forty-two
Sadie
“Idon’tgetit,”he says, leaning back in his chair. “Cherries are dessert.”
“Don’t be a hater until you try it. I’m telling you…”
We’re out on the patio at Cherry Pit, string lights zigzagging overhead like constellations someone took the time to map out. The lake is beyond the railing, waves rolling in like a lullaby, the air cool enough now that my shoulders goosebump every once in a while.
Birdie drops off the salsas with a grin. “Okay,” she announces, pointing to the dishes. “Cherry jalapeño, cherry street corn, and—what seems to be the crowd favorite—smoked cherry with lime."
Colson squints at the lineup like it personally offended him. “This feels like a prank.”
Birdie snorts. “You say that now. What? They didn’t have fancy salsa in Chicago?”
“Not where I’m eating…” he replies seriously.
I roll my eyes. “Ignore him. He’s about to eat his words.”
She laughs and slides the basket closer. “Let me know which one converts him.”
When she walks away, Colson picks up a chip, dips it cautiously into the cherry jalapeño, and takes a bite.
I watch his face change in realtime.
“Oh,” he muses.
“Mm-hmm.”
He tries the smoked cherry next, then the corn. “Okay, hold on. Why is this… actually good?”
“Because it’s perfect,” I boast, dipping my chip again, carefully selecting the one with the most visible salt crystals.
He laughs, shaking his head, and I notice—again—how unfairly attractive he is when he does that. Dark brown hair falling into his eyes, shoulders filling out the sleeves of his T-shirt, muscles earned, not styled. He looks relaxed tonight, open, like the court earlier loosened something in him.
“This one,” I say, nudging the smoked cherry salsa toward him. “Trust me.”
He does, and groans. “Okay. Fine. I was wrong. I’m kinda pissed this is so good”
I grin. “Say it louder.”
“I was wrong,” Colson repeats dramatically, “about cherries.”
We’re cozy, knees brushing under the table, his arm resting along the back of my chair like it belongs there. The lights sway slightly overhead, the lake murmuring behind us; for a moment, everything feels easy.
The wind whips through, almost feeling like the start of fall. It’s way too early for that but try telling that to my over-analyzing brain. No part of me thinks there’s a world where Colson Burke stays in Golden Harbor. He’s going back to the NBA. And he should.
“End of summer’s coming fast,” I say quietly, dipping another chip.
He nods. “Yeah. Faster than I’d like.”
There it is. The thing we keep circling.
“I don’t even know where I’ll land,” he adds. “If a team gives me a shot—”
I look at him. “Someone is definitely picking you up. You’re damn near yourprime.”
He nods, smiling at me. His eyes search mine as he leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “I want this to work too. Whatever this is.”
