Page 115 of The Overtime Kiss

And I don’t stop thinking about it as I carry her upstairs to my room.

The water pounds down, hot and fast, but I take my time washing her in the dim light of my rainfall shower, wiping away the last traces of the Popsicle from our hands, our bodies.

She murmurs under the hot stream, eyes half-closed, and I’m thinking. Hard. Wracking my brain.

I want to do something for her beyond tickets to a game or yoga supplies or even soft sheets.

I want to tell her she can use my shower anytime. I want to tell her she can sleep in myemperor-sizebed whenever she wants. I want to tell her I want her here tomorrow night too.

I know all of those things are too dangerous. We’re trying to stick to a game plan.

But there’s one thing I keep returning to.

One thing I know she wants.

Something she hasn’t had in a while.

When we’re standing under the spray and I’m rubbing my hands over her skin, I stop and say, “Let’s get you a foster kitten.”

She freezes. Then blinks up at me. “What did you just say?”

“You want to foster kittens again. We talked about it briefly the day you moved in. And I always felt like you missed it. Like you wanted to. Let’s do it,” I blurt out.

Her mouth parts, surprise flickering across her face as she turns around, studying me. “Why are you saying this now?”

“Because you loved it. I know you miss it. It was really important to you,” I say, my voice quiet but certain.

“It was. It is.”

I cup her face, my thumb brushing across her cheek. “I’d like you to have the things you want.”

Her smile lights up my soul. “Okay then.”

It’s said simply and softly, but full of a gratitude that melts my heart. And I can’t wait to bring this kitten home either.

28

THEN AND NOW

Sabrina

A year ago on Thanksgiving, I walked up the steps to my parents’ home next to Chad, a huge knot in my chest. I looked up at the brass knocker on the familiar doorway of my parents’ stately white mansion, but it hardly felt like I belonged there.

I turned to Chad, nerves twisting inside me, and smoothed a hand over my silk blouse as I asked, “Do I look okay?”

If I didn’t look the part, the criticism would come. I’d worn a long, flowy skirt, a demure navy shirt, and pearls.

Pearls.

“You look fantastic,” he said, then gripped my hand, squeezing my monster-sized ring.

But the knot in my chest tightened even more uncomfortably then. I held a tray of oven roasted turkey in my hands. My mother had asked me to swing by the caterers to pick itup because, as it turned out, she didn’t have enough for her special guests from the club.

She’d even asked me to taste it, to make sure it was good. I had asked Chad to try it instead. The whole time I spent there that day, I was sure I would be critiqued—for the turkey, for the clothes, for my life.

But I was with Chad, the son of my father’s business partner, so everything was fine for a while. A respite, when I was free from the critiques, thanks to a choice they approved of.

Now, I’m walking up the steps to Tyler’s home, bouncing along in my sneakers and jeans, with Luna and Parker by my side. I took them to the park with Trevyn and Barbara-dor to burn off some holiday morning energy. And because Tyler said he had a surprise for us.

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