Page 26 of What We Break
"I should probably get you back to your car," Reid says reluctantly. "Before we both fall asleep in this booth."
"Probably." I don't move. Neither does he.
"Just... five more minutes?"
"Five more minutes."
Reid slumps back against the booth, stretching his legs out until his foot bumps mine under the table. He doesn't move it. I don't move mine.
Eventually we do have to leave. Reid pays despite my protests — "You can get the next one," he says, and I really like the idea of the next one — and we walk slowly back toward the hospital parking lot. The sun is fully up. The mountains are glowing. The air smells like wet earth and coffee.
"This was really nice," I say as we reach my car.
"It was." Reid stops beside my driver's door, hands in his pockets. "I'm really glad you said yes."
"I'm really glad you asked."
We're standing close. Close enough that I can count the green flecksin his eyes, see the tiny scar on his chin. He smells like diner coffee and syrup and something underneath that's just him — warm and specific in a way I'm going to be thinking about later.
"Can I see you again?" he asks.
There it is. The question I've half been dreading and half been rehearsing answers to since he sat down in that booth.
This is what I wanted, right? Move to Oregon. Build a life. Stop running. But he's a coworker, sort of. And I barely know him. And the last time I felt this specific cocktail of excitement and terror, I was twenty-four and living in New Zealand with a surfer who didn't own a couch.
But you're not twenty-four anymore. And he owns a whole freaking house. This is not the same.
"I'd like that," I say.
"Good." Reid reaches out and gently tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers brush my temple. Light. Deliberate. Like he wanted to touch me and chose the smallest, safest version of it.
Then he leans down and kisses my cheek. Brief. Warm. The press of his lips against my skin radiates outward — down my neck, across my chest, into my hands.
Oh Geez. This is going to be a problem.
"Get some sleep, Laine," he says quietly, opening my car door for me.
"You too."
"No promises. I might just stand here and smile for a while first." He's rocking back on his heels, hands shoved in his pockets.
I get in the car. He steps back. In my rearview mirror, he's standing there watching me drive away, one hand half-raised. I'm smiling so hard my face hurts.
Wait. Crap. He didn't ask for my phone number.
I pull into my apartment complex and sit in the car with the engine running.
He didn't ask for my number. I didn't offer it. We spent two hours talking about his brother and my childhood and pancakes and Blake, and neither of us exchanged the one piece of information that would let us actually do this again.
How? How did two functioning adults forget to?—
Unless he didn't forget. Unless the whole thing was just a nice end to a long shift and I'm sitting here having feelings about a man who was beingfriendly?—
No. He kissed my cheek. He asked 'can I see you again'.He tucked my hair behind my ear.
But he didn't ask for my number.
He knows where I work. He knows my name. He could find me. That's not weird, right?
