Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

Amelia

A girl could get used to this. Sweat resulting from straight-up sunshine, a Diet Dr Pepper delivered poolside, and Van on the lounge chair next to me with his eyes closed, which allows me to unabashedly stare at him any time I want to.

And anyone who might judge me for how often I stare hasn't seen the man shirtless. Or even with a shirt. The man is just plain stareable.

His physical prowess aside, I'm trying to figure how he managed to make me smile more in the past two days than I ever have before. Like, ever . Or maybe as far back as childhood when I still had two parents and my days consisted of cartoons and playing on playgrounds and I hadn't yet seen any signs of how cruel life could be.

Van has a magic about him. And it's definitely him , not just the fun things we've done, the new experiences, the ease of a resort vacation.

Though I have really been living out one of the new rules I scrawled for myself in the yellow notebook: Try something new every day.

I didn't think anything could top zip lining, which turned out to be one of my favorite things ever . But hooking my arm through Van's and dragging him through the park to look at alligators is a close second. When I asked Van how he could have a dragon living on his chest full-time and not like alligators, he didn't have a good answer.

The highlight of that day I'll never, ever admit, even under threat of waterboarding, is when Van licked ice cream off my arm.

I'll also never admit how often I've replayed that moment in my mind. Or how, whenever I happen to glance at his mouth, all I'm thinking about is how warm it felt on my skin.

If I close my eyes, I swear, I can still feel his lips there.

In short, alligator parks are a ten out of ten stars. Would recommend.

Yesterday, after I briefly and accidentally got to "meet" two of Van's sisters, we did a snorkeling expedition at midday. It was fun despite being too murky to see much. We spent the later afternoon on the beach, where I half-heartedly skimmed the book I bought and Van took a nap. The man wasn't kidding about liking his naps.

When I asked if it was an angry or sad nap, he smiled and said it was a happy nap.

While he was happy napping, a wedding took place a few hundred yards away from our lounge chairs. And because I'm a sucker for punishment, I forced myself to watch. I thought it might be upsetting but was surprised when I felt wistful longing rather than sad regret.

In fact, my eyes kept darting from the bride and groom to the man softly snoring next to me, one big arm thrown over his face. Wondering. Imagining. Dreaming.

Then chastising myself for being so foolish.

I'm not sure what it says about me that I could almost marry one man on a Saturday and by Monday, I'm picturing a wedding with a different man.

But here we are.

Maybe if Van was only attractive and charming in that flirtatious way, I would just have a crush. One easily shed when we go our separate ways.

But he's not only that. And, as quick and reckless and unbelievable as it sounds to admit, this is more than a crush. Just like I told him: he's more .

I glance at Van again, smiling when I see the faint outline of a lopsided smiley face on his abs. Yesterday, I drew it carefully in sunscreen while he softly snored. He slept just long enough for it to work.

When he woke up and saw it, he threw me over his shoulder, marched into the ocean, and tossed me. Which led to me begging him to launch me again and again. I loved the moments when I was in the air, suspended and about to come down.

I loved being in Van's arms before he threw me even more.

We capped off last night with a sunset cruise full of couples, where we resumed our roles as newly married to fit in. At least, that's the excuse I gave myself to allow Van to spend dinner touching me, his hand heavy on my knee under the table, his arm around my waist as we watched the sun set. His lips on my cheek as we stood at the rail, a pod of dolphins swimming beside the boat.

"I think they're showing off for you," he said then, his whiskers a delicious scrape on my neck. "Can't say I blame them."

For those hours, I didn't just pretend for the sake of people around us. I allowed myself to sink into the lie. To imagine what it would be like to have him staying close to me because he wanted to. Because he was mine.

The thing is … it was easy to believe.

When Van looked at me with those dark brown eyes, the warmth there felt real. His flirting also fooled my body, which has been in a constant state of heightened awareness for days. I swear, Van shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and my body adjusts too.

When he touches me? Forget it. I instantly become like one of those static balls with all the electricity inside, every electron in me shooting toward the place where Van's finger or his mouth or even his arm brushes mine.

Things were never like this with Drew. Never with anyone else either.

It's ridiculous to think Van and I could really have something. Reckless. Maybe stupid.

I'm trying to internalize Morgan's words. To wait.

To tell myself if it's really this good, if it's really something that could be real, I should wait until I'm in a better place. I'm attempting to just enjoy being drenched in an unexpected happiness. While also ignoring the thread of guilt that keeps weaving through me because I shouldn't feel this way, right?

