Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Sophie
I stare at my apartment door, a hollow emptiness creeping over me.
After pressing a very sweet kiss to my forehead, Peter told me he needed to take a walk, and then he left.
Walked right out the door like we hadn’t just shared the most monumental kiss of our entire lives.
Or maybe because we’d just shared the most monumental kiss of our lives. That would be a very Peter-like thing to do. He always needs time to process how he’s feeling.
I cross into the living room and drop onto my couch, settling into the cushions with an audible oof. I can’t decide if I’m more upset that Peter left or more upset that he’s so resistant to the idea of visiting the rooftop garden.
It doesn’t make any sense. If he would just go up to the roof with me, we could know. We could save us both from the possibility of getting our hearts broken.
But no. Peter doesn’t need a flower to tell him how he feels.
But that’s not even how it works!
Okay, fine. That’s exactly how it works. But doesn’t he see the opportunity we have here? If we could just know, with absolute certainty, that there is the potential for true love between us, then we could know whether dating is even worth the risk.
And if it didn’t bloom, well, then we would know that kissing was a mistake. We were caught up in the heat of the moment, but we could always go back to being friends.
But even as I think the thoughts, I know they aren’t true. Nothing about that kiss was a mistake, and I’ll never go back to looking at Peter like he’s just a friend.
But where does that leave us?
Slowly, I stand and pad over to the front door, where I scoop up my heels, then head to my bedroom to change into pajamas. I can’t remember if Peter took his keys when he left, but if he didn’t, he’ll probably be back any minute.
I find myself listening for him, stepping into the hallway while I’m brushing my teeth to see if he’s coming down the hall. Peering into the kitchen in case he snuck in when the water was on and I missed it.
But he doesn’t show.
Even when I’m completely ready for bed, bundled in my favorite flannel pajama pants and the MIT hoodie I stole from Peter the summer after he finished his bachelor’s degree, he still hasn’t come back.
I clean up the kitchen and, despite having already brushed my teeth, I bake a batch of Peter’s cookies, then curl up on my couch with an entire plate of them, determined to stay up until he returns. The cookies are delicious, which only makes me long for Peter more. He didn’t pick this recipe on a whim. He picked it because it’s our favorite. Because these cookies are something we’ve always enjoyed together.
I gave Peter a spare key when he moved in, so technically, I could go to bed. But I feel a dull ache at the back of my heart, and I’m not sure it’ll go away until I see him again.
I have no idea what I’ll say.
What I even want to say.
I just know I’ll feel better, more at peace, once he’s here.
I won’t watch Ted Lasso without Peter, so I pick a different show and make it through two full episodes. But Peter still doesn’t show up.
I can’t really be annoyed, but I am a little worried.
I stand and riffle through his stuff, trying to find his keys. I can’t find them, so he must have grabbed them on his way out.
Which means he could be anywhere.
Back on the couch, I retrieve my phone from the coffee table and send him a quick text.
Sophie
Hey. Are you coming back tonight? Are you okay?
His response comes through almost immediately.
Peter
Staying at my place tonight. I had to water the plants.
I roll my eyes. Peter has one plant, a golden pothos on his desk, and I’m the only one who ever waters it. As fastidious as he is about everything else in his life, the man can’t keep a plant alive to save himself.
Sophie
Plants plural?
Peter
Fine. Plant. I still watered it.
Sophie
Are you avoiding me?
Peter
Yes.
I have to at least chuckle at his honesty.
Sophie
Why?
Peter
Sophie. Don’t ask a question when you already know the answer.
Sophie
But I don’t know the answer! Are you mad?
Peter
I’m not mad.
Sophie
Are you sure?
Peter
I’m sure.
Sophie
So you just…need a minute?
Peter
Yes. And to spend a little time with my golden pothos.
Sophie
How are the lights?
Peter
Behaving, for now.
Sophie
You know you can come back if you need to.
Peter
I know.
Sophie
And you know how much I love you.
Peter
I know.
Sophie
And we’re going to be okay, right?
It takes Peter a very long time to answer this question, and I watch the dots appear and disappear several times before a message finally pops up. When it does, my heart squeezes painfully.
Peter
Always.
