Neither does she.
When we finally pull back, there’s this moment where we just look at each other, taking it all in.
“You’re here,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say.
She huffs out a small laugh. “I’m here.”
I brush my thumbs over her cheeks, committing every curve of her face to memory.
“You look tired,” she adds, studying my face.
“So do you.”
“Rude.” She playfully swats my chest.
I grin. “Accurate.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling.
It feels the same and different at the same time, and I can’t quite place why.
I press a soft kiss to her lips, that same watermelon lip gloss meeting me on contact. She pulls back first this time, smudging away the glisten from my lower lip as she does.
In all of the times we’ve been together, I don’t think I’ve ever noticed her pull away from me first. Usually, it’s a mutual drift before diving back in for more.
Maybe we just need some time to get used to each other again. A dull ache forms in my chest at the realization, but what else can I do except give her the time she needs?
“Come on,” I say, quirking an eyebrow and nodding toward the car. “We’ve only got a couple hours.”
“Then let’s not waste a second of them,” she beams, that quintessential Taylor-ness shining through.
Without much time, I zip us over to Burlingame to spend the afternoon together.
We walk along The Ave with no real destination in mind. Just moving together, talking about nothing in particular.
She tells me all about her time atDolceand how her custom dessert business is starting to take off through social media.
I share the progress Julian and I have been making with Northern Flame, including a tentative grand opening set for this March.
But there’s an awkward discomfort underneath it all now. A slight delay in responses, like we both are choosing our words carefully. A brief moment where we check ourselves before speaking.
At one point, she reaches for my hand.
I take it without hesitation.
Our fingers fit together like they always have.
At least that part hasn’t changed.
We stop at a small place on the corner for coffee and a quick bite. I let her order for both of us, which she gets a kick out of as she orders the quirkiest sandwich on the menu.
I watch her while she talks, catching up on stories I’ve only gotten in fragments over text. Her eyes dance, jaw working against the food in her mouth, while she tells me all the details that were too much to type out.
The burns on her arms.
The customers who recognize her.
The way she lights up when she talks about the bakery, gesturing animatedly with her hands and shimmying around her chair, is infectious.