I mean, my whole life arguably just fell apart. I'll be picking up the pieces when I get back for months. I should be heartbroken. A mess.

And yet—I'm at the complete opposite pole. My heart never broke over Drew, despite being battered around and covered in the slick film of humiliation whenever I think about everything. It's helped that we haven't seen him or Becky. Maybe they checked out and moved to a new hotel. Hopefully in Antarctica.

But being with Van this week has, if anything, inflated and expanded my heart, like it's pumping stronger and steadier than before. As though his presence hasn't simply had a healing effect but one that multiplies me.

I keep trying not to examine what that means, but my mind keeps hovering around it, returning like a memory.

What I do know for sure is that I don't want it to end. I want to tell the front desk we're staying another week. Or that we're staying forever. We'll be the squatters in the honeymoon suite.

But I already know this is an impossibility. Though I've largely been able to forget what's going on at home, texting Morgan a few times for the barest updates, I know it's waiting for me. Late tomorrow.

And with our trip almost over, dread has taken hold in my stomach like a tapeworm.

I expected things to get awkward at some point. For Van to get sick of me or me to get sick of him. Instead, the more of him I get, the more I want. I crave him.

We talk, we laugh, we tease. Playfully … but an undercurrent of something sweeter and headier is growing. I can feel it in the way our touches linger, in the heat clambering up my spine when he's near me, in the way his eyes darken when we stare too long.

Not just his charm , I tell myself. It's got to be me .

Doesn't it?

The only time we spend apart is when he's working out or one of us is in the bathroom or when we're sleeping. More like when I'm lying in bed, imagining him on the couch, wondering what would happen if I invited him to share my bed. Just to sleep.

I've offered more than once, but he's adamant. He won't.

I know I'm not imagining the shift between us. I think it started the first night in the ocean, his warm hands on my ocean-chilled skin. Or maybe it goes back to the bathroom stall, when he wiped my tears away with his thumbs.

Every little moment, from him licking ice cream off my wrist to arguing about Keanu to allowing me the freedom to make my own choices.

Earlier this afternoon I almost confessed how I felt when he got back from a dip in the pool and told the half-drunk man hitting on me to stay away from his wife .

The way he said my wife gave my goose bumps goose bumps.

Every step of the way, Van has been both my cheerleader, my safety net, and my challenger.

Fly , he told me when we were zip lining.

Want to see what's at the edge of the reef? he asked when we were snorkeling.

Don't miss this , he said, nudging me, as the sun was just about to dip below the horizon and I had been looking at him instead.

I've never felt happier, nor so safe, nor so … loved .

That's the one word that fits. Against all odds, all logic, all reason. I can barely think it to myself without cringing.

Because … it can't be.

Right?

I shake my head a little, a physical attempt to shake off my hopes, married with my worries. Enjoy it , I tell myself. Don't think too hard about what it means .

Or what it will be like returning home .

Now, I reach across the little table between our lounge chairs and pinch Van's arm. We've been at the resort's adults only pool since lunch, and I'm not sure if he's awake, his dark eyes hidden by mirrored Walmart aviators. They look every bit as good on him as any name brand would.

Van leans on an elbow and pushes up the sunglasses, shooting me a mock glare with his dark eyes. The look zings through me like a pinball shot from a cannon.

"What was that for, Mills?"

I grin. "Paying you back for the other day."

"That was for breaking the rules. Did I break a rule I don't know about?"

"Nope."

"When are you going to share your rules with me, Mills?"

He's been asking every day when he catches me scribbling in the yellow notebook. More since I started borrowing his phone to draft not one but a few Substack posts, which are nowhere near ready to publish. Yet.

I'm not just working on the rules. Everything about this experience has opened me up, like Drew's actions cracked open a locked safe. And now … I'm exploring the contents.

I have a million ideas for posts and even some job ideas to look for when I get back and am reunited with my phone and computer. While it's super strange not to have a phone and to share Van's, it's honestly refreshing and has been a boon to my creativity. It's also been fun to look through his reading apps, though we share almost none of the same books. The man needs more romance novels in his life.

As supportive as Van has been, I'm still not ready to share my words. Also, a good deal of my journaling has been me processing my feelings. Many of which center around him .

"Soon," I promise.

Suddenly feeling shy, I shrug, playing with the strap of my bathing suit. This is the one I like the best—a pink one-piece with side cutouts and ruffles along the bust. It's pretty wholesome with just a nod of sexy where my sides are exposed and in the low dip of the back. I've gotten used to my new wardrobe, which is a good thing as the airline has no idea where my bags are. Maybe in Antarctica with Drew.

