Chapter 23
The next time I see Matt, he waves and smiles as he’s getting in his truck to go to work, like nothing uncomfortable ever happened between us. Funny how much I care about that, how relieved I am. Ugh. I care.
And the next time he taps on my back door with a bottle of wine, a few nights later, I’m even more relieved, and happy to see him. I hold up one finger, then go about grabbing glasses and some lemon meringue pie I picked up at the Last Chance, kind of hoping to share it with my wine buddy.
We catch up. He tells me Samantha got to swim with dolphins and it seems to have been the highlight of her summer so far, which pleases him because “if the dolphins rank higher than boys, that gives me less to worry about.” I tell him I’ve been deadheading snapdragons and think I’m seeing new buds!
I also catch him up on the latest lost-and-found news, which is several more items claimed, although just as many haven’t been—at least not yet.
He shrugs and says, “You can’t expect a high success rate at this—the fact that you’re findin’ owners for any of it is downright amazin’, if you ask me. Although ...” He pauses and points his fork at me. “Afraid you’re kinda in trouble at the post office.”
I sit up a little straighter in my rocker, stunned. “What do you mean?”
“Somebody mailed us a new lost item. Came yesterday. Nothin’ new had shown up for years, but guess all this recent hoopla is makin’ people think we want their lost junk—when we already got more than we know what to do with.”
I blow out a breath. “Yikes. What was it?”
“A necklace, I think. A locket with a picture inside and some engravin’ on it.”
I instantly slide into work mode and say, “I’ll pick it up tomorrow and get it posted. It should be a lot easier to match with whoever lost it if we don’t let years pass by first.”
“Good point.”
Neither of us mentions that I’ll be leaving soon, and now perhaps even leaving the town with a bigger mess than they had when I arrived.
It feels like too huge and messy a topic when I’m just enjoying his company and the pie and the wine and that things seem simpler between us again compared to the last time I saw him.
As the last vestiges of a purple sunset fade over the horizon, bringing darkness on in full, we’re joined by a few fireflies. Less, though, than earlier in the summer.
“Did you know they only live a few weeks to a couple months? The lightnin’ bugs?” Matt asks. He must be noticing there are fewer now, too.
I answer, “Like butterflies, I guess. Most of them don’t live long, either.”
“Seems a shame, so little time.”
“I guess they have to pack a lot of living into every day,” I suggest, but I’m annoyed at myself because it reminds me of what Grace said about life being short, and regrets, and I almost feel like I’m arguing against myself, even without Matt knowing it.
“Sometimes,” he says, “I wonder if I’m wastin’ my time, livin’ here.”
That surprises me so much my jaw drops. “Does it feel wasted?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “Feels ... right, mostly. Just not what I planned when I left. And not the choice I figure most people would make.”
“Then I guess you’re not wasting it.”
I look over to see him in profile, staring out over the dark water in the lake below.
The moon isn’t especially bright tonight, just a crescent high in the sky, and the porch light’s not on, so everything’s darker.
Still, I study the shadow of his cheek, his jawline, the dark stubble there.
And I find myself asking the same question. Am I wasting my time? My summer?
I mean, sure, yes, in some ways I’ve filled my time wonderfully. But when it comes to Matt, I mean. Is it possible Grace is right? Possible Sydney’s right? Is there supposed to be something more between us than I’m letting happen?
The man has succeeded in making me feel almost pretty at the time of my life when I’ve felt the least attractive. He’s made me look forward to seeing him—with or without a hat. He’s made me like him, no matter how hard I tried not to.
And yet, all the reasons I’ve pushed him away remain.
I don’t have a successful track record with men.
I’m not good with feelings. And no matter what people say, sex comes with those.
And sure, I’m good at putting up walls and wearing armor and all that, but .
.. what if it were to fail me this time?
He turns to look at me—and appears surprised to find me already looking back. “You starin’ at me?”
“No,” I lie. “Just thought I saw something flying around in the dark over by your house.”
“Probably just a bat.”
I sit up straighter, letting out a small gasp. “A bat?” I’ve almost even forgotten I made up the flying thing.
He sighs. “Calm down. They’re not gonna bother ya, and bats are everywhere, city and country both—you just don’t know it ’cause you’re not lookin’ for ’em.”
