18 | Sixth Weekend That Kind of Thoughts
I showed up at Tessa’s house at five.
The party was tomorrow, but her dad had asked me to come tonight—I didn’t argue. I rarely did when it came to him. Or her.
I knocked once. The door opened almost immediately.
Her mom smiled. “Theodore. Right on time.”
“Hello, Ms. Baker, it’s nice to see you.”
She stepped aside. “Tessa’s in the kitchen.”
I moved through the house like I’d done it a hundred times before. Past the living room, past the walls lined with photos—Tessa at six, missing teeth, Tessa at ten, sunburned and laughing, Tessa at sixteen, already looking like she knew exactly what she was doing to people.
The kitchen was warm, the air thick with something sweet baking.
And then there was her.
Denim shorts. A white shirt that clung just enough to make it difficult to look anywhere else. Hair twisted into a loose bun, strands falling around her face. Barefoot, one hip pressed lightly against the counter as she worked.
Flour dusted across her cheek.
She didn’t notice me at first.
Focused. Calm. Completely unaware of the effect she was having.
I exhaled quietly.
She turned.
Caught me looking at her and smiled like it was nothing.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
I stepped closer, stopping on the other side of the counter, putting something solid between us that didn’t help nearly as much as it should have.
“Your dad asked me to help with setup.”
She let out a soft laugh. “I thought I had you figured out.” She wiped her hands on a towel, watching me with that look—half amused, half curious. “And yet here you are, living a whole double life. My dad’s best friend, his handyman, his chess partner… what else have you been hiding?”
“I’m starting to think I’ve been misrepresented.”
“Mm.” She tilted her head, like she was deciding something. Then she stepped around the counter.
Too close, too quickly.
“Thank you,” she said, quieter now. “For being there for him.”
Before I could answer, she leaned in and kissed my cheek.
Quick.
Light.
I felt it a second longer than I should have.
The exact spot where her lips had been.
My body reacted before my brain caught up. Heat, immediate and sharp, climbing up my neck.
She saw it.
Of course she did.
Her smile shifted—small, satisfied now.
“I should—” I cleared my throat. “I should find out what needs doing.”
“He’s probably in the garage,” she said, stepping back like nothing had just happened. “Organizing his ‘system.’”
She made air quotes.
I left before I said something that would complicate things.
Her dad had a list.
A detailed, color-coded, laminated list.
Move tables. Hang lights. Set up chairs. Reorganize half the backyard according to a plan that had clearly been revised at least three times.
It was physical work. Straightforward. The kind that usually kept my head clear.
Usually.
But Tessa kept moving through the space like she belonged to it in a way I couldn’t ignore.
Carrying trays. Fixing details no one else would notice. Bending to plug something in and—
I looked away.
Too late.
“You’re going to hurt yourself.”
I glanced up. Her mom stood a few feet away, holding a pitcher of lemonade, watching me with open amusement.
“What?”
“If you keep staring at my daughter instead of watching what you’re doing.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Sweetheart.” She poured a glass and handed it to me. “You’ve been staring at her since you walked in.”
I took the glass, mostly so I’d have something to do with my hands.
“It’s fine,” she added, softer now. “I’m glad you two found your way back to each other.”
“We’re just friends.”
The answer came too quickly.
She looked at me for a moment longer than was comfortable, then smiled in a way that suggested she didn’t believe me for a second.
“Of course you are.”
And walked away.
The lemonade didn’t help.
By seven, most of the heavy work was done.
The sun had started to drop, casting everything in that soft, golden light that made even ordinary things look intentional.
I found Tessa on the back steps, a glass of wine in her hand, her gaze drifting across the garden like she wasn’t really seeing it.
“Want to take a walk?” I asked.
She looked up at me, studied my face for a second, then nodded.
“Sure.”
She finished her wine in one long sip and set the glass aside.
We walked without rushing, past the rose bushes, the small vegetable patch, the herbs her mom kept insisting were “easy” to maintain.
Toward the trees.
The treehouse came into view slowly, like something pulled out of a memory rather than built.
