Chapter Four #2
We finished the loop like that, his arm around my shoulders, my body pressed against his side, Marceline and Bubblegum trotting ahead through patches of old snow.
The cold didn't seem so bad anymore. The trail opened up to a viewpoint, and we stopped without discussing it, looking out at the valley below.
Prospect Ridge looked small from up here, a cluster of buildings tucked into the foothills, smoke rising from chimneys.
I kept my mouth shut, because some things were easier if you didn't name them. But I knew. Walking that trail with Holden's arm around me and the dogs leading the way and the mountains going pink in the fading light, I knew this was different. He was different.
And I wanted this to be real.
By the time we got back to the park, the sun had nearly set. My face was numb, my toes were questionable, and I was happier than I'd been in weeks.
Holden finally dropped his arm. The cold rushed into the space where he'd been, and I had to stop myself from leaning back toward his warmth.
“I should get back to the shop,” he said.
“Yeah.” I wrapped Bubblegum's leash tighter around my hand. “Working tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Saturday orders.”
“We'll be there by nine.”
“You sure?”
I nodded. “Absolutely.”
He looked at me for a long moment. The fading light caught the angles of his face, the dark of his eyes. I wanted to grab his face and pull him down. I wanted that almost-smile against my mouth.
“See you tomorrow,” he said.
“Tomorrow.”
I took the dogs home, fed them, sat on my couch with both of them piled on my lap, and thought about the weight of Holden's arm around my shoulders. The way I'd fit under his chin. The way neither of us had pulled away even when no one was watching, no audience to fool.
I scratched behind Marceline's ears and let myself want it, even if it would hurt like hell later.
Holden
The old theater on Maple Street had been showing movies since 1952.
Original red velvet seats, art deco fixtures, and a vintage popcorn machine that had outlasted three owners.
The place smelled like butter and dust and history, and I'd loved it since I was eight years old and moved to this town after my grandmother came and got me.
I didn't notice much about it tonight. I was too aware of the man sitting next to me.
Jamie had shown up at the shop that morning with coffee and a smile that made my chest tight.
We'd worked through a steady stream of customers, nothing overwhelming, but enough to keep us moving, the Valentine's orders stacking up for next week.
Around noon he'd mentioned the theater's seven o'clock showing and suggested we make it our required date night.
“Part of the deal,” he'd said. “One weekend date, remember? Might as well do something fun.”
The movie was some thriller I'd stopped following twenty minutes in. The theater was half-empty, our row completely empty except for us. No one to perform for. No reason to sit this close.
Jamie's hand found mine in the dark.
His fingers laced through mine like it was natural. I stopped, my pulse kicking up, my awareness narrowing to that point of contact. His warm palm against mine. His thumb resting on the back of my hand.
We'd held hands before. At the Copper Kettle, that first day. On the sidewalk outside the Tavern. Brief touches, performative ones, usually with an audience.
This was different. The theater was dark. No one was watching.
This was for us.
My thumb traced a circle on his palm. I didn't decide to do it; my hand just moved, slow and deliberate.
Jamie shivered.
He was always cold. I'd noticed it at the shop, how he always seemed chilled. I lifted my arm and pulled him against my side.
Jamie made a small sound, surprise or relief, and tucked himself under my arm like he'd done it a hundred times before. His head settled against my shoulder. His hand stayed in mine, pressed between our bodies, and his free hand came up to rest on my chest, right over my heart.
The movie played. I didn't watch it.
Instead I was looking at the way the flickering light caught his profile. The curve of his cheek, the soft line of his mouth, the hair curling behind his ear where it had grown too long. His eyes were on the screen, but his fingers were tracing absent patterns on my shirt.
Why did this feel so comfortable and so scary at the same time?
Something about him made me think of sunflowers.
The way they turned toward light without thinking about it, the way they were bright and warm and impossible to ignore.
Adoration, my grandmother used to say. Loyalty.
I'd never put sunflowers in a sympathy arrangement because they didn't belong there.
They belonged in places where people were celebrating something. Where people were alive.
I cut the thought off before it could fully form. That kind of thinking would only get me in trouble.
This doesn't feel like performing anymore.
The thought surfaced before I could stop it. Because it didn't. It felt like something I wanted, which was terrifying. I didn't let myself want things. I knew better than that.
