but decide to leave it alone. Why am I so nervous? Mynipplesare sweating and I can’t get this hat right. “Is making friends with neighborhood strays a pastime of yours?”
He glances over his shoulder, as if checking for the cat. No cat. “Guess I’ve got a soft spot for strays. They’re a bit like me, I think. Don’t really have a home. Hoppin’ from one place to the next …”
“… likely hasn’t bathed in years …”
He shoots me a playful frown. “I bathe every dang day, thank you very much. Andfelinesare cleaner than you think. They bathe twenty times a day, I’d reckon.”
“Licking one’s butthole does not equate bathing. Does it look right?” I ask, still fussing with the hat. “I don’t usually wear—”
Suddenly he’s in front of me again.
Like,reallyin front of me.
Sun-eclipsing close.
I freeze, meeting his eyes.
Lips curling ever so subtly, he gently takes the hat back off my head. Then, with the kind of tenderness reserved for fragile works of art, he places it back on my head. A single finger brushes across my bangs, sweeping them off my forehead.
It’s the most intimate moment I think I’ve ever had.
Like, with anyone. Ever. Just this one moment that should be as insignificant as opening a door.
Which is exactly what this feels like.
A door opening.
Betweenus.
“Is that yours?” he asks, voice soft as silk.
I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Is what mine?”
He nods at the window. I turn. My sad hot chocolate still sits there, one dark droplet escaping down its side like the cup itself is shedding a tear of abandonment.