7. Evie

7

EVIE

T he night is quiet, but my mind won’t stop racing. I’m lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, but all I can think about is her—Sasha. The conversation we had after the poetry event plays over and over in my head like a song stuck on repeat. The way she smiled when she talked about writing, how her eyes sparkled when she mentioned New Orleans, the way her voice dipped slightly when she said my name for the first time. It’s all there, vivid and insistent, tugging at me in the stillness of my bedroom.

Usually, after these poetry nights, there’s a sense of closure. The words have been spoken, the poets have left, and the air in the bookstore is heavy with a kind of lingering calm. Spoken poetry has always had a special appeal to me because of its transience. It’s fleeting, something that happens in a moment and then vanishes, like smoke dissipating into the night. You can’t keep it. You can’t hold it. You can only experience it as it happens and then let it go.

But tonight feels different.

I can’t let go of Sasha’s words. I keep replaying her poem in my mind, trying to recall the exact phrasing and the rhythm of her voice as she spoke. Her words were like glass—delicate but powerful, fragile but cutting. She talked about walls, about love breaking us and rebuilding us, and there was something so raw, so intimate in the way she shared that part of herself. It wasn’t just the poem itself; it was the way she delivered it, the way her voice trembled ever so slightly at the beginning but grew stronger with each line.

I wish I had the paper in front of me now, wish I could trace the ink with my fingertips and memorize every word. I want to hold onto it, to keep it close, to let it wash over me again and again. But more than that, I want to hold onto how she made me feel. There was something electric between us, something I haven’t felt in a long time. It was like being struck by lightning, the intensity of it both exhilarating and terrifying. I’ve spent so long keeping my heart guarded, afraid of letting anyone in again, but with Sasha, those walls I’ve built feel like they’re crumbling. And for the first time, I’m not trying to stop them from falling.

I roll over onto my side, pressing my cheek into the cool pillowcase. My thoughts keep drifting back to the way Sasha looked tonight: her dark hair falling in loose waves around her face and her lips curving into that soft, almost shy smile whenever she caught me looking at her. She was confident on stage, but there was also a vulnerability there, something that drew me in even more.

I close my eyes, trying to push the thoughts away, but instead, they intensify. I imagine what it would be like to kiss her, to feel her lips against mine, soft and warm. The thought sends a shiver down my spine, and I feel a heat building low in my stomach. It’s been so long since I’ve let myself want someone like this, but with Sasha, the desire is undeniable, almost overwhelming. I can’t stop thinking about her—about the way her skin might feel beneath my fingertips, the way her body might move under mine.

I let out a slow breath, my heart beating faster as the images in my mind take over. I imagine running my hands through her hair, feeling its softness, tugging her closer until our lips meet. I wonder what it would be like to taste her, to let my tongue trace the curve of her lips before deepening the kiss. The thought sends another rush of warmth through me, and I shift slightly in bed, trying to find a more comfortable position as the tension coils tighter inside me.

I can almost feel her now—her breath against my skin, the warmth of her body pressed against mine. The thought is intoxicating, and I can’t help but let my mind wander further. I imagine the feel of her beneath me, her skin smooth and soft, her body arching as I kiss her neck, her collarbone, trailing my lips lower until I find the places that make her gasp.

My breath quickens as I think about how she would taste, how her skin would feel warm and sweet against my tongue. I can see it so clearly in my mind—Sasha, lying beneath me, her chest rising and falling with each breath, her eyes half-closed in pleasure. I can hear the soft sound of her moans, feel the way her body would respond to my touch, the way her fingers would dig into my skin as she pulls me closer.

The thought is almost too much to bear, and I can feel the heat pooling between my thighs, the need building in intensity. But it’s not just physical. It’s something deeper than that—something emotional, something that scares me, even as it draws me in. I want to touch her, yes, but more than that, I want to know her. I want to explore the parts of her that she’s kept hidden, to uncover the things that make her who she is. I want to understand the way her mind works, to trace the lines of her thoughts like I would trace the lines of her body.