Van's dark gaze tracks the movement of my fingers, and then he drops his glasses back in place and reclines again. I swear I can almost feel the echo of his gaze lingering on me like a physical caress, a heated whisper tracing my skin.

"Well," Van says, "how about we stick to the no waking sleeping dragons rule, yeah?" he says, the corners of his mouth lifting in a smirk.

"You're a dragon now?"

He taps the extensive ink on his chest, which I've studied at length in the many hours he's spent shirtless the past few days. Because apparently, Van prefers to wear as little clothing as possible while on vacation.

You won't hear me complaining.

I jump when Van makes a rumbling growl in his chest. The low sound sends a sharp tug of want through me. Then again, pretty much everything Van does has a similar effect.

From the way he listens so intently and watches me just as carefully, like he wants to make sure I'm telling the truth and uses my body language as a lie detector test. He's good too. Always able to sense where I'm hesitating. Abruptly, I stand up, stretching and relishing in the warm lick of sun on my skin. "I'm going for a swim."

"I'll join you in a minute," Van says, but then he yawns, and I suspect his eyes have already closed behind the mirrored lenses of his sunglasses. His dragon, though, is still watching.

The faint outline of the lopsided smiley face I drew in sunscreen is still visible on Van's abs, making me chuckle as I walk away.

I don't bother with the steps or lowering myself down and getting used to the water in stages. I hold my breath and jump right into the deep end, blowing bubbles until my feet touch the concrete at the bottom.

I pause here, eyes closed, the world muted around me, allowing myself a weightless, peaceful moment.

Well. Almost peaceful. Because my brain seems intent on playing a slideshow featuring Van front and center. His cocky smile as he perfectly landed on a platform earlier when zip lining. The teasing smile he gave me when we were playing in the ocean the first night. The way he looks when arguing vehemently about Keanu Reeves—even when he's dead wrong about Keanu's talent.

The way his mouth grazed my skin on the sunset cruise as we stood at the railing, the sway of the boat and Van's nearness making me unsteady. His kindness. His attentiveness. His taut, inked skin on display where he's lying on the lounge chair.

My lungs are burning, along with the rest of me. I push off the bottom, propelling myself toward the surface. Gasping as my face breaks free, I'm instantly warmed by the sun as I take in a few quick breaths, my fingers finding the edge of the pool. I cross my arms on the concrete and rest my chin on them, my body floating behind me as I gently kick my legs.

But then I frown, noticing a bevy of women surrounding Van's lounge chair. It looks like they're trying to get him to sign things—no, to sign them . The woman closest to him is leaning over at an uncomfortable angle, gesturing to her chest, a permanent marker in her hand.

Who even brings a permanent marker to a pool?

For a few seconds I just gape, processing. Only a few people this week recognized Van. Almost all of them were harmless. A little kid had Van sign a t-shirt. A couple wanted a picture with him. All a little starstruck. No one—aside from our flight attendant—stepped over any lines.

But these ladies sailed right over any lines of decency.

Van smiles, but it's not any of the ones I've grown used to—not the cocky smirk or the teasing half smile or the full, genuine one. It looks more like he's baring his teeth. He holds up both palms in a gesture clearly meant as a polite no . I can read it from here. But the woman with the Sharpie is undeterred.

I swallow down the acidic taste of jealousy, telling myself I have zero claim on this man. But then I see the tightness around his mouth and the way his whole body has gone rigid, and jealousy bleeds into protective anger.

Van turns his face away from the woman thrusting her chest in his face while waving the marker at him. But this leaves him face-to-thigh with another woman.

His sunglasses are still hiding his eyes, but I swear when he glances my way, I can feel his eyes lock with mine.

And maybe I'm imagining it, but I also sense him sending out an S.O.S. over the concrete pool deck.

I've hoisted myself out of the pool and am marching over before I've even thought about it. Still dripping as I reach Van and his cluster of unwanted ladyfans, I nudge my way between them and then plop right down on the lounge chair next to him. It's a thin sliver of space, and I practically plaster my wet body to his.

His arm curls around my back and he shifts, making enough room so I don't fall off, but not so much that there's even an inch between us. I feel him relax against me.

"I'm cold," I say in a whiny, baby voice. The kind I suspect is right in the middle of these women's repertoire, though I'm currently pretending they don't exist. I let my fingers walk a path up his chest, tracing the dragon's scales, until I reach Van's chin, where I run my fingers over his bristly, two-days' growth of stubble.

