break my toes,” I mumbled to
myself.
She raised an eyebrow. “Huh?”
“I mean, what if it doesn’t work out? What if we break up?
What if I break his heart or he breaks mine and then I can’t be your maid of
honor anymore?”
She nodded, and carefully considered my point. I love that
she knew exactly what I meant. “We’ll have to consciously try to keep our
relationship separate from your relationship. It’s complicated. But doable.
There’s a difference between being careful and being afraid.”
“Yeah?”
“Didn’t you come on this vacation to learn to take risks?”
I nodded.
“So what are you waiting for?” she asked. “Go tell him.”
Becca said he was still out with the rest of the group. I
didn’t want to leave the premises hunting for him in case I somehow missed him,
so instead I parked myself on the tattered couch in the lobby. My heart was
thumping like rain against a window. I guava-fied to calm myself down. Maybe
my guava had stayed hidden until I had found the person worthy of being kissed.
Oh God! I see them. Hear them. Penny’s giggles. Max and
Kristin’s flashes. I can see him through the glass door. I feel sick. Afraid.
Should I run? Hide? Can I do this?
Saturday, July 21,
No-Clue-What-Time-It-Is-Since-We’re-Crossing-Time-Zones-Again P.M.
I’ve already had three glasses of airplane apple juice
and I desperately have to pee. But I don’t want to move.
Tommy’s sleeping with his head on my knee. The plane is relatively
empty, so we have a row to ourselves. Becca and Harold are in the seats in
front of us. They’ve already made plans to meet up over Labor Day weekend.
They’re going to try long distance.
I hope they make it.
Sorry I haven’t written . . . but I’ve been, well, too busy
to write.
When Tommy finally walked into the lobby, I thought my heart
would explode.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Waiting . . . for you.” I mumbled. “Can we talk outside?”
He looked confused, obviously, since we had barely spoken since
Bastille Day. But he shrugged, said good night to (a disappointed-looking)
Penny and motioned me to the door.
We walked down the beach and over to the water without
talking.
We both sat down on the rocks, our feet out in front of us.
The stars were out in full and their light was reflected in the water and
against the darkness of the rocks.
“I . . . I . . .” I was terrified. Frozen. I had no idea
what I was supposed to say.
He reached over and tapped my broken toe. “How is it?”
“It hurts,” I said. “But I’ll live.” And that’s when I
thought about what he had asked me about on Bastille Day. About why I was so
obsessed with having a fling. “You were right,” I said, staring ahead at the
lapping water. “I was afraid.” I feel his eyes on me and turn toward him. “I
wanted to have a fling to prove to myself that I could take risks. Which is
dumb. Since it’s relationships that scare the scrap out of me.”
“I know,” he said softly.
I looked at his strong chin, and his big eyes, and his tasty
lips. His broad shoulders . . . carrying a backpack around certainly agreed
him. Hey. Who knew? American boys could be pretty hot, too. I inched closer to
him. “I’m kind of a scaredy cat if you want to know the truth.”
His turn to inch closer to me. “Are you afraid now?”
My palms were sweaty and my heart was going haywire but felt
pretty confident it wasn’t from fear. “No,” I said. “Are you?”
He grinned. “Well, the last time I tried to kiss you, I
ended up on the pavement. And these rocks don’t exactly look like softer.”
I laughed. And then I thought, what the hell. And I went for
it. I closed the space between us in under a second and kissed him. Brave, huh?
And the kiss was perfect. It started gently. His lips were
soft and smooth. It was weird for the first few seconds—I kept thinking, omigod
I’m kissing Tommy!—but then I stopped thinking entirely and we were kissing
myself.
She raised an eyebrow. “Huh?”
“I mean, what if it doesn’t work out? What if we break up?
What if I break his heart or he breaks mine and then I can’t be your maid of
honor anymore?”
She nodded, and carefully considered my point. I love that
she knew exactly what I meant. “We’ll have to consciously try to keep our
relationship separate from your relationship. It’s complicated. But doable.
There’s a difference between being careful and being afraid.”
“Yeah?”
“Didn’t you come on this vacation to learn to take risks?”
I nodded.
“So what are you waiting for?” she asked. “Go tell him.”
Becca said he was still out with the rest of the group. I
didn’t want to leave the premises hunting for him in case I somehow missed him,
so instead I parked myself on the tattered couch in the lobby. My heart was
thumping like rain against a window. I guava-fied to calm myself down. Maybe
my guava had stayed hidden until I had found the person worthy of being kissed.
Oh God! I see them. Hear them. Penny’s giggles. Max and
Kristin’s flashes. I can see him through the glass door. I feel sick. Afraid.
Should I run? Hide? Can I do this?
Saturday, July 21,
No-Clue-What-Time-It-Is-Since-We’re-Crossing-Time-Zones-Again P.M.
I’ve already had three glasses of airplane apple juice
and I desperately have to pee. But I don’t want to move.
Tommy’s sleeping with his head on my knee. The plane is relatively
empty, so we have a row to ourselves. Becca and Harold are in the seats in
front of us. They’ve already made plans to meet up over Labor Day weekend.
They’re going to try long distance.
I hope they make it.
Sorry I haven’t written . . . but I’ve been, well, too busy
to write.
When Tommy finally walked into the lobby, I thought my heart
would explode.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Waiting . . . for you.” I mumbled. “Can we talk outside?”
He looked confused, obviously, since we had barely spoken since
Bastille Day. But he shrugged, said good night to (a disappointed-looking)
Penny and motioned me to the door.
We walked down the beach and over to the water without
talking.
We both sat down on the rocks, our feet out in front of us.
The stars were out in full and their light was reflected in the water and
against the darkness of the rocks.
“I . . . I . . .” I was terrified. Frozen. I had no idea
what I was supposed to say.
He reached over and tapped my broken toe. “How is it?”
“It hurts,” I said. “But I’ll live.” And that’s when I
thought about what he had asked me about on Bastille Day. About why I was so
obsessed with having a fling. “You were right,” I said, staring ahead at the
lapping water. “I was afraid.” I feel his eyes on me and turn toward him. “I
wanted to have a fling to prove to myself that I could take risks. Which is
dumb. Since it’s relationships that scare the scrap out of me.”
“I know,” he said softly.
I looked at his strong chin, and his big eyes, and his tasty
lips. His broad shoulders . . . carrying a backpack around certainly agreed
him. Hey. Who knew? American boys could be pretty hot, too. I inched closer to
him. “I’m kind of a scaredy cat if you want to know the truth.”
His turn to inch closer to me. “Are you afraid now?”
My palms were sweaty and my heart was going haywire but felt
pretty confident it wasn’t from fear. “No,” I said. “Are you?”
He grinned. “Well, the last time I tried to kiss you, I
ended up on the pavement. And these rocks don’t exactly look like softer.”
I laughed. And then I thought, what the hell. And I went for
it. I closed the space between us in under a second and kissed him. Brave, huh?
And the kiss was perfect. It started gently. His lips were
soft and smooth. It was weird for the first few seconds—I kept thinking, omigod
I’m kissing Tommy!—but then I stopped thinking entirely and we were kissing
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