I open my eyes, staring into the darkness of my room. My heart is still racing, my skin tingling with anticipation, but there’s a sense of calm beneath it all. It’s strange, this feeling, this mix of desire and something else, something softer and more vulnerable. I’ve spent so long avoiding intimacy, so long keeping myself closed off from the possibility of love, but with Sasha, it feels different. It feels like maybe, just maybe, I’m ready to let someone in again.

I can’t stop thinking about her—about the way her eyes lit up when we talked, about the way she listened so intently, like every word I said mattered. I’ve never met someone who made me feel so seen, so understood, and it’s both thrilling and terrifying.

My fingers graze my lips as I imagine kissing her again, the softness of her mouth against mine, the way her breath would hitch as our bodies pressed closer. I want to touch her, to taste her, to feel the heat of her skin against mine.

I let out a soft sigh, rolling onto my back and staring up at the ceiling once again. The tension in my body hasn’t lessened, but there’s a peace that comes with it now—a sense of rightness, of inevitability. Whatever this is between us, it feels like something worth pursuing, something worth risking my heart for. And that’s not a feeling I’ve had in a long time.

As my mind drifts further, I can’t help but wonder what tomorrow will bring. We’re meeting for coffee, but I already know it’s going to be more than that. There’s a connection between us, something unspoken but undeniable, and I’m ready to see where it leads. I’m ready to let myself feel again, to let myself want again. And for the first time in years, I’m not afraid of the possibility of getting hurt.

I close my eyes, letting the warmth of the sheets cocoon me as sleep begins to pull me under. But even as I drift off, my thoughts remain on her and the way she made me feel tonight. The way she made me feel seen, understood, desired. I fall asleep dreaming of her, of her lips on mine, of her skin beneath my hands, of the way her body might taste, warm and sweet against my tongue.

And as I slip into sleep, I know one thing for sure: This is just the beginning.

“And that’s exactly why I can’t stand him,” Sasha says with a grin, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she takes a sip of her coffee.

I can’t help but laugh, shaking my head in disbelief. “You’re kidding, right? How can you not love Walt Whitman? The man practically reinvented poetry!”

Sasha leans back, a sly smile pulling at her lips. “Oh, come on. He’s a little too self-indulgent for my taste. All that ‘Song of Myself’ stuff—it’s like, we get it, Walt. You really like yourself.”

I feign shock, putting a hand over my heart. “Take that back! ‘Song of Myself’ is brilliant! It’s about the universal human experience, the connection between all of us.”

Sasha arches an eyebrow, clearly enjoying this. “Or it’s just one long love letter to himself. Seriously, Evie, the man wrote an entire collection called Leaves of Grass . That’s not just a poet; that’s someone who spends way too much time admiring himself in the mirror.”

I laugh again, shaking my head as I lean forward. “You are impossible. Fine, if you want to dismiss one of the greatest American poets, that’s on you. But at least tell me you don’t have the same problem with Sylvia Plath.”

Sasha smirks, leaning in as if she’s about to reveal some big secret. “Oh, Sylvia. Now there’s someone who knew how to write about the dark stuff. But?—”

I gasp, cutting her off. “But?”

Sasha raises a finger, pretending to be serious. “Hear me out. I love Sylvia Plath, I really do. But sometimes…don’t you think she’s a little too bleak? Like, I get it, life sucks, but does it have to suck that much?”

I let out a dramatic sigh, leaning back in my chair. “Sasha, you’re killing me here. Plath is all about raw emotion. She doesn’t sugarcoat anything, and that’s what makes her work so powerful. It’s unfiltered; it’s honest. It’s human.”

Sasha chuckles softly, clearly enjoying herself. “I’m not denying that. I just think, maybe, just maybe, a little bit of light at the end of the tunnel wouldn’t hurt.”

I can’t help but laugh at that, shaking my head as I sip my coffee. “Okay, fine. If Plath is too bleak for you, who’s your go-to poet? The one who gets it just right?”

Without hesitation, Sasha answers, “Maya Angelou. Hands down.”

I nod, relief washing over me. “Finally, we agree on something. Maya is a goddess.”

