Page 53 of Under Pink Skies

“Didweeverfollowup with that nonprofit microbrewery?”

Abbie continued to pace with her fingers pressed to her mouth. It had been three days since our date that was not a date underneath the stars. Every day since that night had been a flurry of last-minute phone calls, email chains, and administrative work, making sure that everything for the festival was in place.

I’d finally convinced her not to bite her nails down to the quick, but the pacing continued. It was the night before the festival, and Abbie’s anxiety stood center stage.

“And what about the raffle donations? We have the physical prizes at the store, but what about the digital gift cards and rewards certificates?”

“Abbie,” I tried, only to be interrupted once again.

“What if none of the vendors show up because I made an error in the reminder email and they actually think it’s next week?”

I closed the distance between us, wrapping my fingers gently around her upper arms and pulling her close to me. We stood chest to chest, and her panicked gaze met what I hope was a calm and reassuring smile from me. I watched her exhale, long and slow. My chest tightened as she leaned into my touch. I don’t think she realized she was inclining her body towards mine, and the instinct of it, the rightness of this closeness between us, set my nerves alight.

“You have done everything you can,” I said, rubbing my hands along her smooth skin. It took everything in me to keep my focus on her face, and not on the feeling of my hands on her. “You have worked nonstop the last two months to make sure this festival goes off without a hitch. If there is anything left—not that there is anything left,” I amended quickly after panic sunk into her features again, “it’s someone else’s problem to deal with.”

“I have control issues,” she blurted, and I couldn’t help the laugh that escaped me.

“I know,” I said, patting the pillow next to me on the couch. “Now, what are we watching?”

“You’re letting me pick?” Abbie asked, a hint of suspicion in her tone as she stalked to the kitchen to grab two sparkling waters and shove a bag of popcorn in the microwave.

“Yep,” I said.

Abbie went silent for the next few minutes, no doubt considering her film choice.

“One Direction: This Is Us.”

I blinked rapidly, my jaw dropping open like a fish. Our gazes converged on the remote sitting on the coffee table, and in the next heartbeat, I launched into action, swiping the remote while Abbie howled in protest.

“No,” I said, tucking the remote behind me and sliding backwards into a defensive position on the couch. “Absolutely not.”

“You promised me I could pick whatever I wanted,” Abbie whined, perched on the edge of the couch like a tiger ready to attack as soon as she had an opening.

I set my jaw forward. “Anything but that. I beg you.”

The sudden weight of Abbie’s body in between my legs was a shock to my system. I let out a small sound that sounded embarrassingly close to a gasp when she placed her palms on either side of my head, essentially straddling me on the couch.

God help me.

I knew I’d lost the remote somewhere in the shuffle, given that my fingers were now twitching around empty space, desperate to hold Abbie, and pull her closer.

Abbie leaned forward, so close that our noses were almost touching. My heart hammered wildly in my chest. If I tilted my head just a fraction to the side, our lips would meet.

“You promised,” Abbie whispered, her eyes searching mine. My lips parted of their own accord. The words felt loaded somehow, and some small part of me knew this went deeper than just a movie, even while my brain was overloaded with sensory input.

I laid all my metaphorical cards out on the table and reached my hand up to cup her face. Abbie’s breath hitched in her throat as my thumb traced the delicate curve of her neck.

“I promised,” I repeated, sliding my hand up to her face once more. I stroked my thumb gently over her cheekbone and tilted my face up to meet hers. A loud, rhythmic beeping ran out in the silence, and Abbie jumped.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, her cheeks flushed as she practically leapt to her feet. Cold air rushed between us, cooling my heated skin and forced me back to reality. “Forgot about the popcorn.”

I stared up at the ceiling, cursing every religious figure I could think of for breaking the moment as Abbie rushed to the kitchen to pour the popcorn into a bowl. Realistically, I knew there were several conversations we needed to have before we became . . . physically entangled. But my stupid monkey brain fixated on the small noises she made when she pressed up against me, so close and yet still too far away.

Abbie grabbed the remote off the floor—neither one of us had seen it drop—and settled in a respectable distance away. I knew it was for the best, but the space between us felt miles long after the closeness of earlier.

I barely paid attention to the film. My focus was entirely on Abbie, the way her eyes lit up when her favorite band member was on screen, the nostalgic smile that graced her face when an inside joke was referenced. The tears that welled in her eyes when they performed her favorite song.

Over the course of an hour and forty-five minutes, we slowly drifted closer. It started with my petulant demand to have the popcorn bowl closer and ended with Abbie resting her head on my shoulder as she explained the lore behind 1D internet fan culture in between the band’s performances. I tried to pay attention to her animated explanation of the band breakup timeline, wondering if she could hear how fast my heart beat in my chest. If I failed the pop quiz afterwards because I was too distracted by the feeling of her body pressed against mine, I’d deal with the consequences.

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