Smaller than I remembered. Older.
But still there.
Tessa stopped.
“Good memories,” she said.
“Yeah.”
We stood there for a moment, neither of us moving.
Then she let out a quiet laugh.
“What?”
She shook her head. “It’s stupid.”
“Tell me.”
“I’m a little drunk,” she said, not looking at me. “And this is one of those thoughts that should probably stay in my head.”
“Now I definitely want to hear it.”
She hesitated.
Then glanced at me, just for a second.
“I always thought I’d have my first time there,” she said, nodding toward the treehouse.
Silence.
She covered her face immediately. “I can’t believe I just said that.”
I didn’t move.
Couldn’t, for a second.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she muttered, but she didn’t look away.
“I can’t look at anything else now,” I said, my voice lower than I intended.
She dropped her hands.
Looked at me.
Something shifted. Subtle, but unmistakable.
Then she laughed—too bright, too quick—and turned, taking off through the grass.
Like she used to.
So I followed.
Like I used to.
We stopped near the lake, both slightly out of breath.
She was laughing, hair loose now, cheeks flushed.
I stayed a few feet away.
“Why’d you say that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Tessa.”
“I don’t.” She exhaled, some of the laughter fading. “It just came out.”
“Why?”
She hesitated again, then met my gaze.
“I’ve been having thoughts,” she said.
Her voice was quieter now.
Not joking anymore.
“What kind of thoughts?”
I stepped closer.
She didn’t step back.
“The kind I probably shouldn’t say out loud to a friend.”
“Then don’t say them like that.” My breath caught, just slightly. “Say them how you mean them.”
My hand hovered for a second—then settled at her waist.
She let me.
“Not… friendly ones,” she said finally.
“That much I figured.”
I moved closer, close enough now to feel the warmth of her body, the slight rise and fall of her breath.
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Looked away. Suddenly shy.
“Watching you in those shorts today and not being able to touch you”—I started, my hand settling slowly at her hip—“was actual torture.”
Her breath caught. “And when your shirt rode up earlier”—my thumb grazed the strip of bare skin above her waistband, just for a second—“I had to find something else to look at.”
She swallowed.
“That’s—” She stopped. Started again. “That’s not very friendly of you.”
“No,” I agreed. “It’s not.”
My hand slid around to the small of her back, pulling her slightly closer.
“Anything else?” she asked, quieter now.
“A lot.”
Her fingers found my shirt. Tightened.
She looked at me and smiled.
That was enough.
More than enough.
I didn’t rush it. My hand slid into her hair, tilting her face up just slightly, giving her time to stop me if she wanted to.
She didn’t.
So I kissed her.
Slow at first.
Testing.
Then deeper when she responded, her body pressing into mine like she’d been holding that distance all day and finally let it go.
She made a small sound against my mouth—soft, unguarded—and it went straight through me.
When we pulled apart, it wasn’t far.
“Tell me this is a bad idea,” I said.
She didn’t.
Instead, she pulled me back in.
The second kiss was slower. Less hesitation. More certainty. My hand stayed at her waist, steady, grounding, while hers moved up, fingers curling into my shirt like she needed something to hold onto.
I could feel how fast her heart was beating.
Mine wasn’t much better.
“Tessa—”
I stopped.
There were things I could say. Things I probably should say.
None of them felt right out loud.
So I kissed her again instead, softer.
When I pulled back, she was looking at me differently.
Not surprised.
Not unsure.
Present.
I exhaled.
“Come to Napa with me.”
She blinked once, like she needed a second to process it.
Then, simply:
“Okay.”
I let out a quiet laugh. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
She smiled, tugging me closer by my shirt.
“I’m not letting you go alone,” she added.
Then she kissed me again, like the conversation was already over.
For a moment, everything else dropped away.
Just her.
But somewhere underneath that, something steadier settled in.
This wasn’t nothing.
Not even close.
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A little backstory for the cover illustration... Hope you like it!
Do you think that kiss finally changed everything—or are they still going to find a way to call it fake?
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