“Right?!” Sasha’s face lights up, her hands gesturing excitedly. “She has this perfect blend of strength and vulnerability. She writes about pain, but she also writes about resilience. ‘Still I Rise?’ That poem is a masterpiece.”

I smile, leaning in a bit closer. “And the way she uses rhythm and repetition, it’s like her words stick with you, like a melody you can’t get out of your head.”

Sasha leans forward too, lowering her voice like she’s about to share a secret. “Did you know she was also a calypso singer? I mean, seriously, is there anything she couldn’t do?”

My eyes widen in surprise. “Wait, I didn’t know that! She was a singer?”

Sasha nods, grinning. “Yep. She had a whole career before she became a writer. She even recorded an album.”

I shake my head, laughing softly. “That woman was unstoppable.”

We both settle back in our chairs, taking a moment to enjoy our coffees, and there’s this quiet comfort between us, like we’ve known each other for far longer than we have. But then, Sasha grins again, mischief flashing in her eyes.

“Okay,” she says, setting her cup down with a satisfied look. “So we’re on the same page with Maya Angelou. But what about prose? Tell me you’re not one of those people who’s obsessed with James Joyce.”

I groan, rolling my eyes. “Oh god, Joyce. Don’t even get me started. Ulysses is like the literary equivalent of torture. Sure, it’s impressive, but who actually enjoys reading it?”

Sasha bursts out laughing, nodding in agreement. “Exactly! It’s like, ‘Congratulations, you read 700 pages of stream-of-consciousness nonsense. Here’s a migraine for your efforts.’”

I nearly spit out my coffee from laughing so hard that I have to set the cup down. “Yes! I’ve tried to read it three times, and every time I end up questioning my life choices.”

Sasha wipes away a tear from laughing so hard. “See? You get it. People only pretend to like it because it makes them sound smart.”

I raise my cup, still laughing. “To the truth. We’re just here for the good stories, not to impress anyone.”

Sasha grins and clinks her cup against mine. “Cheers to that.”

The conversation flows effortlessly. We start trading stories about the authors we love and the ones we just can’t stand, laughing so hard at times that the baristas shoot us a few amused glances. Sasha and I talk over each other constantly, each of us building off the other’s ideas, the banter sharp and quick but always playful.

“Okay,” I say, leaning forward with a grin. “Serious question: Austen or Bront??”

Sasha raises an eyebrow and pretends to think deeply, tapping her chin dramatically. “Hmm, that’s a tough one. Austen is the queen of witty dialogue, but Bront?, she’s got that whole dark, brooding, Byronic hero thing going on.”

I nod, a playful smile tugging at my lips. “True. But I’ll take Mr. Darcy’s smoldering looks over Heathcliff’s tortured soul any day.”

Sasha snorts, covering her mouth to hide her laugh. “Darcy is the original ‘tall, dark, and handsome,’ but let’s be real, he’s kind of a jerk at first. Elizabeth Bennet had to do some serious emotional labor there.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “But that’s what makes it satisfying! She puts him in his place, and he actually grows as a person. Heathcliff, on the other hand, is just…irredeemable.”

Sasha concedes with a nod. “Okay, fair point. But if we’re talking dark and brooding, Bront? still wins.”

We both laugh, settling into the kind of conversation that feels like a dance—fluid, energetic, full of unexpected turns but always in rhythm. We challenge each other’s opinions, but there’s no edge to it. It’s all in good fun, and every time Sasha counters one of my points, I can’t help but admire her quick wit.

Time passes without us noticing, the light outside shifting from late afternoon to evening. It is a good thing I left Ken manning the desk. He is closer to eighty than he would ever admit, but he happily covers the counter when I need a break.

The coffee shop has grown quieter now that most of the customers are gone, and the baristas are starting to clean up around us. But Sasha and I are still locked in conversation, our cups long since emptied, but neither of us ready to end the moment.

Her green eyes are sparkling and I can’t tear my gaze away from them.

I look at my watch and let out a soft laugh. “We’ve been here for hours. I think the baristas are ready to kick us out.”

