Jake turns away and takes his time returning the book to the shelf he’d pulled it from, and I don’t miss the slow rise and fall of his shoulders. On instinct alone, I take a step closer to him, but I stop before I reach out a hand, matching my next breath to his.
“Will you give me some time? I’ll answer you later, but please give me some time.”
I’ll give him anything, but I don’t say that, shrugging even while he can’t see me. “Of course. Yeah. Are we okay in the meantime, or did I fuck up the rest of our night?”
“You didn’t.”
“Jake.”
He spins slowly, his eyes narrowed. “Yes?”
“I didn’t what, Jake?” I smirk as much as I think I can, and he shakes his head as he closes the distance between us, his fingertips just barely grazing the front of my shirt. This is the teasing friends do—just like the night we stood by his car and I asked him to tell me he’d made himself come in his shower—but there was a spark there then and it’s back now. I don’t care whether it burns me before I put it out, just as long as he isn’t left with another scar, so I hold his hand for a beat or two before I push it away. “Please. You know it’s one of my favorite words. Let me hear you say it.”
“Fuck—” He pauses there, the crispness of thekslowly crumbling between us when he smiles. “You didn’t fuck up the rest of our night.”
The view from the restaurant is gorgeous. It’s romantic for anyone looking for that sort of thing, and relaxing for the rest of us.
My high school friend had greeted me with an enthusiastic hug when we’d arrived, and later, after appreciating the flare of envy in Jake’s stare, I’d explained that Steven was terribly straight and very monogamously married. Otherwise quiet, we’d been led to a deck overlooking the water and treated to a bottle of wine, a glass already in my hand when I’d flirted with danger.
“It’s not quite as good as the stuff Lucy could bring us,” I’d said.
“Subtle,” he’d responded.
We’re much further into our meal now, the table crowded by half-empty plates of delicious food we share as often as not. The low hum of the restaurant is steady and full of promise, and I feel it inside me, too. Warm. Comfortable. I lean into the sensation, trusting that I won’t fall from such a sturdy chair.
“Tell me something,” I say. “Anything.”
Jake swallows the bite in his mouth and thinks about my request for a moment, but it doesn’t take him long. I’m sure he has a million stories.
“I played baseball when I was a kid. And once, when I was about fourteen, I was sitting next to a teammate in the dugout after practice. Our moms were always the last two to pick us up, so it wasn’t unusual for us to be together like that, but most ofthe time we’d be playing catch or racing each other or something. That day was too hot, though. We waited in the shade instead.”
Aside from my experience with surfing, I know very little about sports. Idoknow that baseball players are cute as fuck, and I’m invested in whatever young Jake was up to that day, still a few years before I was born.
“He and I talked about school and the team and our friends, and then he reached over and curled his pinky around mine, and he tugged until our hands rested on the bench between us.” Jake frowns for a split second as he pushes a roasted potato around his plate. “My face got warm, and my heart was pounding—it wassohot that day. I looked straight ahead, toward the parking lot, even when he whispered my name. And then I saw my mom’s car, and I pulled my hand away from his, and I didn’t look back.”
“And nothing else happened after that?” I ask.
“Nope,” he says, finally setting his fork down. “But I saw him years later at a reunion. He was married to another man. We didn’t talk for more than a few minutes, but I was unsettled for a long, long time afterward.”
“Because he was gay?”
Jake shakes his head, but stills when he’s brave enough to meet my curious eyes. “We missed out on something we both might’ve wanted because I didn’t realize that what I was feeling was more than just heat.”
My throat is dry, I think. It’s the reason I go for my water and ignore that Jake’s hand is on the table now, close enough for me to touch my pinky to his if I thought it was a good idea. It’s not,and I’m tempted to walk away so I can call Beau and beg him to remind me of all the reasons I can’t do this—why I can’t love a man who deserves better than anything I’ve ever been.
Of course, Beau would try to tell me I can love just fine.
I nod to acknowledge too many honest things and change the subject instead. “We’re gonna need lots of food, lots of drinks, and lots of pool noodles.”
“Does that mean it’s my turn to ask whether I messed up the rest of our night?”
“No.”
“No, it’s not my turn?” Jake asks. “Or no, I didn’t mess up?”
“Both. Neither. Nothing’s messed up. I’m just excited about the pool party.”
“We don’t need pool noodles. Lucy isn’t twelve.”