Chapter Eight Starting Again #2
We eat burgers and fries and split a piece of apple pie that the waitress tells us was baked fresh that morning.
Kyle insists on paying even though I offer to split the check.
He doesn’t make a big deal out of it. He just hands the waitress his card and says "I asked, so I’m buying" and that’s the end of it.
He drives me home. He walks me to my door. The streetlight on the corner casts a soft yellow glow across the parking lot and the evening is warm enough that I don’t want to go inside yet.
"I had a really good time," he says.
"So did I."
"Can I see you again? Maybe this weekend?"
"I’d like that."
He steps closer. Slowly, carefully. He gives me time to step back if I want to. I don’t. He raises one hand and touches my jaw with his fingertips, so gently that I almost can’t feel it, and then he leans in and kisses me.
His lips are warm and he tastes faintly of coffee and apple pie and the kiss is soft and unhurried. He doesn’t pull me closer or try to deepen it. He just lets it be what it is. Brief and sweet and full of promise.
He pulls back and looks at me and his eyes are steady and sure and kind.
"Goodnight, Kaitlyn."
"Goodnight, Kyle."
He walks to his truck and I watch him go. He opens the door and turns back and waves once and then climbs in and drives away.
I go inside. I close the door. I stand in the quiet of my apartment and I realize that my face hurts from smiling. Real smiling. Not the performance I’ve been delivering for the last month. An actual, involuntary, unable-to-stop-it smile.
I call Kendra. She picks up on the first ring.
"How was it?"
"It was wonderful."
"Tell me everything."
I sit on my couch and I tell her about the diner and the conversation and the apple pie and the way he touched my face before he kissed me. She listens and asks questions and makes small happy sounds and at the end of it she says the thing I needed to hear.
"You deserve this, Kait. You deserve someone who shows up at six o’clock on the dot because he actually wants to be there."
"I think he does."
"I know he does. Everyone who’s ever watched that man walk into the bank and go straight to your station knows he does."
I laugh. "Was it that obvious?"
"To everyone except you."
We talk for a few more minutes and then I hang up and get ready for bed.
I brush my teeth and wash my face and climb under the covers and I lie there in the dark thinking about the way Kyle’s hand felt on my jaw.
Gentle. Careful. Nothing demanded. Nothing taken.
Just an offer, freely given, that I was free to accept or decline.
I think about the difference between that moment and every kiss Travis ever gave me. Travis kissed me with confidence because confidence was something he wore regardless of whether he’d earned it. Kyle kissed me with care because care was something he felt and couldn’t hide.
The difference is everything.
I close my eyes and for the first time in weeks I fall asleep without thinking about Travis Miller at all.
We see each other again that Saturday. And the following Wednesday.
And the Friday after that. Each time is easier than the last. The conversations get longer and the silences between them get more comfortable.
We eat at the diner twice more and then we try the barbecue place on Route 9 and then one evening he cooks for me at his farmhouse and I sit on his kitchen counter drinking wine and watching him chop onions with the same steady patience he brings to everything.
The farmhouse is beautiful in a simple way.
The kitchen is new, white cabinets and butcher block counters that he installed himself.
The living room has a big stone fireplace and worn leather furniture and bookshelves along one wall filled with paperbacks and old farming journals.
The porch wraps around two sides of the house and looks out over a hay field that catches the last of the evening light in a way that makes me want to sit there forever.
"You really did all this yourself?" I ask, running my hand along the countertop.
"Most of it. My dad helped with the roof. And I hired a plumber because I know my limits."
"It’s incredible, Kyle."
"It’s just a house. But it feels like home now."
He cooks a chicken stew with biscuits that he admits aren’t as good as his mom’s. They’re better than anything I could make and I tell him so. We eat at his kitchen table with the windows open and the sound of crickets coming in from outside.
After dinner we sit on the porch. The night is warm and dark and quiet in the way that only a country road can be. No traffic. No sirens. No neighbors close enough to hear. Just the two of us and the sound of the field settling into nighttime.
He reaches for my hand and I give it to him. His palm is rough and warm and his fingers wrap around mine and hold on.
"Kaitlyn, I want to tell you something."
"Okay."
"I’ve wanted to ask you out for a long time. Years, probably. But you were always with Travis and I wasn’t going to disrespect that. So I just kept coming to your station and talking to you for two minutes at a time and telling myself that was enough."
"Was it?"
"Not even close. But it was all I had. So I took it."
I look at him in the low light. His face is open and honest and there’s nothing hidden behind his eyes. No agenda. No performance. Just a man telling me the truth because the truth is all he knows how to give.
"I’m glad you waited," I say. "And I’m glad you finally asked."
He turns toward me and cups my face with both hands. His touch is warm and deliberate and I lean into it because I want to. Because it feels right. Because for the first time in a long time I’m choosing someone not out of comfort or habit or obligation but because every part of me is saying yes.
He kisses me. Not like the first time on my doorstep. Deeper. Slower. His tongue traces my bottom lip and I open my mouth for him and the sound I make surprises both of us. He pulls me closer and I feel his hands tighten at my waist. The heat in my belly is sudden and real and spreading fast.
We stand up without breaking apart. His hands slide from my waist to my hips and he grips me hard enough that I feel each finger through the fabric of my jeans. I push myself against him and feel how much he wants me and it sends a rush of warmth between my thighs.
"Inside?" he asks against my mouth.
"Now."
He takes my hand and leads me through the screen door and down the hallway to his bedroom.
The room is simple. A queen bed with a dark blue quilt.
A nightstand with a reading lamp. A window that looks out over the field.
He clicks on the lamp and it fills the room with a low, warm glow that softens everything.
He turns to face me and I see the question in his eyes. Not hesitation. Just respect.
"Are you sure?"
I answer by reaching up and unbuttoning the top button of his shirt. Then the second. Then the third. I spread the fabric apart and put my mouth on his chest and taste the salt on his skin. He inhales sharply. His hand comes up to the back of my head and his fingers thread through my hair.
He shrugs the shirt off his shoulders and I run my hands over him.
His chest is broad and firm and his stomach is flat and his skin is warm everywhere I touch.
I can feel his heartbeat under my palms, faster than I expected, and I realize he’s as worked up as I am.
When I drag my nails lightly down his sides he makes a low sound in his throat that makes my whole body respond.
He reaches for the hem of my blouse and pulls it over my head.
He looks at me. His eyes move down my neck to the lace edge of my bra and his jaw tightens.
He traces his thumb along the strap on my shoulder and then down across the curve of my breast and I feel my nipple harden under the thin fabric.
"You’re so beautiful," he says. His voice is rougher than usual.