You will have many loves. But most of them will be him.
I smile up at him as he brushes a strand of hair out of my face. “I’m not taking you home tonight,” I remind him.
“That’s presumptuous,” he adds. “I haven’t even kissed you.”
“But you’re going to, right?” I tease.
He pauses a half-second. Just enough for me to realize he’s imagining all the ways hecouldkiss me for the first time—memorizing the feeling of almost. The anticipation. The build-up. The break. The knockout. The silent sweep. And then, his lips fall against mine.
I didn’t know it could feel like this. A freefall against the starry sky. A plunge into the unknown. A dance where only we can hear the music. This is a kiss I’ve waited for my whole life, and his hands cradle my body like he already knows it, and his mouth moves against mine with soft yet skilled movements. I pull back, licking the taste of him off my lips.
“Well, if this is your idea of not knowing each other...” he teases with a smile.
“We don’t know each other after I get in that car,” I respond with a nod to the car that just pulled up to the curb. I cup a hand around his jaw and rub his cheekbone with my thumb. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Jacob Preston Chapman.”
He smiles and nods. “Goodnight, Julia Marie Waters.”
Gramma Elle
“We worked really hard in the gene pool to get you a good set of knockers, so shoulders back and keep ‘em proud.”
“HEY, GRAMMA,” I SAY, climbing her porch steps where she’s rocking in a black rocking chair. Her eyes are closed, a small smile on her face.
We’re at her old house—the one my mother inherited after she died. Gramma died years ago so I know I’m dreaming. Even still. I’m relieved to see her.
I miss Gramma with my whole heart. The day she died, the little girl in me died a little too.
She was the one who let me dream and falter, and she snuck cookies to me and Emily before dinner. She was my everything.
So having her visit me in this dream, it’s like she’s sneaking me one last cookie.
The chair creaks as I sit, and she opens her eyes. Her once brown hair is now white, but her eyes are still the warmest shade of brown I’ve ever seen unless I’m looking at myself in the mirror.You’re the spitting image of your dad’s mother,Mom used to say, then mutter under her breath,and just as difficult.
She meant it as a dig but I never took it that way. I love Gramma. Always will.
“Ah, Julia, my sweet girl. It’s been a while.” Her face brightens as she smiles and covers my hand with hers. Her skin is soft as silk and paper thin, splattered with so many age spots that I would connect the dots with a Magic Marker when I was nine.
“I’ve missed you,” I say. “How have you been?”
“I’ve been loved,” she answers, and I scrunch my nose and smile.
This has always been my favorite phrase of hers. She would never say,I’ve been wellorI’ve been good.It was alwaysI’ve been loved.
“Why do you always say that?” I ask, and she squeezes my hand.
“Honey, when you’ve lived as many years as I have, you measure less moments as beinggood,” she kind of mocks the last word, and I smile. “Because you won’t always be good. There’ll be days when you’re terrible. Days where you can’t utter a word without crying. Days spent on your knees praying for an answer to a question you don’t even know how to ask. You’ll have days where you’re hurt or stressed or just downright exhausted. But through all that, when you find the right one, you’ll end each day knowing you’re still loved.”
My subconscious mind drifts at her words, dancing around the memory of my night.
“You met someone, didn’t you?” she asks, her lips pursed into a knowing smile.
I breathe out a laugh. “No...” I begin but she narrows her eyes on me, provoking my honesty. “I mean, yes. But I don’t know if he’s asomeoneyet. We just had dinner.” I shrug out the last bit.
“Ahh,” she muses. “In another dream, will you tell me about him?”
“Of course. I mean, if he’s still around. I’m more focused on school and my career right now.”
To that she pats my hand and stands, her chair rocking against the weathered wood as she leaves it vacant. “I have to go get started on dinner. We’re having lasagna—Grandpa’s favorite.”
