Page 65 of Just One More Thing

Metal creaks. Footsteps.

Jake appears at the top of the stairs, not even winded. A small telescope in one hand. A blanket tucked under his arm like he planned to stay awhile.

He stops when he sees everything. The blankets. The candle.

Me.

“Mo.” Soft. Almost disbelieving.

“We’ve missed a few,” I say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to hopeful. “You owe me one.”

His mouth curves, and I can see his dimple even in this dim light. “I do.”

He steps forward and lowers himself onto the blanket beside me.

The wind off the water is cooler than I expected. Without a word, he drapes his blanket over both of us, tucking it around my shoulders first before settling it over his own.

I forget how to do anything for a second.

A strand of hair blows across my mouth. He reaches for it and then hesitates—that pause he’s always had that is entirely him—then tucks it gently behind my ear. His fingers linger just long enough to make the energy shift.

We both feel it. I know we do.

A streak of white cuts across the sky.

“There,” I whisper.

“I saw it.”

“Make a wish.”

He turns toward me instead of looking up. “Already did.”

Our hands rest on the blanket between us. Inches apart. His pinky brushes mine. It could be accidental.

He doesn’t pull away. Neither do I.

I turn my hand over and lace my fingers through his. His thumb moves slowly across the back of my hand.

Another meteor streaks overhead. Then another.

“Do you remember the first time we did this?” he asks.

“I remember you tripped halfway up the stairs and blamed it on a ghost.”

“There was a ghost.”

“You screamed like there was.”

“I did not scream.”

“Jake.”

He nudges my shoulder, and I laugh, the sound softening as it fades. He’s giving me space again. He always does. He’s been giving me space for ten years.

I’m so tired of taking it.

“I want this,” I say.