Page 46 of The Bright Side of Brooding
“That’s funny?” I asked, my voice just above a whisper.
He shook his head, a ghost of a smile on his lips.
“Not funny. But I feel the same about you.” His eyes narrowed, then relaxed. “Hang out with me tomorrow, before the kids are out celebrating.”
I’d noticed he called Art, Alicia, and Robthe kids.He couldn’t be that much older than them, but he had the coach vibe going on strong, so I didn’t fault him for it.
“You don’t think you’ll want to go with them?”
Even as I said it, I internally cringed. I didn’t want to sound anything but enthusiastic. Yes.Yes. I definitely wanted to do whatever he wanted.
“I will. We’ll meet up with them. They’ll have some stuff to do and they’ll want to clean up and probably nap. We can go enjoy the city for a bit and then do the requisite toasting.” He reached for my hand.
“That sounds good. Just tell me where to be and when, and I’m all yours.” I said the words to be jaunty and fun, but spoken at a near-whisper in the darkened hallway, his calloused palm against mine, they seemed weighty.
“Good.” He raised our linked hands between us and kissed the back of mine all while those blue eyes watched me.
Air left me in a rush.
“Yeah,” I said dumbly, not even sure why I spoke.
“Sleep well.”
I kept my mouth shut then, just nodding and reluctantly letting go of his warm hand so I could stumble through the door to my room and gather myself.
I heard his door shut seconds after I closed mine. I leaned against the wood and indulged in a moment to just breathe in the last few hours. He’d arranged for me to go to the class, taken care of every detail along the way, and then admitted it, albeit only after a little prodding.
And then, the kisses. I let out a full-on sigh. The man could kiss, and yes, I’d already known that, but still. First kisses were always kind of hectic—so muchnewthat it didn’t all sink in. Granted, I remembered every second of our first kiss, or I had until tonight.
Now, my mind had been flattened out and seared over the heat of our most recent interactions. And all I could think was how I looked forward to doing it again. I searched my mind and felt nothing but pleasure and a lingering sense of disbelief that the baking class had ever happened—no anger. No bitter frustration that now I had to pay him back. Nowthatwas a revelation.
I didn’t know what any of this meant, but Nick wasn’t someone to play games. I needed to address the last letter he wrote, the weird business-like tone it’d taken, and how verynotbusinesslike he’d just treated me. I didn’t mind that, but I didn’t want to wake up to another letter like the last one.
* * *
I did wake up to a letter. It wasn’t like the last one. It said:
Dear Summer,
There is nothing about you I don’t like. I know very little, though, so I’m anticipating our time together today. I hope we do it today and then again and again. Forgive me, because now that I’ve tasted a few minutes with you, I want to feast on your time. I want to collect your minutes and hours and hoard them, miserly and mean to everyone but you.
Fear not—my greedy tendencies will be held in check, if not by my larger sense of reality and that the world is more beautiful with you out in it, then also by the reality that we do have jobs to do today.
But please know, with every bit of me, I am ready for you.
Nick
* * *
After reading that, I had to take a moment. I’d honestly never thought about letters being some kind of sneak attack heart-battering foreplay, buthello. I wouldn’t have imagined that because I didn’t remember ever getting letters from men I dated. I might’ve had a note here or there, but mostly it was texts and the like. And that fell so far short from seeing handwriting scratched into paper, knowing the writer had held a pen and shaped each wordfor me.
Plus, he had a really nice way with words, to put it mildly. I liked his turns of phrase. I’d never been big into poetry or English or any of that, far preferring the sciences in school at all levels, but I could appreciate his style. He certainly painted vivid pictures, and there was always such a clear sense ofhimin the sentences—a bold, sweet version of him.
I didn’t want to walk out into the living room and be weird. So I took a few breaths while looking out at the dawning London spring day and steeled myself. I could be around the man and not be obviously muddled. That was possible, and I would do it right now.
I marched out of my room, ready to greet everyone and offer to whip up some eggs or whatever they wanted, and stopped dead in my tracks. Any sense of cool composure I might’ve had drained away, right through my shoes, and my cheeks flamed with the rest of me. My stomach clenched, my jaw slackened, and my throat dried out. All the air in my lungs left me in a rush, and I made a sound, something endlessly delicate and normal, a little bit like, “ughuh.”
Nick sat on a chair just inside the door, head bowed slightly over his phone in one hand, his brow furrowed in study. His other hand tugged at the laces of one shoe, the other already off and sitting next to his opposite, socked foot.
