Page 7 of Decking the Halls
“No,” I agree. “And that’s a good thing. Perfection is impossible. And alsoboring.”
Something twists inside of me. I shouldn’t say it, but I reach across the table and take her hand. Her skin is warm from the coffee cup and soft against my calloused fingers.
“You don’t even know me,” she hisses.
“I know enough.”
“Like what?”
“That you volunteer at the animal shelter, you buy coffee for the guy outside the cold Safeway every week, and that you sing in your car when you think no one’s watching.”
Her eyes widen. “How—”
“Small town,” I say. “And I pay attention.”
“What’s the ‘cold’ Safeway, exactly?”
“Uh, the one by the river.”
“Which river?”
“They’re both by rivers?”
“Do you not get out to North Bend much?”
“I only practicallylived inNorth Be…” I cut myself off. This is ridiculous. I turn her hand over, tracing her palm. “I know Nick tried to make you someone you’re not, but you were smart enough to back away. That’s not who you are.”
“Who am I, then?”
“You’re the woman who wore a gold dress to Christmas dinner even though he hated it. Who helped my mom without being asked. You came here today, even though every sensible thought in your head told you not to.”
She doesn’t pull away. The rain intensifies outside, splatting against the glass.
“Wren…” she says, my name trembling on her lips like she’s never said it before.
“Yeah?”
“This feels like trouble.”
I smile. “The good kind, though.”
Her mouth curves, reluctant. “I don’t know yet.”
“You will.”
I want to kiss her—God, I want to. But I don’t move. Not yet. The wanting is its own kind of worship, and I want to savor it.
Outside, the rain turns to fog, the streetlights blurring into gold smudges. Inside, it’s just us, the pie cooling between us as the ice cream melts, and a silence growing larger the longer I let it go on. But I can’t always have the last word, now can I?
She watches our joined hands, thumb grazing the ridge of my knuckles. “What else is on your list?” she asks. “Those other… intentions you mentioned?”
“You really want to know?”
Edie hesitates, then nods. “Yes.”
I lean closer across the small table, lowering my voice so someone like Marcy, who is standing behind the counter, waiting for something to happen, can’t hear.
“I want to take you to my garage,” I say. “Show you the Triumph I’ve been rebuilding to keep from thinking about you. I want to see you standing there with grease on your fingertips, pretending you don’t notice the way I’m looking at you.”
