Page 31 of Merry Little Sugar Rush
Burk
That’s what Gram says. I know you’re both right, but still. I haven’t seen him in about fifteen years.
Me
You’re going to reconnect like no time has passed. Just like you did with Gram.
I yawn, watching my phone for a reply to my latest message and glancing up at the top corner of the screen. Holy shit, it’s after eleven. We’ve been talking for two and a half hours when it feels like fifteen minutes.
Burk
I just noticed the time.
Me
Me too. I should try to sleep.
Burk
I’m so sorry. I feel like an asshole for keeping you up so late.
Me
Please don’t. I could have signed off at any point. I didn’t realize it had gotten so late either.
Burk
Still, I feel bad. 4 a.m. is gonna come early.
I can’t help but smile, feeling a little giddy.
Me
It will, but also…worth it. I’ve enjoyed talking to you.
Burk
Same, Easy-Bake. Same. Good night. Sweet dreams.
Me
Night, Burkey Turkey.
I replace my phone on the charger and curl into my pillow. I’m still smiling, unable to stop. Why? Not just because I spent hours chatting with Burk—and of course, stealing a few kisses. And there wasn’t even any mistletoe. It’s because I know my dreams will in fact be sweet. They’ll be filled with thoughts of him, and most likely his amazing kisses.
Who would have thought little Burk Whitman would have grown up to be so dang gorgeous and such a good kisser? The fourteen-year-old girl in me wouldn’t have dreamed about kissing her oldest friend. But the twenty-nine-year-old woman? Oh, she’s definitely dreaming about it and will be praying for more.
More of his kisses are now at the top of my Christmas wishlist.
That’s exactly what I think about as I drift off to sleep.
“Fourteen dollars and seventy cents,”I tell my old kindergarten teacher.
“Keep the change, dear,” she replies with a familiar smile.
Taking the bills, I complete the transaction in the register, drop the change into the tip jar, and turn to finish her order. I make her a cinnamon dolce latte, and a regular coffee with cream and sugar, and place a cinnamon roll with two forks on the counter. Her husband is waiting at one of the bistro tables, his walker beside where he sits.
“Here ya go, Mrs. Emerson,” I state, grabbing a tray and setting her two steaming cups of Joe and the cinnamon roll on top so she can carry it easier.
