Chapter 25
Sawyer
I would have stayed in bed all day. Sleeping. Hiding.
Whether from the memory of sobbing into Morgan’s shirt or kissing her—or the admittedly horribly pathetic combination of those two events—I don’t know.
It isn’t worth sorting out. It’s all daunting.
What could she possibly think of me now?
What do I want her to be thinking? How do you ever get out of bed after crying on, then kissing the girl you’re trying not to admit you have feelings for?
The answer to that existential question turned out to be rather simple.
She texts you.
At first, I was afraid to check the message. I read my phone like someone watching a horror movie—eyes squinting, hand covering most of my view. I’m not proud. Add it to the list of choices I regret.
Thankfully, Morgan’s message didn’t mention last night. It was brief. Logistical.
Ariana replied to Morgan’s DM last night. We’re invited to a party Zach’s sister is having at her house today in Santa Monica.
I choose not to examine whether it was the prospect of helping Zach or just the chance to see Morgan again that ultimately pulled me from bed.
As I shower, my relief that we weren’t discussing last night turns to worry.
Maybe she’s avoiding the subject because she’s horrified and doesn’t know how to reject a crying almost widower.
While brushing my teeth, I consider the cowardly route of seeking out Zach and asking him what Morgan thought.
But looking at my swollen eyes in the mirror, I resolve to stop making choices I’ll regret. I decide to channel Morgan’s bravery while facing down a haunted water heater.
While getting dressed, I examine the slash in my side, or what remains of it. Only a thin, straight scab stretched across my skin. It’s incredible, seemingly supernatural, how quickly something so painful can start to fade away. Without Morgan, how much longer would the healing have taken?
With fresh coffee in each hand, I wait for her on the patio between our doors.
When she emerges, she’s dressed in a flowery sundress with a circle cut into the back that makes her bare skin look like the sun itself. Her hair is up. She looks tired but beautiful.
Beautiful. I’m forced to finally admit the observation to myself. Morgan is beautiful. I’m captivated by her, despite the grief-stricken maelstrom in me. By her hair, by her eyes, the divots in her shoulders, the color in her cheeks. I have been since I first saw her, I think.
I don’t know if I’m ready to move on. I don’t even know how to move on. But I do know that kissing the girl I like while crying over another woman was not the way to begin anything.
I hold out one of the thermoses to Morgan.
She appears to not even see me. Only the coffee. “Oh, thank god,” she says, reaching for it.
Well, she’s not pissed, I console myself. Maybe kissing me was out of pity and she has no feelings about it whatsoever. It was a favor, like taking out the trash.
“Poor sleep?” I ask.
Suddenly, she doesn’t meet my eyes. “Zach woke me up in the middle of the night,” she says to the cracked flagstone between us.
She’s lying. I know she is. It has to have been my fault. She was up all night worrying I would expect something more from her today than she wanted to give. Or maybe she was just tossing and turning, unable to escape the memory of what she considers the worst kiss of her life.
I find I’m frowning and force myself not to. As we start walking to the street, I suck in a deep breath. Time to face my fear full on. No hiding under the covers.
I stop sharply on the curb. “Morgan?” I begin, then clear my throat. “I just wanted to apologize for last night. I know I crossed some lines, and I feel awful.”
Morgan blinks, her brow furrowed. She studies me like I’m an impossible-to-understand supernatural phenomenon. Then her gaze sharpens. “This is apology coffee, isn’t it?” She holds up her drink in distaste.
“I—” I look at her travel mug, puzzled. “Yes?”
She shoves the coffee into my hand. “You don’t need to apologize for anything,” she says, sounding annoyed.
“I know—” She stops herself, her posture sagging.
Her eyes find mine. “No. I don’t know because I can’t know how hard of a position you’re in.
I’m just…well, I’m here for you.” She fidgets like there’s more she wants to say.
I wait.
“And…” Her mouth twists, and she digs her foot into the cement. “I’m not rushing you to figure out what you want.”
Without waiting for me to reply or even react, she spins and walks quickly to her car.
I stand, stunned for a moment. I’m not rushing you sounds a lot like I’ll wait for you. Does she…want something with me? Is it possible kissing me wasn’t just out of misguided pity? That it was as unforgettable and profound for her as it was for me?
Awkwardly holding a coffee in each hand, I chase after her.
“Wait, does that mean you know what you want?” I ask to her back.
Resting an elbow on her open door, she peers at me over the top of her car. “Always,” she replies simply.
The word electrifies me. “What—”
“Nope.” She cuts me off. “No way. You cried on my shoulder and then kissed me. Pretty much the most mixed of messages a person can give. I wouldn’t spell my feelings out for you even if you had a Ouija board.”
I deserve the dig at my behavior last night, I really do. Still, somehow her accusation doesn’t sting. Somehow, I’m not embarrassed anymore. It’s some strange power Morgan has, to put me at ease, to accept me. To make me want to risk more than I should.
I shouldn’t. I know how bad, how utterly destroying this road can be. I don’t know if I can even walk it again. But god, I want to know what her feelings are.
I hold her travel mug up over her car. “Can I interest you in bribe coffee, then?”
While the sound of her laugh pierces me through with happiness, she gets into the driver’s seat without replying.
I follow. “Fair enough,” I say, watching her plug in Ariana’s address to her phone and start the car. “What about a thank-you coffee?” I propose, hoping to get a laugh, a smile, even a glance from her.
She pauses with her hand on the gear shift to look at me. She lifts an eyebrow, waiting.
I’m not afraid now. “Thank you for last night, Morgan,” I say, my eyes open, my vision clear, wanting to see every bit of her. “For all of it.”
She holds my gaze, and I know she hears the indication meant in my words. The moment stretches, long but not fragile. I could sit here all day. I think maybe she could, too.
Finally, smirking, she holds her hand out for the coffee. I give it to her, feeling my heart thud painfully.
After a sip, she places the travel mug in the cupholder. We’re both smiling as she pulls the car into the street.
“Cute, guys,” I hear Zach say from the back seat. “But let’s focus on me now.”