He texted me this morning, letting me know that he’d not be able to paint with Mom again today, as if I’d expected him to with everything he’s got going on. Still, I appreciated that he checked in.
Prue: No, not joking!
Prue: You’re so dramatic!
Milo: you’re dead to me.
Milo: see, THAT is when punctuation is appropriate
Milo: I did send that before I read your second message, but my point stands
Milo: I’m coming over
Milo: a virgo…I should have guessed
Prue: Don’t!!
Prue: I’m halfway through a six-pack and in the beginning stages of sad, reminiscent drunk.
Milo: so??
Milo: I’ll bring more beer
Prue: Seriously, Milo, you don’t want to come.
Prue: The whole town is in my backyard, and they’ll talk if they see you sneaking off to find me.
Milo: let them
Milo: are you in the studio?
Prue: No, on the dock.
Milo: okay, wait there for me
Suddenly I’m left in the dark, questioning my outfit choice. I’m wearing loose-fitting jeans with a baggy white sweater. It felt right for the cheesy party my dad was throwing me for all the townies who still seem to see me as their neighbor’s sweet twelve-year-old kid. But not for him. Not forthis.
Though I don’t know whatthisis. My plan is notfullythought out…yet.
I keep falling into the same trap, choosing outfits mindlessly and finding myself uneasy whenever Milo arrives, for a planned drop-in or otherwise, looking like…whathelooks like. He’s older in age and stature, in vibe and aura. And his clothes, his choices, make that clear. Milo knows himself well enough to dress in clothes that he wears and not the other way around. He’s intentional, meticulous with his appearance in a way that feels so annoyingly effortless. It makes me feel young, and plain, and frumpy, and foolish.
But then he gets thatlookin his eye. The teasing, toying flicker in his stare that makes me feel alive, and beautiful, and sexy. And I wonder if I could bottle that feeling. If I managed to steal enough of his attention, hisappreciation,could I learn to conjure that confidence for myself?
I don’t know if it’s the alcohol or the nostalgia or the mindfuck that is Milo Kablukov’s sudden presence in my life, but I’m not sure if I’d stop him from kissing me tonight, if he asked again. Honestly, I’mhopinghe does. One birthday kiss with one ridiculously hot person that I can brag about for years to come to…the friends I willsomedaymake.
Minutes pass as I finish my third beer, staring out over the water as dusk fades to nightfall and I turn my lantern on to see.
A twig snaps from behind me, and I turn to see Milo coming down the rocky steps, awkwardly balancing a vase of flowers in the crook of one arm and a few loose beers in the other. He holds his phone with his mouth, using it as a flashlight for the unlit path.
I can’t make out what he’s wearing, but that doesn’t stop the feeling of desire from rising up my throat. I guess it’s not just his fashion sense buthim.In the dark, or otherwise.
“Hi,” I say, choking on the word, too quiet for him to hear. “Hi,” I repeat, reaching for my fourth beer and cracking it open. “You have some catching up to do,” I say, as he steps onto the dock.
He gets closer to me and my dimly lit lantern, and drops the cans onto the blanket. Then, Milo takes the phone out of his mouth, turns the flashlight off, and slides it into the back pocket of his dark blue jeans. “Good evening,birthday girl,” he teases, smirking wickedly. “These are for you.” He holds out the flowers.
I am hoping—praying, really—the lantern isn’t bright enough to reveal the blush on my cheeks. “Why, thank you.” I reach out and take the vase from him and place it to the side of the blanket underneath me, eyeing the beautiful bouquet skeptically.
How did he get these in the last ten minutes…
