Page 77 of Don't Be in Love

Maybe this was all my subconscious’s tactical excuse to get me closer to him.

I pulled my hands away once the buttons were in, avoiding using his legs that caged me in to stand back up.

I looked for an article of clothing that appeared torn and needed sewing.

“It’s just the jacket—the button fell off,” he explained, standing up.

“Can you put it on?” I asked.

He nudged the jacket over his shoulders and held the button out for me.

“One second,” I stopped him, threading the needle first. I pulled the black string through and took the bottom of his jacket, carefully stabbing it through where the button should be.

“Now the button.” I held my hand out, and he placed it between my fingers. I let the first hole of the button fly down the string before I steadied it in place and pushed the needle through the next hole.

“How have you been?” he asked. His voice was soft and quiet.

“I’ve been alright.” Mine came out just as warm and small, like a teacup full of English Breakfast tea. For once, it seemed like neither of us felt like arguing. We were two boats treading water unsure of whether to dock, nervous to knock into one another.

I continued, “I wrote that postcard actually.”

“You did?”

“I did. This morning. Even went and bought a stamp and put it in the post box.”

“Wow. How do you feel?”

“I stood in front of the post for five minutes debating how dangerous and illegal it’d be to stuff my arm back in and grab it.”

He laughed. “You could’ve called me.”

“You’re willing to commit a federal crime?”

“I would’ve shown up with a coat hanger and gum if you asked.”

“A hanger and gum?”

“Unravel the wire hanger, stick a piece of gum to the end, push it through the box.”

I gasped. “You’re a criminal mastermind.”

“How do you think I’m capable of driving without a license?”

I smiled, suppressing another laugh. “I feel better about it now though—sending it,” I said. “You were right.”

I reached for the tiny pair of scissors and cut the thread at the knot. Tossing the scissors back in the bag, I moved the button around to make sure it was secure.

“You should be proud of yourself,” he said tenderly.

“I don’t know about all that.”

“You should be. You reached out when you didn’t want to, but because you knew it’d be good for you. That’s something to be proud of.”

“Thank you,” I responded earnestly.

“I’ve missed seeing you this week,” he said.

“We have class three times a week together,” I reminded him.