Jamie moves closer again, his arms—and the blanket—wrapped more tightly around me than before, and I know he’s clinging, too. It’s silly, I think, when we can plan to have tacos next week and the week after that and the week after that. We can spend afternoons on the beach or try dinner again at the same bar, and whatever desperation we feel tonight can be something we laugh at then.
We don’t pull away from each other though, our kisses close to promises we haven’t made, until my attempt at a deep breath turns into another ridiculous yawn. Jamie doesn’t laugh this time, but he slowly slides off my lap and back onto the bench, extending his arm to make room for me against his side.
“Don’t go,” he whispers. “Not yet.”
I’m too big to do this, and I don’t care, resting my head on his shoulder while he rearranges the blanket over us. It’ll be fine for the few more minutes I’m here, my eyes closed while I rest with one last kiss pressed to the top of my head.
One last kiss.
Chapter Three: Jamie
(I Swore it Wasn't Love)
Iwake him in time for the spectacular sunrise.
The sun is technically behind us, and I’m already sure the man next to me will be the most perfect thing I see all morning. Still, the slow spread of color in the sky is something worth watching. Mateo startles, confused and probably terribly stiff no matter how comfortable I’d tried to make myself while he slept against me. And then he remembers where he is, and in that moment of unbearable honesty, his entire body relaxes as his tired eyes find mine.
For the rest of my life, on the very worst of days, I’ll beg myself to believe he saw something perfect, too.
“Were you worried it was a dream?” I ask.
“I never remember my dreams,” Mateo says, his voice raspy and easy to lose to the sound of the waves below us. “But I remember everything about last night.”
He wipes the sleep from his eyes and blinks toward the ocean without bothering to fix the messy ponytail barely resembling one now. The fog will blur his view more than the exhaustion he’ll take home with him. He stares for a while anyway, and I understand thecompulsion. I’ve been watching the horizon for a very long time.
I still barely understand my decision to bring him here, to a place I’ve made mine because I don’t always like to share. The goal was a longer conversation, I think. I didn’t expect the shooting star that dragged whispered vows across the sky. I didn’t expect the need to hear them again today.
I listen carefully, just in case.
Beachfront mornings aren’t new to me, so I easily drown out the chatter of the seagulls. I know they’ve arrived by now, but I don’t care about the surfers gathering just north and south of where we sit. A few wealthy homeowners may be sipping gourmet coffee from the comfort of the backyards above us, and they’re mostly uninteresting to me. Mateo and I remain secluded in a bubble that has to burst, however gently it might happen.
“I really don’t know what I’m doing here,” I tell him.
I’d first said it hours ago, and everything had turned out fine then. Great, even. My hopes are higher this morning, but it’s been years since I’ve dared to look up. Mateo shifts beneath the blanket, and he lands further away. His fingers are threaded through mine before I let any of my past take me from something that feels suspiciously like a future.
“Have you done this before?”
I smile, comforted by another echo. “You asked me that last night, and then I kissed you.”
“And this time?”
He rubs his thumb against the back of my hand, just like he had before, and I’m stunned that anything can feel so familiar to me already. I want to give him something back, but I think this view of the Pacific is all I’ve got.
“The sun is up.”
“And you’re not out,” he murmurs. “You’ve done this before, butnobody knows.”
Still not used to being this transparent when my facade has served me well, I flinch and become a coward again. “You don’t have to give me a ride back to the bar. I’ve kept you away from home long enough.”
“That wasn’t an accusation, Jamie. Just an observation I couldn’t censor after sleeping on a bench for a few hours.”
“I didn’t know how to let you leave. It was selfish to ask you to stay.”
“The bench thing wasn’t an accusation either,” Mateo says, and he turns toward me slowly enough that I don’t notice his free hand moving until he’s already pushing his hood away from my head again. I don’t know how much I look like Jameson Sinclair this morning, but it became too late to hide a while ago. When I close my eyes anyway, he combs his fingers through my hair. “I was properly warned about your selfishness. I’m glad I stayed. I’d do it all over again if you wanted me to. And you don’t owe me an answer to a question I didn’t ask.”
We’ve been careful about that—asking things and answering them—but I look into Mateo’s boundless brown eyes and I hate our caution. He might hate it too, but he lets go of my head and gives me time to put my words together.
“It’s probably a lot more complicated than whatever you’re thinking, but you’re right. It’s never been a thing for me—beingout.”