It has taken a considerable amount of effort to put Miles—and that kiss—out of my mind. It’s stuck on a mental loop, replaying over and over.
If I close my eyes, I can still feel his lips on mine, even now, days later.
I’m determined to be as normal as possible with him. To put things back the way they were and pretend that I’m completely unaffected by all of it.
That’s a lot of pretending. And I’m not a good actor.
The memory of it blindsides me when I’m not expecting it. Pouring cream in my coffee—oh! There are Miles’s lips. Sprinkling salt on my eggs, and... his hands are on my face. Up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night—and there he is, looking at me like if he doesn’t close the gap between us he might actually pass out.
Which is why the knock on my door Saturday morning, almost a full week after the kiss, is like a speed bump for my heart. I’m standing in the kitchen barefoot, holding a coffee carafe filled with water that’s about to get the glow-up of a lifetime, and at the sound of it, I stare at the door.
Another knock.
I meant what I said. I don’t want to lose his friendship. It’s not a big deal. It was a kiss. Kisses happen all the time.
Only... they don’t happen to me.
It’s not a thing. Don’t make it a thing.
I pull open the door and smile a little too big. Paint me purple because I might as well be the Cheshire Cat.
I force my face tocalm the heck down.
“Good morning,” I say.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I have not,” I say, even though we both know I totally have been.
He studies me for a beat, and it’s enough of a pause to trigger my overwhelming need to fill the space.
“Okay, maybe I have,” I admit. “But I don’t want things to be weird.” I step aside to let him in. I do this without thinking—it’s almost like muscle memory at this point.
“Then don’t make things weird.” He steps into my apartment, the same way he’s done so many other times. Only this time... it’s different.
Because he kissed me.
And I kissed him back.
And there is a very real part of me that wants to do it again.
“I don’t think we need to talk about it,” I say, meeting him in my kitchen. “Do we?”
He shrugs. “I mean, if you don’t want...”
I overlap him with, “I’m not sure it’s...”
We both stop. And smile.
“We’re adults,” I say. “Why is this so difficult? Can we just be adults about it?”
He nods. “I agree. Adults it is.”
“It’s just—” I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “It is kind of a big deal. Like... it’s kind of monumental for me.”
“Kissing?”
“Yes. Do you know the last time I kissed someone other than John?”
