22. A Kiss, Technically
22
A KISS, TECHNICALLY
Miles
When we’re a couple of blocks from her building, the clock feels like it’s plummeting. Each tick brings me closer to dropping her off, ending this stolen moment. I cast about for a reason to stretch it out as we pass a pool hall.
“Do you play pool?” I toss out casually.
“Not well.”
“Want to play?”
I’m angling for more time with her, and judging from the arch of her brow as she turns toward me, she damn well knows it.
“You want to play pool with me?”
“Or we could geocache,” I suggest, leaning into the familiar.
Leighton peers out the window. “It’s not dark yet. Sure. Since you’re clearly afraid to take me on in pool.”
My jaw drops. “You just said you didn’t play well.”
“Take the win, Miles. Take the win. ”
And I do. I snag a parking spot by her apartment.
“Good. Let me drop off my camera bag,” she says, already out of the car and bounding up the stairs. I watch her the whole way, feeling both victorious and like I’m getting away with something.
As I exit the car, there’s a tiny dark cloud over my head, and a voice whispering: What if someone sees you? How are you going to explain this?
I talk back to that voice. This is friendship. We’re behaving like friends.
I believe it. Mostly. But when Leighton comes back downstairs in a hoodie and white sneakers, looking effortlessly cute, I’m not thinking friendly thoughts.
This is just a casual outing, I remind myself. Nothing more. But with her looking at me like she’s glad I asked her to hang out, smiling that way like this is what she wanted tonight too…friendship feels like a line I’m barely toeing.
At least I’m not acting on my non-friendly thoughts though. There’s that, and I’ll hold onto that little detail so damn hard.
She gestures to the sidewalk. “All right, what have you got?”
“One of the guys from my geocache club mentioned there’s a cool cache at the nearby park.”
She holds up a hand, blinking. “Wait. Did you just say geocache club?”
“Yes,” I say tentatively.
She snickers. “That’s adorable.”
I scoff. “It’s not adorable.”
She scoffs back at me. “No, Miles. That’s literally the definition of adorable. The big, bad hockey player hanging out with a geocache club. ”
“One, we don’t hang out . We cache,” I point out, but that only makes her snort-laugh harder. “And two, thank you—I’ll take big and bad in that compliment sandwich.”
“It wasn’t a sandwich. There’s nothing wrong with adorable,” she says.
I set a hand on her back. “Enough with the adorable. I’m not adorable.”
“You hunt for urban treasure with a group of other hobbyists. Just accept your adorableness.”
I heave an over-the-top sigh. “Let’s go, Shutterbug,” I say, checking my geocaching app. “If you say adorable again, I might have to spank you.”
She wiggles her brows and for a second, or several, I’m a little lost in the intoxicating image I walked right into. Judging from her eager expression she is too. But then she seems to shake it off.
“Okay. Let’s check out that park. It’s pretty cool. The clubhouse has a living roof,” she says as we walk along her quiet block—a little alley tucked away from Hayes Valley’s main drag. Trees line the street, shading colorful building after colorful building—some pastel yellow, some baby pink, some mint green. “Solar heating, too, and parts of the playground are made from recycled pieces of an old playground.”
I shoot her a curious look. “How do you know all that?”
“I took photos when they revamped it last year,” she says.
“The park hired you?”
She smirks. “Don’t act so surprised.”
“I’m not. I’m kind of amazed, actually. You’re only twenty-four, and you’ve photographed so much already. ”
She stops, turning those sharp blue eyes on me. “Are you good with having a friend ten years younger?”
I laugh. “Yeah, I think I’m good with it. That is, if you can keep up with me on this cache.”
Her mouth drops open. “It’s on.”
We reach the park as the sun dips lower, painting the sky in soft pinks and oranges. Together, we check the clue—something about making it rain.
“It’s a water-related hint,” I say as we walk past the playground, searching for something that might be a cache but finding nothing. Then we venture near the clubhouse and around a sculpture made from an old slide, but we come up empty. “Maybe a hose? A sprinkler system?” I ask.
Leighton squints at a water fountain attached to the clubhouse, then dashes over to it, but shakes her head after a quick inspection. “Nothing here.”
We venture toward the gardens and stop in front of a small one full of native plants. Leighton huffs, stomping her foot. “Where is it? We’ve been looking for twenty minutes, and this isn’t even a big park.”
Then I spot a silver watering can nestled near the plants. Something clicks in my head. “This is a low-water garden, right?” I ask.
“Yeah. Part of the sustainability mission,” she says.
“You don’t need much to make it rain here. Maybe you don’t need much water at all.” I nod toward the can.
Her eyes sparkle. “Let’s see,” she says, grabbing my wrist and tugging me toward it. And yeah, that’s really nice—her hand on my arm. Like an unexpected bonus of this so-called friendship thing.
We crouch down, and I reach inside. It’s dry, and tucked inside it is a small plastic tube and a pen. I pull out both and show her.
