Page 102 of All That History
I blinked at him, not having expected this final punctuation to the evening.“About dating you, or moving in with you, or what?”
“All of it.”Flynn smiled, but his eyes were intent on me.
“The only thing I’m filled with right now is casserole.Certainly not regrets.”
He nodded, still watching.
“What about you,” I added, “having second-thoughts?”
A head-shake.“Not at all.”
The knot of tension, the one I hadn’t even realized was tightening, suddenly unfurled.
“Tomorrow, then,” I suggested.
Flynn winked.“Maybe we can fill you up with something else.”
Laughing, I waved him down the steps.“Go to bed, asshole.Before you really ruin the moment.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Gloves on, I threwmyself into sifting through the bags of donations.Thankful for the distraction, for decisions that came easily.The black and white of “yes, we can sell that,” and “no, that’s trash.”Clarity, in judgment calls I felt like I was actually qualified to make.
I’d miss it, even if I didn’t love the schedule juggling, and the sometimes-flaky volunteers, and the occasional black garbage bag with contents that stank of ammonia.Running the store didn’t exactly pay all that well - though I’d managed to save a decent amount, what with living with my folks and the hand-me-down truck - but it’d felt stable, and I could tell myself I was doing some good, somehow.
This new job, in the city, felt altogether more nebulous.
I’d heard the details as though through a haze.Instinctively retreating, automatically wanting to hold the possibility of leaving at arm’s length.Now, I was kicking myself for not asking all the questions freshly simmering in my brain.I knew how to stand behind a counter and ring up sales, and how to dig through other people’s junk looking for potential treasure.Could I possibly live up to the expectations of something more serious than that?
I could text Flynn, and tell him I’d had second-thoughts.Claim to have been caught up in the moment, to have lost sight of what my responsibilities were here.To point out - not unfairly, according to the skeptical little voice at the back of my skull - that we were rushing into things.That it was quite possibly madness, to decide to date, and live together, and have me move across the state to make all that work.All in the space of one day.
Ten times, twenty times, thirty times, I felt my heartbeat race and the fear of change sweep through me.Fingers itching to pull the phone from my pocket, to tap out excuses.And each time, I reminded myself that I’d want to take off my dirty gloves before I started messaging Flynn, and that stopped me.
Ridiculous, really, for the thought of wasting a pair of cheap nitrile gloves to prove so powerful.
And then I looked up, as the bell on the door rang, and his grin flashing at me from across the aisles reminded me that I’d only have regretted sending that text, just as soon as I next saw him.