"Do you want to go back up to the room?" he asks, one dark brow arching above his sunglasses.

"Maybe. It's awfully crowded out here." I lean closer, letting my lips brush his jaw close to his ear. Not quite a kiss. Not quite not a kiss either. "I wouldn't mind some privacy."

I didn't mean the words, already charged with double meaning, to come out so huskily. But I can't be sorry when they have the effect of scattering the women. One by one, their shadows over us disappear, letting the sun beat down on me again.

"That was quite a performance," Van says.

Honestly? It wasn't a performance at all.

I was totally jealous, and can't even deny it to myself. But sure—let's go with that. I'm performing. And I'm only curled up against Van to help him escape the women. Yep. That's why.

"I learned everything I know from Keanu Reeves," I say, and this makes him laugh. Head thrown back, smile wide, chest bouncing beneath me. If it weren't for his arm anchoring me, I think it would have thrown me off the chair. "I hope it's okay that I stepped in. You looked uncomfortable or I wouldn't have interrupted."

Van doesn't miss the shift in my tone. "I appreciate the rescue," he says, tugging me closer.

But I feel a chill, one deeper than the cold water still dripping from my hair and suit. Because we've existed mostly in a bubble, Van and I. These women were a slap in the face reminder of what life is like at home for Van—the well-known hockey player who only casually dates. The one who has promised me nothing.

I start to get up, but Van's arm tightens and he angles his head back so he can see my face. With his sunglasses in place, I can't tell where he's looking. Not until he pulls them up with his free hand, revealing those expressive dark eyes.

"What is it?" he asks.

"I don't want to share you," I say. "It's selfish."

He laughs. "You don't need to share me. And it's not selfish." When he sees the expression on my face, his laughter dies and his brows pull together. "Mills?"

"I just … kind of forgot about reality. Or about you maybe wanting to meet someone here. Someone who isn't me."

He tightens his grip on me. "The thought didn't even cross my mind. Not with them or anyone else."

I scoff. "Says the guy who told me he doesn't need pickup lines."

Van sits up a little straighter, tugging me with him and not giving me even an inch of reprieve. "Maybe I should clarify a few things."

"Maybe it's not my business," I mutter.

"I have a reputation," he continues, ignoring me. "Partly earned and partly encouraged. It's true I've dated a lot. And if I don't want to use lines, I don't need them. I'm a hockey player with an active social media following. My DMs are full of offers if I want them."

This makes me swallow hard, the jealousy from a few minutes ago rearing its roaring head again along with a sick twist in my gut. I know this. And I know he isn't bragging. He's not even saying it like it's a good thing. More like listing out the things that come standard with a job: a cubicle, bad coffee in the break room, and Monday morning meetings at nine.

"I've kept things casual in the past," he continues. "But casual isn't the same as careless . And I've had plenty of dates that didn't end in bed, Mills. Just dates." He touches my chin gently, tilting my face up toward his. "If I've kept things light, it's because I take commitment seriously. And I hadn't found the right woman for that."

He had n't.

As in … past tense?

As in … he's found that woman now?

"Do you understand what I'm telling you?" he asks.

I can't read the expression in his eyes, other than to know he's being sincere. It seems important to him that I understand, and he scans my face, waiting until I nod. I understand.

I think I understand.

He smiles—a real, full one that lightens something in me.

Van gets to his feet in a swift motion, then gently tugs me up with him, wrapping a soft towel completely around me, holding it closed at my chin. It's kind of adorable.

It also puts his face close to mine.

"Come on then, Mills. Let's head back up to the room and decide what's next on our menu."

He means activities—the jet ski rental or the dolphin excursion we discussed earlier. But the ache in my belly is for something else. For promises and declarations. Confessions, maybe. A whole different menu.

Too soon , I chide myself, but holding back is starting to hurt.

As though me thinking about not seeing Drew conjured him into place, he and Becky are at the restaurant. The resort has three inside: a rooftop restaurant we chose for tonight, two off the lobby, plus a sports bar and then an outside casual grill we've frequented. It seems we've been picking different places the last few days. Until now.

"I thought maybe they left," I say.

"We can go." Van's hand lands on my lower back as though ready to steer me right back out the door.

I watch Drew with Becky for a moment since they haven't seen us, taking a sort of internal temperature of how I feel. There are vestiges of anger and hurt, especially where Becky is concerned. The family connection will make her actions more difficult to manage. There are still wisps of humiliation and embarrassment, and I can trace my sudden insecurities at the pool to the two of them.

