The heat of his palm. The way his fingers laced with mine, unhurried, deliberate. The squeeze—light at first, then firmer—like he was grounding himself. Or maybe grounding us.
I’d squeezed back, my thumb brushing his knuckles without thinking. Not desperate. Not dramatic. Then he thanked me for a good night—the first one in a long time—according to him. I’d be lying if it hadn’t sent a jolt of electricity through me.
Back in the café, Maren is staring at me like she’s watching something secret be revealed.
“You loved it,” she states.
I smile, thinking back. “I really did.”
She grins. “Did you squeeze back?”
“…Yes.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know,” I say weakly. “Longer than necessary.”
She presses a hand to her heart. “I am unwell.”
“It wasn’t about kissing,” I insist, suddenly serious. “It didn’t need to be. That moment felt… complete.”
Maren softens, nodding. “Sometimes it is.”
I look down into my cup, smiling despite myself. “It was enough.”
She lets out a dramatic sigh. “Please explain why I’m kicking my feet over this. I fully expected a steamy make-out story, and instead I’m getting misty-eyed over a damn hand squeeze.” She swipes at the corner of her eyes. “I even went to Cherry Pit and asked Birdie about you two.”
“Maren,” I groan. “That’s cheating.”
She shrugs, unapologetic. “Sue me. I was excited. And a little bored, okay?”
I roll my eyes and pretend to be annoyed, but I’m not. I take a long sip of my latte, trying—and failing—to hide my smile. No matter what, I love that I have a friend who cares enough to do slightly unhinged things like this.
“Anyway,” she continues, eyes wide again. “Birdie told me she heard a lot of laughing from your table.” She shimmies her shoulders in a way that has me stifling a laugh.
“We had fun. We did the thing where you trade questions–”
She presses a hand to her chest, already emotional. Maren cries about everything. “Stop. That’s my favorite.”
I can’t help but roll my eyes at her. I love her forever but I know she’s about to deep dive. “It was nice. He shared more than I thought he would.”
“Of course he did,” she adds, voice wobbling. “You know you fucking deserve it. After everything.”
I hear her words. I really do, But part of me is afraid to lean into it too far. I don’t want to get my hopes up.
Maren lifts her mug in a coffee toast. “To the hand squeezes that ruin you for everyone else. And the bad bitches who deserve them.”
Iwalkoneofthe local trails, letting the quiet of a Friday morning settle around me. Each minute that passes brings us closer to the rush of tourists on their way—the inevitable swell which comes with summer in a lake town. Right now, though, it’s still calm.
The sun is already warm, amplifying the scent of sunscreen on my shoulders as it heats my skin. Not a cloud in the sky. It’s going to be a hot one. I smile to myself, thinking about the local vendors setting up for the day, about cool treats and overworked food trucks, about people giving in to takeout because leaving the beach early never feels worth it.
The trail curves, familiar under my feet, and before I realize it, I’m passing the spot where Colson and I watched the sun sink into the lake.
My steps slow.
A prickle of nerves sit beneath my skin, then comes the smile, the one I don’t bother trying to hide. It carries a feeling I haven’t let myself have in a long time. Too long.
Hope.
