“Contemplating.”
She shakes her head, sending water droplets flying. “Brooding with a thesaurus.”
I can’t help but laugh at that. “That’s actually the title of my future autobiography.” I catch her eye, hold it. “So, do you just keep an eye on me all the time?”
She opens her mouth, closes it. I can just make out a flush in her cheeks, and something about catching her flustered ruins me a little. “Don’t be ridiculous. We live practically on top of each other. I just... noticed when you came out. And then noticed you were still there when I was cleaning up later.”
“So you noticed me,” I say. “Twice.”
“You’re hard to miss. Very uh…tall.” She gestures up and down as if presenting me as Exhibit A in the case against normal proportions.
“Fair enough,” I concede.
She stops walking. “Wait. Did you just admit to brooding?”
“I admitted to nothing.”
“You absolutely did.” She gestures to the empty street, smiling. “The rain heard you.”
“The rain is a terrible witness. Very unreliable.”
She laughs, and I realize I’m memorizing her without permission, storing up these moments like I’m going to need them to survive when I’m back in Seattle and she’s just someone I see every few years when I come back to visit.
We walk in comfortable silence for a bit. The rain has lightened to a soft patter, more mist than drops now, and I can see our cabins up ahead, the porch lights glowing golden through the haze. My steps slow without conscious thought. I don’t want this to end. I want more of this easy back-and-forth, more of her laugh, her observations. I want to hear every thought she has about everything. The greed of it surprises me, this sudden fierce need to steal all her time, keep her out here in the rain talking until dawn.
We’ve reached the space between our cabin doors. The porch light casts everything in warm amber. She turns to face me, and we’re closer than I realized.
“Thanks,” she says. “For tonight.”
“You already thanked me.”
“Right.” She laughs, but it comes out breathy. “I do that. Over-thank people.”
She’s looking up at me, and I can’t read her expression. Grateful maybe? Or something else? The rain has made her skin glow in the porch light, and I have to force myself not to stare at the way her wet shirt clings to every curve.
“Well,” she says. “Goodnight then.”
But she doesn’t move toward her door. Just stands there, biting her bottom lip, looking at me like she’s waiting for something. Or maybe that’s just what I want to see.
I should say goodnight. Go inside. Not stand here imagining peeling those wet clothes off her. “Maren,” I hear myself say.
“Yeah?”
I don’t know what I was going to say. Her name just came out, pulled by something I can’t control around her. She tilts her head slightly, waiting, and a drop of rain slides down her throat. I track it without meaning to, and when I look back up, she’s watching me watch her.
Fuck it. I step closer. Close enough to feel the heat coming off her despite the rain. Close enough to see her chest rise with a sharp inhale. She doesn’t move back. The porch light catches the rain on her lips and all I can think about is how badly I want to taste her.
“Calvin...”
The space between us shrinks.
Then, without warning, she jerks back, almost tripping.
“Uh, goodnight,” she says, voice strangled, and disappears inside.
I stand there in the rain for another moment, body wound tight. What the hell just happened? Was I about to do something stupid, and she saved us both by leaving? Or did she want it too?
Inside my cabin, I strip off my wet clothes. Through the wall, the bathroom door clicks shut. The shower starts.