But mostly, I just feel relieved that I'm here, standing with Van instead of seated with Drew. And based on their tense expressions and the way Becky is practically using her menu as a shield, I think they'd rather be somewhere else too. There is almost a twinge of sadness for Becky. Because Drew is not a catch. And if she can't see that—well, I guess that's the bed she made for herself.

Van's fingertips press into my back, his touch making me draw my spine up straight. "Mills?"

"No," I tell him. "We'll stay."

"Are you sure?"

I watch his brown eyes as they scan my face, feeling a hot bloom of pleasure at his attentiveness. When I grin, his eyes dart briefly to my mouth, then up to meet my gaze.

"I'm good. Promise."

He nods, then splays his palm wide over my back as he gently urges me forward to the hostess stand.

"Two, please," he says, and we're led to a table in a row of others, a long booth-like seat running along one side, chairs on the other side of the tables. Usually, this is where people would argue over the more comfortable booth side, but this table happens to be right in Drew's line of sight. With a sigh, I start to pull out the chair, which would keep my ex at my back.

But Van tugs my hand until I realize he's suggesting we both sit on the same side of the table on the booth seat.

Nuzzling my neck as we sit, he tells the hostess, "I hope it's no trouble if we both sit here." His lips drag over my shoulder, and my eyelids flutter closed as he speaks against my skin. "I just can't get enough of her."

If Van ever said those words for real about me, I wouldn't survive them. I tuck them away to replay later.

I think about his words at the pool. Do you understand?

I hope so.

"Of course," the woman says, quickly adjusting the plates and silverware before rushing away.

I angle my head slightly, giving Van a hefty dose of side eye along with a half smile. "Is this how it's going to be?" I ask. "We're going to give them a show?"

Van presses a quick kiss to my jaw, close enough to my mouth to make it water. It's not the first time he's done this. But it's getting harder and harder to think of this as just something he does when he's playing the part of pretend husband.

The urge to pull him closer and press my lips to his grows stronger each and every time. Right now, it's almost unbearable.

He leans back—seemingly not struggling the same way I am—and offers me a full, wicked smile. "No."

"No? But you wanted to sit on the same side of the table. Right in their line of sight. And now you're being so … touchy." I trail off, unsure how to describe the physical affection.

His smile is gone, and his eyes are warm and soft. "If you want to change seats, we can. But I know sometimes it can help to face things. Just to look right at them. I wanted you to be able to do that." Under the table, he finds my hand. Squeezes. "And I didn't want you to do it alone."

"Oh." I swallow, then link our fingers.

Once again, Van is challenging me, telling me to fly. Offering a safe space to land.

His lips brush my jaw.

While also torturing me.

"The rest of it," he murmurs, "is just because I want to. I don't care what he thinks. I only care about you. Do you want me to stop being so"—I feel his smile against my skin—"touchy?"

"Nope," I say, fighting to sound normal and not completely breathless. "All that makes sense."

"If you hadn't guessed, physical touch is my love language," he says.

"What's a love language?"

"It comes from a book. I'll see if I can share it through one of the reading apps you use when you've got your phone again."

I shiver, a feeling like goose bumps rising but on my insides . A reaction to Van's simple statement about a book, about sharing, about phones, about the future. About love languages.

Calm down , I tell myself. But I am a tempest.

"So, this is okay?" he asks, pulling back to meet my eyes.

"Yes," I whisper.

Because I need a moment to compose myself, physically and emotionally, I pick up the menus, slapping one to Van's chest with a little more force than needed. Then I pretend to read my own while I'm actually working to slow my heartbeat to a steady rhythm again.

Throughout the dinner with our easy conversation and Van's easy touches, I feel Drew staring—glaring, probably. But I refuse to look his way. Van offers up plenty of distraction. True to what he told the hostess, he can't seem to stop touching me—tugging the ends of my hair, letting his fingertips graze the bare skin of my arm, tapping his foot against mine under the table.

Drew probably thinks we're doing it to show off.

The thing is: I don't care if Drew is watching.

I wouldn't care if Drew was making out with Becky right in front of me.

I don't care about Drew.

"We leave tomorrow," I say, after our waitress has cleared the dinner plates and we've ordered dessert.

Van's lips twitch, a slight downward turn he corrects almost immediately. "We do."

The words I want to say swirl in my head, a string of sentences and questions twisting into a tangled snarl.

"I …" Words gather at the tip of my tongue, then dissipate like fog.

