“Just thought I’d ask.”
Then, before we can revisit the levels of ‘too crazy to believe’ I am or am not comfortable with this morning, my stepfather opens the sliding glass door and steps inside. “That’s the one,” he tells me, pointing his finger at me. “This one is good. This one I approve.”
“Um, thanks?” I suppose that’s promising. He never told me he didn’t approve of my ex, but he also never went out of his way to say the opposite.
“You’re welcome.”
I can’t not love how seriously he takes me in these moments. And just like that, his attention moves to my mother. “Are you done with the stove? I want to make some eggs.”
“It’s all yours.” She steps aside, picking up her cup of tea on the way.
“I guess if you’re staying in here, I’ll go out there and keep Knox company.” It just seems like the proper thing to do as a host. Then I march for the door before my parents can make any other comments, amusing or otherwise.
Left on his own, Knox has perched himself on the steps leading down to the dock. He’s got his coffee in one hand, a pen in the other, and he’s scribbling away in a journal, humming to himself as he does.
Same as me, he’s still in his pajamas, though I notice he’s got a baseball cap pulled over his head backwards, tucking away his long hair while he writes.
Not wanting to interrupt him, but also not walking back inside now that I’ve seen him in his morning element and have asudden need to soak in his presence and everything he’s about, I slowly and quietly lower myself to the step and have a seat beside him.
He sees me as soon as I move into view of his peripheral vision, I can tell because the corner of his mouth curves even as he keeps his eyes on the paper he’s writing on. Once his train of thought seems complete for the moment, he lowers his pen to the paper and turns toward me, instantly moving his hand into my hair to the back of my head to bring me in for a kiss. He’s definitely here forall of this.
“Good morning,” he murmurs before pressing his lips to mine a second time.
“Morning,” I mumble back a few seconds later as we’re pulling away. Forget coffee. Waking up to make out with Knox is so much more efficient and satisfying, not to mention more delicious.
“I found Hannah in the pantry when I got up,” he tells me, lifting his mug to his mouth to take a sip. “She was sleeping. Think maybe she wandered in last night and accidentally shut the door on herself. Took us a few minutes of getting better acquainted, but she finally let me help her get turned around and out of there.”
“Thanks for helping Hannah.” I smile, cradling my own cup of coffee with both hands and just enjoying every aspect of this moment, the comforting scent of coffee included. Which reminds me. “And for starting the coffee maker.” A girl could get used to this. “What are you working on?” I ask before my brain tries to remind me how fleeting these perfect moments could turn out to be. Maybe it’s not my brain. Maybe it’s just my heart, still running scared. Either way, I’m tuning them both out and going with my gut, my spirit, whatever the hell you want to call it. I can feel it there, in my soul, in the deepest part of myself, that I can trust this. That I can trust him.
He turns to scan his writing before he answers. “Not sure yet. I just had this melody stuck in my head when I woke up and came out here to play around with it. Usually, I’d just pick up my guitar and start playing it, see how it evolves.” He grins like he’s just made an inside joke, only I’m not in on it. “But it’s the darndest thing. It seems I left my guitar on the bus the night we met.” He shakes his head, still grinning at me. “You know I’ve never done that in my life? Not once since I started playing. That damn thing goes with me wherever I go, like it’s a physical part of me.”
“Huh.” I take a drink of my coffee to hide my expression which I’m sure is giving way to utter delight. “Thatisthe darndest thing. How do you think that happened?”
He chuckles. “Beats the hell out of me. Must have been having some sort of out of body experience or something.”
“Or something.” I have another sip though there’s no point in trying to hide my stupid big smile at this point.
“It’s a real shame too.” He goes back to eyeing the lyrics he started jotting down. “Pretty sure this song begging to be played is about you.” Then he folds the journal shut and sighs. “Oh, well. Guess we’ll never know.”
I gasp. “What? You can’t say something like that and then just take it away!”
He laughs. “Kenley, I wouldn’t be surprised if every song I sing moving forward has your name written all over it.”
On that note. “I should tell you something.” That came out way more seriously than I thought it would.
He notices too. His laugh fades pretty quickly and a frown moves in over his usually carefree face instead. “What’s up?”
I twist my fingers nervously. It’s dumb to get this anxious over something he’ll probably laugh at. Or hell, he may even be flattered by it, but I can’t help it. “I kind of never thought I’d have to have this conversation,” I admit.
“Babe, whatever it is, you can just tell me.” He adjusts the way he’s sitting so he can face me better and I suddenly feel terrible for making this sound like I have a horrible, life-changing secret I’ve been keeping from him.
“It’s embarrassing more than anything,” I try to shift his worries a bit. “I mean, I’m hoping I’ll just be embarrassed, and you’ll just have a laugh. I guess it could go in a few other directions. You could decide I’m a psycho and run out of here with nothing but your pajamas. I mean, I already made you forget your guitar. This would be motivated by different feelings, of course, but I’d still be the source of them, so...”
The longer I ramble on, the more I notice he’s starting to smirk again. “Kenley, spit it out.”
I take a moment to hold his gaze, finding comfort in his blue eyes and the way they always seem to see beyond the veil I show the world. Then, I squeeze my lids shut, sigh, and say, “I sort of already wrote about you. In a story. A couple of times. Not that it was really you, obviously, I didn’t know you, I couldn’t write about you. But I did write a character I can’t deny was very much inspired by you, or at least the ‘you’you portray to the world. Which, I have to tell you, is actually pretty spot on to the real you, just you know, fewer layers of you. Though, the versions of you I wrote, and thought were fiction are turning out to be eerily close to the real deal.” I’m out of breath. It’s probably good to stop here anyway.
I wait for some sort of response. Only when I hear him chuckle do I dare to open my eyes.