She squints at it. “A test tube is the treasure? Or a pen?”
I don’t think so. “Open it,” I say, handing her the tiny tube.
Taking it, she uncaps it and pulls out a tiny rolled-up notebook. Her brow lifts, a spark of curiosity in her eyes. “That’s it? Just a notebook?”
“That’s all it is,” I tell her. “This one is a log-only cache. Just a record that you were here. Cool, right?”
Her brow lifts. “Tell me why that’s fun to you.”
“Because not everything is about the thing. Sometimes it’s about the journey. About the satisfaction of reaching the goal,” I say.
“And the goal was…?”
“To spend time with…my friend.” I open the notebook, take the pen, and think carefully about what to write. Then it hits me. I jot it down and show her: I am a thief, and today I stole a moment.
She takes the pen and scribbles her own words beneath mine: The moment was the treasure.
I flash back to our treasure hunt a year ago when we found the locket—a treasure for a treasure. She’s harkening back to that, and, well, I always am.
We’re crouched close, our heads nearly touching, sharing the same air, the same quiet thrill of discovery. It’s just us and the evening light, and the memories of our one day together between us.
A memory that’s getting a reboot. It’s no longer just our past. It’s our new present. I could lean in, hold her face, catch her lips in a kiss. The pull is so intense, it’s hard to resist. Sometimes, I wonder why I’m so drawn to her. Other times, I know. Deeply.
Because she’s fearless. Because she’s here with me, treasure hunting, saying yes. She’s stealing moments too—moments off the clock, moments that aren’t planned or predictable. Moments that are just…exploring the city I’ve come to love.
As we crouch there, the evening light softening around us, I reach out toward her ankle, brushing my finger against the silver bracelet. I trace the cool metal and her soft skin, her eyes flickering with sparks of desire—sparks that mirror my own. “Maybe now?”
“It’s already on me,” she teases.
“A technicality.”
She nibbles on the corner of her lips, her gaze drifting to a nearby bench. She rises and makes her way over to it. “Then take off the technicality.”
I’m there so fast. Bending, reaching, then fiddling. I have steady hands. I could take this off quickly.
But I don’t.
She lifts her leg slightly, resting her ankle on my knee.
I linger, taking my sweet time unhooking the bracelet with the camera charm, letting my fingertips trail over her skin. I glance down, and goosebumps rise along her ankle. My throat goes dry. I’m dying to lift her foot to me, to kiss her bare ankle, to brush my lips on her skin.
Instead, I let the anklet fall into my hand. “A technicality,” I murmur, my voice thick with tension.
“Such a lovely technicality.”
Then I bring the charm to my lips, press a kiss to the tiny metal camera while holding her hot gaze, and return my hands to her ankle .
Her breath comes fast as I put it on her again, my fingers grazing her skin as I hook the clasp.
She didn’t need it redone. It’s another reboot, another stolen moment.
But really, it’s another loophole.
When it’s on, she stretches her leg out, twisting her foot to admire the charm. “It’s like a kiss.”
I let out a long breath. “I wish it were.”
Her voice is soft as she says, “Me too.”
As the sun fades, we leave, and I walk her home. “When are you moving back into your old place?” I ask so I don’t ask other things, like can I come up , and do you think about me all the time too ?
“This weekend. I only have a few things. I’ve managed to fit almost everything into two suitcases.”
“Impressive,” I say. “Do you have to use those packing cubes?”
“Of course. How else would one pack?”
“I can’t even imagine,” I say, making small talk, but also wondering something. “How are you getting it there? You don’t have a car.” Then it hits me. Her dad does. He’s probably helping her.
My stomach churns as I wait for her to say his name. The man I respect. The man I work for. I can’t cross a line again. I really can’t.
“I’ll just Lyft. It’s no big deal.”
I probably shouldn’t go there and acknowledge the issue, but there’s also no point not acknowledging it. “You won’t ask your dad?”
“Nah. If he sees the apartment and how small it is, it’ll just set off a new round of I really wish you’d let me cover your rent, find you a place, help pay for things ,” she says, and holy shit, it’s uncanny—her imitation of him .
I part my lips but I’m too shocked to speak for a few seconds. Finally, words form. “You sound just like him.”
She laughs. “Well, I don’t think that’s too surprising.”
It’s not, but still, it’s another reminder. “True,” I say, then shift gears. “Do you need a ride?”
For a brief moment she pauses, clearly thinking. “I’ll be okay.”
Not going to lie—I wanted her to say yes. But I don’t want to let on I’m disappointed, so I ask, “Will it be weird moving back in with them? And the loud banging?”
“Ask me tomorrow night,” she says.
That feels like an opening. One I know I’ll take even if she doesn’t need a ride.
We reach her place a minute later, and the evening slouches toward its inevitable end.
I wish I had another reason to make it last. But I don’t. So I say goodbye. And think about her for the rest of the night.