Page 22 of The Weight Of Falling
TESS:WHAT?! You and Joel are going on a date?
KENZIE:A fake date.
SOFIA:Sure, sure.
KATE:Details, please.
TESS:Aren’t you supposed to be on your honeymoon?
KATE:Gideon’s asleep. I’ve snuck into the bathroom. This is too important to wait until I get back.
KENZIE:It’s not a real date.
KATE:I’ve been trying to set you and Joel up for ages. And it finally happened at my wedding.
KENZIE:Nothing happened.
SOFIA:Your face told a different story.
TESS:Aaron wants me to tell you Joel has no record and no red flags on his socials.
KATE:I could have told her that.
TESS:Can I do your hair?
SOFIA:I call dibs on your nails.
TESS:Make sure you wear your sexy black underwear. The ones with the lace.
KENZIE:Joel will not be seeing my underwear!
KATE:You wear pretty underwear so YOU feel sexy and confident.
TESS:Please don’t wear your granny panties. I’m begging you.
SOFIA:As a matter of fact, I’m coming over to your place right now and burning them.
In the days leading up to Saturday, I can’t stop thinking about the kiss. My mind has taken on a will of its own, replaying every little detail. The sure, confident way Joel angled my head so he could gain better access to my mouth. The expert sweep of his tongue. I remember how powerful his muscles felt under my fingers, how soft his lips were in contrast to the hardness of his body.
I can’t regret a kiss like that.
I haven’t thought about Bobby at all. Which is a relief. But with Joel consuming my thoughts, thewhat-ifsare starting to creep in. What if Joel changes his mind and doesn’t show on Saturday? What if it’s awkward, or too real, or not real enough?
I tell myself to stop overthinking it. It’s one public date. A fake date at that. He’s helping me. I’m helping him. That’s all.
On Friday night, I drive to my parents’ place tucked away in the woods just outside town, hoping the change of scenery will distract me. As soon as I hit the long gravel driveway, I feel the tension fall away.
I dish out cuddles to the various rescue dogs loitering in the hallway before I find my parents in the kitchen. It’s my favorite room in the house, the smell of cinnamon in the air, the herb pots lined along the windowsill. My dad is slathering garlic butter onto a baguette, while my mom stirs something on the stove, humming under her breath. The humming is the soundtrack of my childhood. She hummed while painting at the kitchen table on rainy days, letting me swirl leftover colors in her rinsing jar like I was creating galaxies. That’s where it started, my love for brushstrokes and blank paper, for making something that didn’t exist before.
Nostalgia curls around my ribs, tighter than I expect.
“Hi, sweetheart,” my dad says, pulling me into a hug. He’s wearing shorts and flip-flops, and his salt-and-pepper hair hangs shaggily around his face.
“Hi, Dad.” I return his hug. “Nice tan. Where’d you guys go this time?”
“Croatia.”
“Was it a good holiday?”
