I saw her sitting alone on her porch, wrapped in a blanket, watching the storm. I walked through the rain to her. “You’re soaked,” she said. “Share the blanket.” I answered. She lifted it. I sat beside her. Our shoulders touched. We listened to the rain without speaking. Then she looked at me and whispered, “If you ever want to see, just ask.
” This time, I did not look away. I leaned forward slowly, and when our lips touched for the first time, soft and careful, I did not even blink. For the first time in years, my chest did not feel tight. My thoughts were not loud. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying the way her lips felt against mine.
soft, careful, like we were both stepping into something fragile and new. I got dressed and stepped outside to grab the newspaper from the end of the driveway. Diane was standing by her mailbox. She was holding a stack of envelopes against her chest. Her hair was pulled back. She looked beautiful in the simple way she always did, but something was off.
Her smile was gone. Her shoulders looked tense. “Morning,” I said, trying to sound normal. “Morning, Jake.” Her voice was polite. Too polite. I waited for her to mention the kiss to smile the way she had last night under the storm, but she did not. I took a step closer about last night. She cut me off gently but firmly.
We should probably forget that happened. It felt like someone punched me in the stomach. Forget it? I asked. Diane, that wasn’t a mistake. At least not for me. She looked down at the ground. A car drove slowly past us and she followed it with her eyes like she was hoping to disappear with it.
It’s not that I didn’t feel something, she said quietly. That’s exactly the problem. Quote, I felt frustration rise in my chest. Then what is it? This neighborhood, she said. People talk, they watch. You’ve seen it. I can’t handle that again. Again? I asked. Before she could answer, a black sedan pulled up to the curb in front of her house. The engine turned off.
A tall man stepped out. Gray hair, expensive suit, the kind of confidence that feels forced. Diane went still beside me. “Lawrence,” she said. The name sounded heavy. He walked toward us slowly like he had all the time in the world. “I was in the area,” he said smoothly, thought I’d stop by. His eyes landed on me. He looked me up and down, taking in my jeans and work boots.
And you are Jake, I said. I live next door. He held out his hand but barely touched mine when I shook it. Lawrence Mitchell, he said. An old friend of Dian’s. The way he said friend made my jaw tighten. Diane shifted uncomfortably. You didn’t tell me you were coming. I don’t need an invitation, he replied. Something about the way he looked at her made my stomach twist. It was not love.
It was control. You always did have a soft spot for projects, he said to her, glancing at me. People you think you can fix. I stepped forward. I think you should leave. He ignored me completely. You really want the neighborhood whispering again? He continued. You remember how that went? Dian’s face went pale.
Lawrence, please, she said quietly. He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. Well talk later when you’re thinking clearly. He got back into his car and drove off like he had just planted something ugly between us and was satisfied to leave it there. The street felt too quiet. “I’m sorry,” Diane said without looking at me. “Who is he?” I asked.