Be brave , I tell myself. Ask for what you want. Tell him .

Why is honesty so hard?

And what, exactly, do I want? I think of Morgan's warning about rebounds.

Is that all this is? I force myself to think about this again. Though I have. Daily. Maybe hourly. At the least, I've thought about it every time Van looks at me with the intensity in his eyes right now.

No. I know it's more, almost on a seismic level, as though plates are shifting beneath my skin. Reshaping. Changing my landscape.

The timing might make this suspicious or even ridiculous, and maybe I couldn't find a way to articulate to Morgan or my father or anyone else how this is different, but it is.

But there is the tiniest sliver of doubt, making me wonder if the intensity of my feelings is brought on by a mania I'm in denial about. I haven't felt like myself for lots of reasons this week. And Van and I have been inside of a bubble, a setting that isn't real life for either of us.

It would be like growing some kind of plant inside of a covered terrarium. Who's to say transplanting it outside would make it thrive?

I glide a fingertip through the condensation on my glass, watching beads of water form then fall slowly down the side like crystal tears. "I didn't need to face Drew," I say finally. Not the words I want. But a start.

Van lifts his drink, like he needs a pause before responding. I watch through my periphery as his throat bobs with each swallow.

"No?" he asks finally, one side of his lips quirked up in a smile.

I shake my head, holding his gaze. "I'm sure there will be more to process about the whole situation, but I don't have feelings for him ."

Van's eyes spark at my emphasis on the word him.

"But I do have a lot of feelings," I whisper, the very vague confession tearing out of me like it's the most specific and unforgivable sin ever.

"You're not the only one," Van says, and the way he's looking at me makes me see spots, as though I'm staring directly into the sun.

I blink, and he comes back into focus, just as bright as before. My heart feels like it's quivering in my chest, overloaded with adrenaline or endorphins or something else. Something I can't name.

Van hums, hand tightening around my waist as he ducks his mouth close to my ear. I close my eyes.

"What do you want, Mills?"

The directness of his question should make it easier. He's opened the door and invited me in. I just need to walk through.

Somehow, the opening has the opposite effect, and I find my wants—and more, my words—paralyzed. Lodged in my throat.

I want to tell Van the truth—that I'm having very real feelings for him. Not new feelings either. A reprise of what I felt the very first night we met. Like the hope and the excitement and the rush of being around him simply paused all those months until it had a chance to breathe again.

Feelings that have nothing to do with Drew or my canceled wedding, and having everything to do with Van. Who he is. How he makes me feel.

And how I want to do the same for him. How I suspect from the things he's told me here and there, that people expect too little from him, and he lets them. That no one except maybe his sisters support him the way he's supported me this week.

But maybe I need more time. Big things aren't always easy for me to process in the moment.

Like when Mom died. My body felt like scorched earth, cracking but never releasing. I cried, sure—but it felt like I never could access the main area of grief. A few years later, I burst into tears at the gas pump when the screen asked if I wanted a car wash. A happy memory of Mom had bubbled to the surface, the two of us going through the car wash, "Bohemian Rhapsody" blasting through the speakers as we sang-shouted in our best singing voices.

I was crying too hard to drive home, and Morgan had to come pick me up. We left my car parked there overnight, and I wept on her couch until dawn.

Maybe I need space and distance to process. But for the first time in my life, I find myself wanting to be risky. Wanting to simply go for what I want. Wanting to speak up for myself.

"Here is your dessert." We scoot back from the table to give the waitress room, the moment broken as a single plate of dark chocolate ganache cake is set before us.

Van keeps his gaze on me even as the waitress lingers to refill our water glasses. But I can't bring myself to look back at him. Finally, when she's gone and it's just us and an untouched piece of chocolate cake, I clear my throat, testing my words.

They come out as a whisper. "I don't know what I want."

More like … I know what I want. But I'm scared to want it and even more scared to say it out loud.

He doesn't seem surprised. He doesn't seem hurt. Almost like he expected this to be too hard.

Instead, he nods once and says, "Tell me when you do. I'll be waiting," and then removes his arm from around my waist. But only so he can pick up his fork.

I do the same, though I'm disappointed with myself, disappointed with the lack of his touch. Disappointed that Van chose this time to give me space rather than to push me.

Even though it says so much about his character to give me what he seems to know I need.

But when I lean my thigh against his, he doesn't shift away. He gives me a sidelong look and smiles. Sweet. Not sad. Patient.

And when we get up to leave, I realize Drew and Becky left at some point without me even noticing them go.