“Did you know some trees can predict the weather?” she says.
“I think that’s a myth.”
“A belief,” she says. “Some people think you can look at a tree’s leaves and know a storm is coming. The leaves will curl or flip over. But it’s because of the wind. Or humidity.”
“Isn’t the prediction kind of true if the leaves are doing that, and then it does rain or storm?”
“I guess it depends on what you want to believe,” she says, sliding her arm under her pillow to prop her head up more. “The leaves can make a prediction about the weather. But there’s nothing else about how strong that storm will be. Or how long it’ll last. Or how much damage it’ll do.”
“That doesn’t sound very useful.”
She considers this. “Maybe, as long as you’re not hiding out in fear of the storm, the heads-up can be helpful.”
“So that you can get ahead of it?” I ask.
“If it helps you to take action, yes. And if there isn’t a storm, then you’re ready for the next one.”
I adjust my head on the pillow so I can see her better. “Well, whatever’s coming, we can face it. Together.”
A streak of moonlight slips past the curtains, providing just enough light for me to see Hazel’s face and the glimmer in her eyes that tells me she agrees.
She leans back, holding up my right hand in the blue light, tracing her fingertip across my palm. It’s a more sensitive sensation than I’d anticipated. She follows each line, winding up, down, around.
“I have bigger gaps between my knuckles,” I analyze. “Doesn’t that mean money’s slipping through my fingers?”
“Only when it’s my birthday,” Hazel teases.
“Oh yeah?” I squeeze my fingers tighter together, the light vanishing. “What does my palm say?”
She traces her pinky across the center of my palm. “This one’s very long. I believe it’s the Handsome line.” She surveys my face. “Yep, accurate.”
I gently fist my hand around hers, trapping her pinky. She lets out a laugh and then quickly says, “Okay, okay. All I remember isthat this is the Love line.” Her voice drops to a whisper as she runs her thumb along the line closest to my fingers. “And yours looks clear and unbroken. As for the rest of them…” Hazel slowly presses a kiss against each line, “that’s the best I can tell you.”
I kiss her knuckles in return. “If that’s what my future holds, I’ll take it.”
Hazel clasps both her hands around mine and presses them to her chest. We’re able to make direct eye contact lying down like this. If I leaned forward a few inches, I’d be kissing her. It’s the predicament I’ve found myself in lately. When I’m not kissing Hazel, it’s all I want to do. When I’m kissing Hazel, it’s all I want to keep doing.
This is what I’m thinking about when Hazel presses her lips against mine. In reaction, I brush my fingers along her jawline and down her neck, feeling her pulse beat steadily against my thumb.
We’re tangled up in a queen-size bed, trading quiet kisses back and forth. Our very first kiss was hurried, the second curious and indulgent. But these… these kisses feel like a promise. These are the ones that don’t have to lead anywhere because we have all the time in the world for more. They are the end destination.
“This moment. It makes me happy,” she says when she pulls away. “You make me happy. I want to feel it. I want this to last.”
So that’s what we do. We stretch out this moment for as long as we can. We talk until our voices are hoarse from whispering, and when we’re not talking, we’re kissing.
Hazel snuggles into my shoulder, and I hold her in my arms in the blue light of the moon as the wind chimes clang outside in the storm. It’s sometime after the rain falls to a steady thrum that her breathing finally slows, and she falls asleep smiling.
Chapter 22
HAZEL
The next morning, I’m up before the sun. The guest bedroom’s window overlooks the bay, giving me a front-row seat to streaks of peach and gold trickling over the horizon, the colors lazily stretching across the sky. I’m aware of every passing second, grounded firmly in this moment, in this room, in this bed. The sun looks like it’s climbing up out of the water before it takes a rest, bobbing on the surface like a beach ball. It’s a once-a-day occurrence, but catching the sunrise now, here, over the water… it somehow feels like a stroke of luck. Within a few minutes, the rays poke through the curtain, stirring Logan awake.
He rolls onto his side, bumping into me. His eyes slowly blink open.
“Hi,” I say, brushing his hair off his forehead.
“Hey,” Logan says, his throat husky. It’s his sleepy voice. My heart squeezes at this. I want to know all his voices. “How long have you been awake?”