I have no idea what to believe on this topic, so I tilt my head and ask, “Really?”
He just shakes his head. “City girl.”
We talk more about bats—it’s mainly me interrogating him about being sure they’re in the city, too, and wondering where they go during the day—until he finishes his pie and asks, “Got any more of this? I could go for another slice.”
I nod. “Give me your plate.”
A minute later, I’m back out the door, standing in front of his chair, handing him his pie—which is precisely when he rocks forward unexpectedly, the plate bumps his body, and the pie smushes into his chest.
This brings him standing up out of the chair—even though I’m already in that space—and I’ve trapped and caught most of the pie on the plate, but my other hand is trying to wipe yellow filling and fluffy, sticky meringue off his chest. Which is firm beneath my fingers through his T-shirt.
And he smells good. As usual, I don’t even know what it is he smells like, just . .. manly soap or something.
“Oh my God, I’m sorry,” I’m mumbling.
And he’s murmuring, “It’s okay, it’s okay.”
“But it’s your Dollywood shirt,” I say rather dumbly. Because I know he likes it since it holds a memory. His shirts seem less silly to me all the time.
“It’ll wash,” he assures me as he takes the plate from my hand and lowers it to the table next to us.
Then his free hand presses down on mine—the one busy wiping at his chest—until my palm is flat against his shirt, flat against the warmth of him, and I can feel his heartbeat.
I could swear the spot between my legs is pulsing in time with it.
He uses his other hand to tilt my chin upward, forcing me to lock gazes with him.
I still haven’t taken a step back.
I could.
I should.
But a heavy whoosh of want is pushing through my body, and I’m suddenly having trouble thinking straight.
“Jessie,” he says. Ever so simply. Pragmatically. In one word, he’s asking me: What’s it gonna be?
Every ounce of my brain still thinks this is a terrible idea, one that will take a controlled, managed, pleasant situation and send it spiraling out of control. But that’s the problem with sex. The brain so often gets overpowered by other insistent organs.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been with a man.
And God help me, I want him.
And he’s making this seem so easy, so right.
But the little bit of sanity still persisting inside me insists on putting some sort of safeguard in place.
So I hear myself say, “Just to be clear, this is only sex. Like, between friends.” Oh Lord, my voice came out hot and breathy.
I sound ready to melt for him. I sound like a woman not nearly as in control as I like to think I am.
And then he has the nerve to say, “Friends don’t have sex.”
“Friends with benefits,” I argue. Everyone knows about those.
“No such thing,” he claims.
I blow out a breath. I still feel his heartbeat beneath my palm—and between my legs. Is he really going to make this difficult? “So you’re saying ... you can’t take this casually?”
“I can take it however you want, Jessie, but we’re more than just friends and have been for a while now, if ya ask me.”
Oh boy. He’s a much more complex man than I ever could have predicted the first time he flirted with me.
That guy, in my mind, would have been all about casual sex.
But this guy ... this guy is ... I really can’t think anymore.
I really just want to press myself against him, move our bodies together, get lost in it.
Finally I suggest, “Maybe we shouldn’t ... worry about labels.” Mainly I’m thinking he’s saying all the wrong things, things I don’t want to hear, things that should be making me change my mind—but I don’t want to change my mind.
“Agreed,” he says. Thank God. “There are better things to worry about.”
“Like what?” I ask, still as breathless as a schoolgirl in a back seat.
“Kissin’ you. Gettin’ your clothes off. That sorta thing.”
Yes. I want those things, too. But then his words make me remember. So many things. I swallow nervously. “Matt, I have scars.”
“Everybody has scars, Jessie.”
“No—I mean from the cancer surgeries.”
“I don’t care.”
Right answer. Without missing a beat. Still, this part is hard for me, and I can’t let it go that easily. I feel the need to warn him, for both our sakes. “I’m ... my body’s not ... perfect. Not even close.”
“Neither is mine. Are you talkin’ yourself outta this?”
I suck in my breath. “No.”
“Then quit thinkin’ so much and just kiss me.”
My hands find his face; his close over my ass. He pulls my pelvis to his as our mouths crush together and it’s ... heaven. A strange sort of heaven—I’ve never been an “urgent sex” sort of gal, but this has been so long in coming that now it feels like a bursting dam.