The next morning, I wake up to Saturday morning sun streaming through my curtains. It’s just past nine, which is later than I usually sleep, but my rest was fitful last night, my brain flitting in and out of dreams that were a little too vivid. I dreamed of kissing Peter, but it was more than that, too. Snatches of a possible life together played out in my mind like scenes from a movie. Peter laughing at the kitchen table. Peter napping on the couch with a baby on his chest. Peter dancing with me in the rooftop garden.
I pull my pillow out from under my head and press it against my face, fighting the urge to squeal. Or maybe scream. Can I do both at one time? Is there a word for that? A screal, maybe? A squeam?
I want to be happy. I am happy. But I’m also terrified. The waffling back and forth between emotions already has me feeling exhausted, and I haven’t even gotten out of bed yet.
“You can do it, Soph,” I say to myself as I toss off my covers. “You can get up!”
I groan as the cool air hits my bare legs and I pull my blankets back over me.
Maybe just five more minutes.
I wonder how Peter slept last night. If his apartment let him sleep last night. Is he still in bed right now? Thinking about me like I’m thinking about him?
Even after the way things ended last night, a part of me still hopes he’ll eventually come around to the idea of visiting the garden. But what if he doesn’t?
Is that a dealbreaker for me?
Will I refuse to see him again? Date him? Unless he’s willing to give me what I want?
I climb out of bed and head to the kitchen to make some coffee. I kicked off my pajama pants sometime in the middle of the night, but since Peter slept at home last night, I don’t bother grabbing them. I only need a minute to make some coffee, then I’m going to jump in the shower anyway.
“I feel obligated to tell you I’m here, but I promise I’m not looking.”
I startle at the sound of Peter’s voice and spin around, nearly dropping the coffee mug I just pulled out of the cabinet.
Peter is sitting in the living room, hair mussed like he just woke up, his hand pressed over his eyes. I lift a hand to my chest and take several deep breaths, then look down at my lace-trimmed, pink and purple heart-covered underwear. They aren’t my most scandalous pair, but they are a little cheeky, and the thought of Peter looking up and seeing me pantsless makes my face flush a deep red.
“Peter! You scared me!” I say.
“I know. I’m sorry. But that seemed like a better alternative than lurking while you’re pantsless…and unaware.”
“How gentlemanly of you,” I say. “Hang on. I’ll be right back.”
I put down the coffee mug I’ve been clutching to my chest and hurry back to my room to grab a pair of leggings, hoping my blush will subside before I return to the living room.
The trouble is, I’m not blushing just because Peter saw me in my underwear. I’m blushing because he’s here. He came back.
And now I have to talk to him. Look at that mouth, which I thoroughly kissed last night. Think about something besides the feel of his skin when I slipped my hands under the sleeves of his t-shirt and wrapped my fingers around his biceps. Focus on actual words instead of replaying the noise he made when I pressed a kiss to his neck just below his ear.
I take a slight detour before I go back to the living room and stop in the bathroom to look in the mirror.
My hair is wild. Frizzy, out-of-control curls stand up every which way, and mascara smudges make dark rings under both of my eyes.
I don’t have time to tame the curls, so I force them into a bun, then tackle my face, cleaning up just enough that I won’t look like a walking hangover but not so much that I look like I made an effort.
Even though I’m absolutely making an effort.
I finish by brushing my teeth and putting on a little bit of lip balm. I should probably go grab a bra, but I’m still wearing Peter’s hoodie, and it’s thick enough that I’ll be okay without one.
And now I’ve officially thought about my appearance more than I ever have with Peter before.
He’s up and making coffee when I get back to the kitchen. Glasses on. Hair tamed a little. He turns and glances at me over his shoulder, a new uncertainty to his expression.
It’s comforting to see because it means he’s probably feeling a little nervous, too.
These are completely uncharted waters for us.
“Sorry again,” Peter says.
“Don’t worry about it.”
He hands me a mug of coffee made just the way I like it.
“So your lights started acting up again?” I ask.
“Around three a.m.,” he says.
“Your apartment really isn’t being nice to you right now,” I say.
“Apparently not.” He looks at the container of cookies sitting on the counter. “You made the cookies?”
I nod. “And they were delicious.”
