EIGHT
Max
The springs shimmer next to us, just the soft movement of the water and the distant sound of people at the party. There's a full moon overhead, coming through the cypress canopy in silver patches, and it's making Lauren even more gorgeous.
Of all the places I’ve had first kisses, this is the best. Oddly, I’d never kissed a woman here when I actually lived in town.
I grew up twenty minutes from this spring. I've been here a thousand times — as a kid, as a teenager, home on holiday breaks in my twenties. I thought I knew exactly what it looked like. I don't think I've ever actually seen it before tonight. Until I was here with Lauren.
“Don't stop kissing me,” Lauren whispers.
I grin against her mouth. “Yes, ma'am.”
We're sitting on the limestone ledge, side by side, close enough that our shoulders are pressed together and I can feel the warmth of her through my hoodie that she's still wearing. She's an extraordinary kisser — unhurried, present, like she means it. I detect a sugary-wintergreen taste of a mint.
I've kissed women who were performing and women who were somewhere else entirely and women who were fine, perfectly fine, the way most things in my life have been perfectlyfine. This is none of those things. This is someone who is completely here, at this specific spring, on this specific night, kissing me like it's the only thing currently happening in the world. I don't know what to do with that except keep going.
We keep going for a few long, delicious moments. Then I pull back just enough to look at her.
She's almost intimidatingly beautiful. I stroke her cheek with the backs of my fingers, and she lights up.
“You're absolutely gorgeous, and that's the least interesting thing about you,” I say.
“I'm sure you say that to all the women you almost accidentally flash.”
I laugh. “Just you.”
“I believe you, somehow.” She tilts her head. “Are you single?”
“Absolutely. One hundred percent. You?”
“A thousand percent. But shouldn't a guy like you be taken? You seem like you have things figured out. Great career in New York, charming, and handsome.”
I shrug, but inside I feel a little triumphant that she's attracted to me. “Maybe I picked the wrong women along the way.”
“What do you mean?”
“My last girlfriend decided to move to Australia and I don't do long-distance.” I don't tell her my ex also waited until the last possible moment to mention the move, and withheld some other crucial details — like the existence of an Australian man as the reason for her move. I'm all about honesty, and it can be surprisingly hard to find a partner who values that quality as much as I do.
I'm not the kind to swear off relationships because I've been burned, but I am cautious. Wary but not bitter. The women I've dated know work often comes first.
“Hmm.” She's quiet for a moment, looking at the water. “Can I ask you something that's out of left field?”
“Sure.”
“Are you actually okay with Damien getting married like this? So fast?”
I look at her. Something in the question is careful, deliberate. Like she's testing something.
“Honestly? Not really. I think it's impulsive, even for him. I keep waiting for the part where it makes sense.” I watch her face. “Why?”
She picks up a small piece of limestone from the ledge and turns it over in her fingers. “Kate's my best friend. I know her better than anyone. And I've been watching them together all night trying to figure out...” She stops.
“Trying to figure out what?”
“Whether it will last.” She looks at me through long lashes. The spring shifts and glows softly, making Lauren look even more gorgeous.
“And?” I say.
