51. First Kiss
51
FIRST KISS
Leighton
High Kick isn’t even open this late. It’s past nine in the evening, but Birdie called, desperate, begging me to come in to take some pictures.
“I need them tonight, darling. It’s completely my fault. My baker made the most incredible cinnamon rolls and I’ll be offering them tomorrow. But I need a decent picture for social. I can’t take photos to save my life,” she’d said. “Do this for me and I’ll leave the shop to you in my last will and testament.”
“You’ll do no such thing and I’ll be there in an hour,” I’d told her.
“Perfect. Can’t wait,” she’d said.
So here I am, answering the SOS. Even by Birdie standards, it’s unusual. But I love all her eccentricities. I love, too, the way she relies on me. Fact is, I rely on her as well, and I really should let her know that. But also, being here will keep me busy till I can see Miles again. He returns sometime tonight and he texted me after I sent that photo saying, I can’t wait to see you .
No idea when that’ll be, but I know it’ll be soon. I know, too, even if I’ve messed things up, I have the power to fix them. By talking, writing, speaking, photographing, communicating. My father wrote back to my email with six simple words: I love you and thank you.
And that was enough. Now, I rap on the locked door to High Kick and Birdie hustles over, unlocks it, and yanks it open. “Hi, darling! Thank you for coming, you’re simply the best,” she says, then shuts the door in a flurry, and adds, “would you look at the time.”
Then she’s off with a wink, rushing to the back of the shop and I’m…bewildered.
Until I turn to the counter where twinkle lights are set up behind it, flickering softly. Where mason jars of wildflowers line the coffee bar. And where the man I love stands behind the counter. Waiting. His hands parked on the Formica.
Like he’s ready to take coffee orders.
It’s just him and me here in the shop, and my heart sprints toward him. It’s been too long—the last twenty-four hours. Absently, I lift my hand and touch my heart locket as I walk toward him, like I’m in a trance.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hey,” he says, then smiles like he has a secret and adds, “what would you like to drink?”
Okaaaay. We’re really role-playing here at this barista-and-customer thing. I look at the chalkboard menu and play along. “An Earl Grey latte.”
But he tilts his head in confusion, then points to his ears .
Oh. He’s wearing AirPods. “I can’t hear you. I have AirPods in,” he says.
I furrow my brow. Um, he can just take them out. But I say again, “An Earl Grey latte.”
And he shakes his head, then raises his hand and signs, Do you want steamed milk and I love you on top?
I. Have. Chills. From the confession, but also the way he’s made it. I start with that. “You…know…ASL?”
His smile is wider than the city. More satisfied than all the cats in the world. And all for me as he signs, I started learning last year .
The words echo through my body, settling deep in my heart. I answer him in the same language. You did? Why?
I believe my eyes but I also can’t quite believe he’s done this.
Yes. Because I love you.
And my heart flies as joy floods every cell in my body. “I love you too.”
Then, he hops over the counter. Hops! Cups my cheeks, drops his mouth to mine and kisses me soft and tender, like he’s been counting down the seconds till he saw me again.
I feel the same way. When he breaks the kiss, I wobble. My knees are weak and I’m melting but he steadies me, looping an arm around me.
“On the plane, I told your dad I learned it. I told him I’ll fight for you. And then he told me to fix everything with you,” he says, then grins. “Did it work?”
I laugh, then grab his face and pull him closer. “It worked, Miles. It definitely worked. Everything worked.” I feel like I’m floating as I kiss him again, but I still have so many questions. Like this one. “Are you being traded? Because I’ll stay with you even if you’re traded. We can make it work. Long distance. Anything. I’ll make it work with you.” And that’s the most vulnerable thing I’ve ever said in my whole life, but I mean it completely. It feels good and right to say those words to him.
He shakes his head, that grin never leaving his face. “Nope. Chicago called but Coach said I was too valuable. I don’t think I’ll be captain, but I don’t care. Want to know why?”
“Why?” I ask, and I should be sad but I can’t be when he’s so happy.
“Because I got you,” he says, then he kisses me once again, making my head swim with happiness. When he lets go, he takes a step back and signs—not fast, not perfectly, but clear nonetheless— Come home with me . Then he says, “Move in for real. Tonight. And don’t ever leave.”
This man. This love. This night. “You had me at ‘I’ve got this,’” I say. Those were the first words he ever said to me when he held open the door to this shop.
He takes my hand and we go, the twinkling lights illuminating the way.
But we make a pit stop at the apartment and toss the rest of my things in grocery bags first. I won’t miss this place one bit. As we slide back into his car, my belongings in tow, I feel like it’s the getaway vehicle and we’ve made our great escape into our happily ever after. As we go, I have so many questions about him learning ASL. Where? How? Who was the teacher? He tells me he took a class through a local university from a funny, sarcastic deaf teacher named Daya, who promised she’d keep the secret that he was learning it.
“You should meet her someday. And the other students—they’re mostly deaf. They had to keep it a secret too,” he tells me. “Which means that’s one of the first words I learned to sign.”
I laugh, then laugh again when he takes his right hand off the wheel to tap his thumb twice against his lips, right as I’m doing the same.
But we’re no longer a secret, and that feels so good.
We cruise through the city, the lights of the Golden Gate Bridge calling us home. Soon, we’re pulling into his garage and heading inside.
Home , I sign, feeling it deep in my soul.
You’re home , he signs, then he scoops me up, tosses me over his shoulder, and carries me up the stairs.
And he shows me how much he’s missed me in those twenty-four hours, kissing every inch of my body, touching me everywhere, driving me wild, then fucking me like I’m the love of his life.
When we’re naked and sated, lying there in bed, he traces the locket with his finger.
“Open it,” I say, and now I’m the one with the secret.
His eyes glint as he flicks it open. A wicked smile crosses his face as he gazes at the photo I’ve put in it. A shot of our first kiss.
The start of our story.