“Different how?”
She yawns and shrugs. “She makes you smile,” she says.
I swallow past the lump in my throat. “You make me smile.”
“I know.” She smiles back at me. “Now read.”
I do. I read the story, but halfway through, her eyes flutter closed. By the end, she is fully asleep, fingers still tangled in the sloth’s fur.
I stand slowly, watching her breathe, and something heavy and warm settles in my chest.This is my center. She is everything.
Which is exactly why the thought of letting someone like Charlotte into it makes me want to run and stay at the same time.
I turn off the light, leaving the door cracked, and walk down the hall to the small living room. I drop onto the couch and stare at the blank television screen.
I am wired. Too wired to sleep.
I pull out my phone and stare at Charlotte’s number for a full minute.
She texted earlier to say she got back to the inn safe and that the muffins were completely unfair to her self-control. She added a heart emoji she might have meant as festival branding.
Or maybe not.
I type out a message. Delete it. Type another. Delete that one too.
I hate this. I hate the uncertainty, the open-ended possibility, the part of me that wants more when I swore I was done wanting that kind of thing.
I drop my head back against the couch and close my eyes. I have two choices. I can either avoid it and pretend the kiss was a one-off lapse in judgment or be an adult and talk to her.
Both sound terrible.
I scroll to my mom’s contact and call her before I can think too hard about it.
She answers on the second ring. “Hey, sweetheart.”
“Hi,” I say.
“You sound stressed,” she says. “Is this a, can you watch Maisie call or a my life is falling apart, call?”
“Maybe both,” I mutter.
She laughs softly. “I can take her tomorrow after school. I miss my girl anyway. What is going on?”
“Nothing,” I say automatically.
“Liam.” Her mom voice comes through the phone crystal clear. “Do not try that on me. I changed your diapers. I know when you’re full of it.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “There’s this woman,” I say, which feels like the understatement of the century.
“Oh,” she says. Just that one syllable, loaded.
“It isn’t… I don’t know what it is,” I say. “She’s in town for the festival. We have been working together. Maisie likes her.”
“And you?” she asks gently.
I stare at the wall. “Yeah,” I admit. “I do.”
“Okay,” Mom says, like this is not complicated. “And what’s the problem?”
