Page 25 of Sunday's Best

Rather than admit that out loud, I say, “At least you can get back to doing whatever boring stuff you normally do.”

“Turns out I prefer the not-boring stuff.”

I mockingly gasp. “Are you feeling okay?”

Coming into a small town, the truck slows and the road noise lessens. Logan mumbles something incoherent, slumping further down in his seat, still fast asleep.

Without warning, Holden flicks the turn signal, and we’re pulling off the highway at some place that isn’t a truck stop or rodeo—an unprecedented switch up. When I asked for a break, I assumed I’d be stretching out my limbs in a hectic gas station lot, so seeing grass and shrubbery is a pleasant surprise. I yawn, reaching down to find my sandals, which end up being wedged under Logan’s seat.

“Should we wake him up?” Holden asks.

“Nah.” I shake my head. “He’s just going to be annoyed at us.”

The summer air’s filled with the electric heat of an incoming storm, and a sudden gust of wind nearly knocks me over before I’ve found my footing on the gravel. Giving each leg a shake, I straighten out my bunched running shorts while I take in my surroundings.

“Is that… a giant coffee pot?” I turn to face Holden with a laugh of disbelief. “Why is there a giant coffee pot on the side of the highway?”

He smiles. A real, all the way to his eyes type of grin. “Thought you’d get a kick out of it. I’ve driven by here a million times but never stopped.”

My chest squeezes. “When I asked if we could stretch our legs somewhere, I wasn’t expecting this. Decidedly not boring. I love it.”

I start across the grass toward it and feel him at my back. A few seconds later, we’re both staring up at the massive sculpture. It’s tipped, as if pouring into an equally oversized mug sculpture, and the entire pot is painted in a collage of what I assume are Saskatchewan-related things.

Holden runs a palm over his hair to smooth it down. It falls perfectly tousled in the breeze because—it bears repeating—he’s one of God’s favorites. His light-grey T-shirt billows around him, giving a slight peek at his stomach, which is an area I’ve become well-acquainted with, thanks to our early mornings together.

“Imagine if the cup was a hot tub filled with coffee.” I tuck my unruly hair behind my ears just in time for another unexpected gust to swirl it around my face again. This time I feel the sweep of Holden’s gentle fingers, and my vision clears.

For a second, he looks at me like I’m crazy. Then a half-laugh escapes on a weary exhale, and my shoulders settle.

“I think the amount of peppermint in the creamer you use would be… unpleasant to bathe in. I used peppermint shampoo as body wash once and—” Holden winces. It makes me giggle.

“I wasn’t planning on drinking the coffee after we both sat in it, you sicko. We can skip the creamer.” I step in and nudge his arm with mine. The fleeting contact makes my heart race. “We should take a selfie. The one and only stop Holden allowed during the entire trip—that’s worth documenting.”

He frowns at me, eyes matching the shadows of the tumultuous sky. “This is exactly why I didn’t stop before now. I’m not taking a selfie next to a giant pot of coffee.”

“Relax. You need to have a soul in order for the camera to steal it, so you’re safe. Come on—humor me.” I grab his hand without thinking and, where I would’ve been quick to pull away in the past, I relax into the warmth of his palm. My fingers interlace his, and butterflies fill my stomach. All at once, I’m overwhelmed by an unsettling realization: I like holding his hand.

He looks down at where we’re joined with a soft smile, and his thumb traces slow circles around my palm.

Holden lets me tug him closer to the giant sculpture, and when my grip loosens, his tightens. He holds my hand like we’re standing on the edge of a cliff, bracing ourselves for the jump. And honestly, this moment does feel like the precipice of something big.

My entire arm shakes as I hold up my phone for the photo.

“Let me,” he says, grabbing the device from me. “Your arms are too short to get the entire pot in the picture, and I’m not doing retakes.”

I swear the first photo catches me mid eye roll, but the second I’m cheesing hard. The third, my head tips to the side to rest on his chest. The fourth, he’s squeezing our joined hands outside of the frame, and I know it’s apparent in our genuine smiles.

We step apart, hands falling at our sides, when the moment’s over. And he’s watching me with a look that says he’s trying to memorize everything about us, here and now. Photos aren’t enough.

I look down at my phone, and a smile instantly teases my lips. “You know this isn’t a passport picture, right? You don’t have to look miserable.”

Suddenly, he’s back at my side, peering over my shoulder. I try not to get caught up in the feel of his chest pressed against me or the way his breath gently blows wisps of my hair. I want more of these moments with him, where we’re both happy and free.

“I had to balance out that Cheshire Cat grin you’ve got going on. You could use that second photo as a warning for what happens if you consume too much coffee.”

“Shut up.” I give him a look over my shoulder. “At least we got a couple good ones.”

“Send them to me.”