“Stay,” she says eventually.
I look at her.
“Just — stay. I'd sleep better if someone was here.” She says it simply, without apology. “You don't have to go to your room.”
I think about what I'd been hoping the end of this night might look like, back when we were dancing and she was in my arms and everything seemed possible. And then I look at her now — cast propped on the pillow, hair loose, holding that mug with both hands like it's the most grounding thing in the room.
“Come sit next to me.” She pats the spot by her on the bed. I kick off my shoes and climb on to the bed, arranging the pillows behind me. We’re shoulder-to-shoulder now, close enough to Lauren that I can still smell her coconut-vanilla perfume.
She sets the empty mug on the nightstand and leans her head against my shoulder. I don't move.
After a while she says, “That cake was so delicious.”
“It was.” I pause. “But I wasn’t sure if it was lemon or lime?”
“Coconut and lime. I had two pieces.”
“I did, too. Dad had three. I watched.”
She laughs softly. “Did you see Remy dancing?”
“I couldn't look away. I don't know where he learned that. He does everything on the spot. It's exhausting and also somehow works every time. And by the way, I meant to compliment you. Your bouquet catch was impressive. Very athletic for someoneon a scooter. Like a Yankees outfielder. Which is a great compliment because I love the Yankees.”
“I was defending myself.”
“It had your name on it is what it had.”
She makes a small sound that's almost a protest but not quite. Her shoulder relaxes further into mine.
We sit like that for a while, not saying much. The night settles around us. At some point I take her hand, and she lets me, her fingers lacing through mine.
Eventually she tilts her head up, and I twist to look at her. The distance between us is small enough that the kiss happens naturally. Soft and unhurried and exactly right.
