Page 8 of Patch Perfect

“I will.” She touches my face. “And for the record, I want the other things too.”

Her fingers tighten, and for a moment, we stand and listen to the water over the stones. Then she turns and kisses me. I rest my hand on the back of her jacket and feel her smile against my mouth.

Before we head back, we sit on a bench and eat the sandwiches her mother packed. One is turkey, and the other is cheese. Kate picks the cheese and immediately discovers that my sandwich has more mustard.

Kate looks at the mustard on my sandwich, then offers me hers. I trade with her. That small exchange makes me smile. I’ve eaten with the club a hundred times without thinking about what was on my plate, but with Kate, I notice how nice it feels to let someone have the better half.

On the ride back, she holds me more tightly. At the pumpkin patch, I walk her to the farmhouse porch. A light glows in an upstairs window. She stops one step below me, so our faces are level.

“I'll pick you up at one tomorrow,” I say, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

She rests her palm on my chest. “I want to see you.”

I nod, suddenly unsure what to say. I want tomorrow, the next day, and the first slow morning we can share. I’d rather show up for one promised afternoon than pretend I can have all her time. “I’ll be here,” I say. Her smile makes me wish tomorrow were already here.

I kiss her one more time and leave before I make promises that might scare us both. Halfway home, I realize I’m already making a promise in the only way that matters—I’m coming back.

seven

Kate

Ichange shirts twice before settling on a soft green sweater and jeans. I put a small overnight bag back in the closet because I'm getting ahead of myself. Then I take it out again just to put lip balm in the pocket. I'm twenty-three, and I've never slept next to someone I loved. Maybe I'm getting ahead of myself with that word, too, but it feels true.

Roan's motorcycle pulls into the driveway right at one, and I rush out of the house carrying my overnight bag. Roan looks up at me, and his expression shifts from careful to happy.

“You look beautiful,” he says. His gaze drifts over my sweater before returning to my face.

I walk down the steps into his open arms. I've been looking forward to this since I woke up. Standing close to him is easier than admitting how often I've checked the driveway, waiting for him to arrive. He hands me the extra helmet, then takes my overnight bag and stashes it in his saddlebag as I secure the helmet on my head.

The ride north takes longer than last night. We pass grazing horses, a church with open doors, and a roadside stand selling late apples. Roan stops so I can pick out two crisp red ones. The woman at the stand gives us directions to a quieter lane, and for ten minutes we ride beneath a canopy of gold leaves. I feel the engine through my boots and the wind on my shoulders. The road holds a surprise around every bend. I lean with Roan and smile inside my helmet. Yesterday I learned he notices what I need in a crowded barn. Today I learn something else: he gives me time to find my balance before the next curve. Each small adjustment makes it easier to trust him. I loosen my grip on his jacket and hold on because I want to, not because I'm afraid of falling.

At the covered bridge, we park and walk down to the creek. The timber smells of old rain. Someone has carved initials into a post, though we don't add ours. Roan carries the apples and my helmet as I step from stone to stone at the water's edge.

“What's your place like?” I ask.

“My house?” He sets the helmets on a dry rock. “Small. Two bedrooms. A workshop out back. I bought it because the kitchen window faces east.”

“You cook?”

“Eggs. Pasta. Anything that survives a pan.” He hands me an apple. “I'd like you to see it.”

I take a bite to give myself a moment. This is the question behind every other question today. I look at him over the apple. "I want to."

He steps onto the creek bank beside me. “Kate, there's something I need to say first.”

I set the apple down. “Okay.”

“I've never been with anyone—you know that.” He rubs his palms on his jeans. “I haven't wanted to ask you over because I assume something has to happen. I want time with you. If we only drink tea and look at my terrible furniture, I'm happy.”

“I know.” I reach for his hand. “And I've never been with anyone either. I'm nervous. I'm also curious about you, about what it might feel like to be close. I don't want us to spend the entire afternoon pretending we aren't thinking about it.”

“We don't have to pretend.” His shoulders relax slightly. “We can talk about it.”

“Then here is the truth.” I guide his hand to my cheek. “I care about you. More than I expected after just one weekend. I want to take things as they come and be able to stop or slow down without either of us feeling rejected.”

“You can. Any time.” He rests his forehead against mine. “I feel the same.”

“About slowing down?”