Page 40 of The Overdue Kiss

“It’s okay if you’re busy,” he says just as I answer, “Sure. It sounds like fun.”

He peers over his shoulder at me for a second. “Yeah?”

The unexpected joy in that one little word melts my heart. I give him a soft squeeze, the closest thing to a hug while riding. “Yeah.”

It’s a quick drive down a lone road, the old houses and trailers spaced closer together than the area higher up on the mountain where Julia lives. My chilled hands fidget as he pulls into a long gravel driveway, and a little gasp escapes my mouth at the sight of the building before us.

His one-story U-shaped house reminds me of the tiny home shows I’ve seen on TV. Only this one is a bit larger and lacks the wheels for portability. The steel-blue siding complements the ash-gray deck, drawing my attention to the ultimate outdoor entertainment area enclosed in the U of the house. Twinkling fairy lights are strung from one side to the other, illuminating the outdoor couches and a fire pit in a cozy glow. Immediately, images of myself curled up with a good book invade my thoughts. It’s the perfect reading spot.

“Des,” I whisper, awestruck.

He chuckles. “What?”

“Is that... is that a tiny home? I’ve never seen one in real life before.”

“It’s more of a small home. But yeah, I don’t need much when it’s just me.”

He kills the engine, and I scramble off the bike for a better view.

The one-acre property is mostly grass, cut short and well maintained. A few well-placed spruce trees add privacy from passing cars. Sprigs of fireweed dot the outskirts of the property, bringing little pops of pink to the tree line.

Behind his house, a strange glass shed crowds the back corner. Dark shadows reflect in the moonlit windows.

“It’s a greenhouse,” Des says from my side, reading my thoughts. “I have some fruit trees and other plants I keep year-round.”

“You must really like fruit.”

“My granny did. The trees are old, so the apples and pears are extra sweet. Reese and I built it for Granny so she could keep making her jams as much as possible. It’s pretty old, so I’ll need to replace it with a new one soon.”

I point to the greenhouse in disbelief. “I’m sorry, did you say you built this?”

“I did.”

“Like . . . with your bare hands.”

“That’s usually how I build things. We poured a lot of blood, sweat, and tears into this greenhouse—literally. I stepped on a nail and my granny nearly fainted on the spot when she saw all the blood. Meanwhile, Reese bawled like a baby as she drove me to the nearest hospital.” His eyes glaze over, lost in memories. “Granny liked to bring that story up every time she went into town to deliver her jams. Embarrassing at the time, but now I kinda miss it...” He’s silent for a beat before he whispers, “And I miss her.”

My heart breaks at the crack in his voice.

Time doesn’t always heal wounds the way we wish it would. It’s never as quick or painless as we’d like. Abuela Santos passed eight years ago, and Mami’s kitchen still feels a little empty without her standing there with a mixing bowl in hand. Whenever I see her favorite apron or catch a whiff of her perfume in a crowd, the crippling grief hits me all over again—a reminder she is no longer here. Memories of our loved ones stay with us forever, surprising us at unexpected times with their intensity. I can imagine that’s what Des is going through right now.

“Did you want to talk about it?” I ask softly, stepping sideways until our arms touch.

He shakes his head and sighs. “I’m okay. Sometimes the memories of her just hit me when I least expect it. But thanks for asking.”

“If you change your mind, I’m always here to listen.”

“Are you cold?” He glances down at my hands.

Oh.I didn’t realize I’d been rubbing them together.

He removes his gloves and grabs one of my hands. His eyebrows shoot up. “They’re freezing. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“It’s not a big deal.”

He gathers both my hands in his warm ones and brings them up to his mouth. Though I know what he’s about to do, it still doesn’t prepare me for the wave of tingles that shoots down my arms from the warmth of his breath.

And just like that, I’m overheating.

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