Sasha chuckles, glancing around the nearly empty shop. “Yeah, I think we might’ve overstayed our welcome. But this was really fun.”

I smile, feeling a warmth spread through my chest. “It was. I can’t remember the last time I had a conversation like this.”

Sasha looks at me, her eyes softening for just a moment, and then she grins again. “Well, you better get used to it because I’ve got a lot more opinions to share.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “I’m looking forward to it.”

As we stand and gather our things, there’s a quiet understanding between us. This isn’t the end of our conversation; it’s just the beginning. And I can’t help but feel excited about what’s to come.

We walk to the door, still talking and laughing, and for the first time in a long while, I feel like I’ve found something special.

As we step out into the cool evening air, the playful banter between us begins to taper off, replaced by a sudden, quiet awareness of the moment. The sounds of the city hum around us—distant streetcars clattering, a soft breeze rustling through the nearby trees, and the occasional laughter of people passing by—but it all feels muted. Like the world has faded into the background, leaving just the two of us standing there, inches apart.

I tuck my hair behind my ear, feeling the familiar awkwardness creep in as the conversation lulls. This is the part I’m never good at: the ending. I don’t know if I should hug her, shake her hand, or just wave awkwardly and make a quick escape. My mind starts to race through all the possibilities, and suddenly, I’m hyper-aware of how close we’re standing.

Sasha is still looking at me, her lips curved into that soft, teasing smile that I’ve grown so fond of in just a short amount of time. But there’s something else in her beautiful green eyes now—something deeper, more intense. It sends a little thrill through me, and I feel my heart rate pick up and my breath catch in my throat.

“Well,” I start, my voice a little shaky despite my best effort to sound casual, “this was really nice. I had a great time.”

Sasha doesn’t say anything at first. She just watches me, her eyes flicking over my face, taking in every detail. Her smile fades slightly, replaced by a more serious expression that makes my stomach flip with anticipation.

“I did too,” she finally says, her voice low and soft. She steps a little closer, her presence warm in the cool air.

There’s a moment of silence, one of those charged pauses that makes the air between us feel thick with possibility. My mind is racing, trying to figure out what to do next. Should I just leave? Should I say something?

But then Sasha makes the decision for me.

Before I can overthink it any further, she closes the small distance between us. Her hand finds its way to the back of my neck, her fingers threading gently through my hair. There’s no hesitation in her movement, no awkward fumbling. Just a quiet confidence that makes my breath hitch.

And then, before I can even process what’s happening, her lips are on mine.

The kiss is soft at first—gentle, almost testing—but there’s an underlying intensity that makes my whole body tingle with warmth. My initial shock melts away almost instantly, and I find myself leaning into her, my hand instinctively reaching for her waist, pulling her closer.

Everything I had imagined alone could never have prepared me for the real thing.

Sasha’s lips are warm and soft against mine, and the world around us seems to disappear entirely. There’s nothing but the feel of her mouth moving against mine, the way her breath mingles with mine, the way her hand tightens ever so slightly in my hair. It’s like the tension that’s been building between us has finally snapped, and all I can do is give in to the pull.

I lose myself in the kiss, letting it deepen as my hands slide up to her shoulders, my fingers pressing into the soft fabric of her jacket. She responds in kind, her other hand slipping around my waist, pulling me closer until there’s barely any space between us. The kiss grows more intense, more urgent, and I can feel the heat building between us, the electricity crackling in the air.

It’s everything I didn’t know I wanted.

When we finally pull away, breathless and a little dazed, we’re both smiling—soft, nervous smiles that betray the excitement still buzzing between us. My heart is racing, my cheeks flushed, and for a moment, all I can do is stare at her, my mind still trying to catch up to what just happened.

Sasha’s eyes are locked on mine, her hand still resting gently on the back of my neck, her thumb brushing the edge of my hairline. She looks just as breathless as I feel, her lips slightly swollen from the kiss, her gaze heavy with something that makes my heart skip.

“I’ve been wanting to do that all day,” she says softly, her voice a little husky, a playful smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

I laugh softly, biting my lip as I look up at her. “I’m glad you did.”