But Jamie fit against me like he was made for it. His warmth seeped through my shirt. His breathing evened out, soft and steady.
When the credits rolled, he turned his head back to look at me, and those bright eyes were wide awake.
“Good movie,” he said.
“Was it?”
“What were you paying attention to?”
I didn't answer. Didn't have to. The way I was looking at him probably said enough.
Jamie laughed, that sunshine smile lighting up the dark, and chest cracked open little wider.
We stayed like that, him tucked against my side, me looking down at him, the credits scrolling. The theater was emptying, the lights coming up slowly.
“We should go,” I said.
“Probably.”
Neither of us moved.
His hand was still on my chest. I could feel my own heartbeat under his palm, faster than I wanted to admit.
“Holden.” His voice was soft.
I froze in place, waiting for his question. Would it be the same as mine?
What are we doing?
Is this still just an act?
Do you want more?
Even if it was just an act, I wasn't strong enough to turn down what was being offered to me.
Finally, he patted my chest. “Let's go, Big Guy.”
We walked out into the cold, and the night air hit like a wall, January sharp, the kind of cold that made your lungs ache. Jamie tucked into my side like a puzzle piece finding its place.
We started toward Main Street, the silence between us charged with tension, something building that neither of us had named yet. We weren't kids and we knew what was happening, even if we hadn't said the words.
Our footsteps echoed on the sidewalk. The streetlights cast pools of yellow on the pavement.
Jamie stopped walking.
He stood in the space between streetlights, breath pluming white, hands in his pockets. Even in the dim light, I could see the brightness in his eyes.
He went up on his tiptoes and kissed me.
No warning. No audience. No excuse.
His mouth was warm against the cold, soft and certain, and for a moment I was frozen, standing on a sidewalk on Main Street with Jamie Redford's lips on mine.
Then my hands moved.
One cupped his jaw, angling his head back. The other found his waist, pulling him closer. I bent down, all the way down, and kissed him back.
He reached for me, pulling my face down. Made a strangled sound against my lips that went straight to the base of my spine.
“Jamie,” I murmured when I pulled back. My voice came out rough.
“Yeah?”
He must have read the question in my eyes, because he answered, “Because I wanted to.” His hand stroked the side of my face, his thumb tracing along my jaw. His eyes were bright in the dim light. “Is that okay? That I wanted to?”
I didn't answer with words. I kissed him again.
Deeper this time. I pulled him off the sidewalk into a small alley off Main Street and pressed him against the side of the hardware store.
His back hit the brick wall behind him, and I bracketed him there, one hand braced beside his head, the other still gripping his waist. He made another sound, something between a gasp and a groan, and his hands slid up my chest, over my shoulders, into my hair.
“Holden.” My name in his mouth, breathless. “Come home with me.”
I pulled back enough to see his face. The flush on his cheeks, the way his chest was heaving. The want in his eyes, open and undisguised.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He tugged at my collar again, pulled me down for one more kiss, quick and fierce. “Please.”
Please.
We walked. Not fast, not slow. His hand found mine, our fingers lacing together. The streets were empty, the town quiet around us, and I was aware of every point of contact. His palm against mine. His shoulder brushing my arm. The occasional bump of his hip when the sidewalk narrowed.
Neither of us talked. There was nothing to say that wouldn't make this more complicated than it already was.
His rental house was three blocks from Main Street. The dogs were pressed against the window when we approached, ears perked, tails already going.
“They'll want to say hi,” Jamie said, digging for his keys. “Fair warning.”
“I can handle it.”
He unlocked the door, and the dogs exploded toward us, all wiggles and excited yips. I crouched to greet them, letting Marceline lick my chin while Bubblegum leaned her weight against my knee. Jamie stood in the doorway watching, a soft expression on his face that I couldn't quite read.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing.” He shook his head, but he was smiling. “Just... you. They like you.”
I stood. Crossed the small entryway. Looked down at him, at this man who'd walked into my shop and turned my quiet life inside out.
“I've been thinking about this all day,” I said, touching his cheek. Low. Honest. “About you.”
Jamie's eyes went dark. His smile turned into something else, something that made my pulse kick hard.
“Good,” he said. “I was hoping it wasn't just me.”
He grabbed my collar—he liked doing that—and kissed me again.