“I’m sorry I left a mess in your kitchen,” he says.
“Don’t worry about it. The cookies were worth it.”
An awkward silence descends upon us, and I shift my weight from foot to foot, then take a long sip of coffee that’s still too hot.
I wince the slightest bit, then set my mug on the counter.
Peter puts his mug down next to mine, then pushes his hands into the pockets of his pajama pants. He holds my gaze for a long moment. “I’m also sorry I left last night.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m the one who should apologize. I’m sorry I made it seem like you had to go to the garden with me. I didn’t mean to make it seem like—I mean, I do still wish you would go, but if you don’t go, that doesn’t mean I don’t—that we can’t—” I pause and frown. Am I completely incapable of saying a full sentence around Peter? Is this how it’s going to be now? I shake my head and lift my gaze to meet his. “Sorry. Words aren’t my friend this morning.”
“Believe it or not, I think I understand what you’re saying.” He takes a step closer, his hands lifting to my arms. “I know you’re scared, Soph. But what if we just take things one day at a time? We don’t have to label anything or make any decisions about our friendship. We’ll just take things slow. See how it feels to be together.”
I lick my lips. “To be more than friends?”
His gaze drops to my mouth, and his expression heats. “Yeah. If that’s okay with you.”
I lean a little closer. “Will there be kissing in this new arrangement?”
He smirks. “I would like very much for there to be kissing.” He reaches forward and slips his hands around my waist, tugging me toward him. “Nice sweatshirt,” he says, and I smile.
“It’s my favorite.”
“Is it?”
“Yep. It always has been.”
“Yeah? Why is that?” He leans down, brushing his nose against mine, his breath fanning across my cheek.
I close my eyes. “Cause the guy who gave it to me is my favorite.”
Peter chuckles. “Pretty sure it was more a taking situation than a giving one.”
I push up on my toes and press my lips to his. They’re warm and soft and welcoming, and I think I could probably stay right here, kissing him, for the rest of the morning. “You know you wanted me to have it,” I say in between kisses, and Peter grins against my mouth.
“You caught me,” he says. His hands lift to my cheeks and cradle my face while he kisses me one more time. Minutes slip by as he explores my mouth, and I find myself thinking about all the years we’ve known each other, all the time we wasted, when we could have been doing this.
Maybe I don’t need the flower to bloom for Peter. Maybe this really is good enough for me to lean in and trust it.
If there’s anyone in this world I can trust to keep my heart safe, it’s him.
But can he trust me with his?
Peter finally pulls his mouth from mine. His hands slide down my arms until our hands are clasped, fingers entwined together. “So I was thinking,” he says, a slight tremble to his voice. He sounds nervous, and he shakes his head, rolling his eyes like he’s annoyed with himself. “I don’t know why I’m nervous when I was just kissing you.”
I bite the corner of my lip, suddenly struck by how endearingly perfect this man really is. “Don’t be nervous,” I say. “It’s just me.”
His expression softens. “That’s precisely why I am nervous,” he says. He takes a deep breath. “Sophie, will you have dinner with me tonight?” He squeezes my hands. “I’d like to take you on a real date.”
“I’d love to,” I say.
Because I would. Because even though I still have a million reasons to worry about what will happen if we try dating and it doesn’t work out, now that Peter is here, all those worries seem so much smaller.
I just want to be around him. I want to be with him.
The realization washes over me, settling like a warm, comforting blanket around my shoulders. I’ve read a lot of romance novels, and they frequently describe feelings hitting like a lightning bolt, like some startling jolt of clarity.
This isn’t that. It feels more like I’m accepting something I’ve always known. Finally seeing something that’s always been right in front of me.
“I was thinking the cantina over by the library?” Peter says. “We could walk, probably. If the weather is nice. It’s supposed to storm this afternoon, but the forecast says the rain should clear up by five or so.”
“That sounds perfect,” I say, and he nods.
“Good.” Peter rocks on his heels, his cheeks turning the most adorable shade of pink. “Then it’s a date.”
A date. A real, actual date with my real, actual best friend.
I push up on my toes and kiss him one more time. “I’m really happy, Peter.”
He smiles wide. “Yeah. Me too.”