“No, I want to read yourawesomeromance. Don’t call your work silly, Lettie. Isn’t that what we had that whole stupid fight over? Men calling women’s work silly.” Lettie looks like she swallowed a fly. I thought what I said was okay, maybe even nice. But maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned the fight. I think over what I said. I don’t think I said anything offensive. But she appears upset.
“Um . . . then . . . maybe someday . . . I’ll let you. If you promise not to make fun of me.”
“I would never. What’s this book about?”
“You know... ” She glances at me nervously. “Same old thing—a girl meets a boy, they fall in love.”
“Sounds nice.” I reach for her free hand.
“It is nice.” She smiles at me. I hold her eyes; today, they are more blue than green.
I lead us to an empty bench, looking out on the water. We sip our drinks and eat macarons (not as good as mine, but still delicious). I tear off a piece of my almond croissant to share with Lettie.
“I have a confession to make,” I say after finishing off a caramel macaron.
“Yes?”
“I don’t think I like sandals.”
Lettie spit-takes, spraying pink macaron crumbs that land on her face and sweatshirt. Laughing, I hand her my handkerchief.
“Sorry,” she says as she takes it. “I’m such a disaster.” She wipes off her face first, then inspects the handkerchief. “Ooh, fancy! I didn’t think anyone under 80 used these anymore.”
“I knew you were going to make fun of this. But I can’t stand using disposable tissues. I mean, obviously, I can, but a cloth one is so much softer and sturdier.”
“That is so bougie, no beyond bougie. But also, it makes sense.” Her fingers run along the embroidery. In the corner is a blooming almond tree and a stylized letter P on the trunk. “P for Pemberley?”
“Yeah, My mom embroiders everything. It calms her when she’s anxious. I have dozens and dozens of these. You can keep it.”
“Thank you!” She slips the handkerchief in her purse. “My mom likes embroidery, too. And sometimes I embroider my clothes.” She jumps off the bench and shows me a red heart stitched on the back pocket of her jean shorts. Honestly, I’m just admiring her cute butt.
“Dang it,” she says when she turns around. “I didn’t mean to ... I wasn’t trying to show off...” Her cheeks flush bright red. “Never mind.”
“I know... It’s fine.” I reach for her hand and pull her back to the bench beside me. In the sun, her light-brown hair shines golden. “I like you a lot, Lettie.” She nods ever so slightly and swallows as if she’s about to say something, her lips part. Instinctively, I lean in. She closes the gap and kisses me. Her pink lips claim mine while her hands run through my hair. She tastes like sugar and almonds. I am a lost man. All the sights and sounds of the riverwalk disappear. When we finally pull apart, we are both slightly breathless. “I want to date you,” I say.
Lettie goes still. She doesn’t blink or nod or say a word. After a full minute, which feels much longer. I break the silence. “What do you say?”
“I don’t . . . think . . . so.”
“You don’t... think so?” She nods. “You don’t think you like me? Or you don’t want to date me?”
“I think... ” She puts her head in her hands. “I don’t know.”
“But we were just kissing?” I don’t bother to hide my hurt or anger.
“I got carried away. Sorry.”
“You got carried away?” I repeat, trying to tamper down the firestorm of emotion churning inside me.
“I shouldn’t have kissed you... but you’re hard to resist.” She takes my hand. “Liam,” she says in a gentler tone. “I’m moving back to Iowa.”
I’m completely thrown. My chest constricts, and I find it hard to breathe.
“When?”
“July.”
“That’s next week?” I snap. “You’re moving!”
