Page 139 of Just One More Thing

Different from the almosts. The kiss. From every moment before now where I could still pretend this existed somewhere in the murky area between possibility and denial and me being emotionally dramatic in linen.

“This made it real,” I say quietly. “In a way I wasn’t prepared for.”

Willard stays quiet.

“I woke up with him, and it just…” I shake my head. There are plenty of things I could say.

I could say it felt normal in a way nothing else has. I could say when he opened his eyes and looked at me, in that moment, before the rest of the world came rushing in, I forgot how to be afraid. Instead I say, “It felt easy.”

I stare out at the ocean because it feels safer than staring directly at my own feelings. “It shouldn’t have felt that easy,” I mumble.

“Why not?”

I laugh softly and lean back against the bench. “Oh, I don’t know. My entire personality?”

Willard lifts his hat and pats his forehead with a folded handkerchief before settling it back into place.

“You’ve been scared of happy before.”

“Yes.”

“This doesn’t sound like that.”

I turn the bkr slowly in my hands. The straw bumps against my wrist.

He’s right.

Before, fear always arrived early. It stood between me and wanting. It made lists. It pointed out exits. It used words like temporary and realistic and don’t get ahead of yourself.

This feels worse.

Because the wanting already got in.

“Before,” I say slowly, “I was scared of wanting something I might not get to keep. But now…” I press my lips together. “Now it already felt like mine.”

I look toward the water before he can see too much of my face. “Like I walked into something that had been waiting for me, and I don’t know what to do with that.”

Chip drops his peanut and chatters at it like he’s been personally betrayed by the nut.

“I built a whole life around not needing too much,” I say after a minute. “Very elegant system. Clean lines. Minimal risk. Mild to moderate spiritual erosion.”

“Lonely.”

I glance sideways at him. “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” he repeats.

I exhale. “Okay. Yes. Lonely. But organized.”

Chip scurries over my foot like I’m part of the bench now and therefore public infrastructure.

I tip my head back against the wood and stare up through the oak branches.

“I don’t want to run,” I say quietly.

“Then don’t.”

I let my head fall back into place and look at him. “That sounds simple.”