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Eight
Arnold
We had our third date the next day. I fumbled with the trinket in my hands, a tiny ceramic frog with googly eyes that shook when I laughed. Agatha stood beside me, her chuckle warm and easy. "He's cute," she said, and I could only nod, glancing at her before quickly looking away.
"Like us," I managed to say, hoping the heat in my cheeks wasn't too obvious. Rufus wagged his tail, sniffing around the oddities of the shop as if he were on his own little adventure.
"Totally us," Agatha agreed, her hand finding mine, fingers intertwining.
We wandered, aimless and content—cafe to cafe, sipping coffee, sharing pastries. Each taste, sweet or tart, seemed to mirror the thrill of uncovering more about each other. The one who whispered sultry nothings into phones and the one who stacked books and dreamt alone. Draped over my arm was a picnic basket.
"Let's go to the park now and have lunch," she suggested, her eyes alight with the idea. The breeze played with her hair, and it felt like the world was urging us on.
"Sounds perfect." My heart raced. Was this what they called butterflies? Or was it something even more rare, born from the pages of the romance novels I read but scarcely believed could be real?
Rufus led the way, his leash slack in my hold as we headed toward the green expanse of the park. The sun draped everything in gold, and I mused silently how fitting it was for a day that felt like a treasure.
The grass welcomed us, the ground firm yet forgiving under our bums. We settled down, the sounds of distant laughter and the rustle of leaves composing the soundtrack of our afternoon. I unclipped Rufus and allowed him to roam free. He never went far.
"Here's to us," she said, lifting a sandwich as though it were a glass to toast. Her smile was infectious, her gaze a song I wanted to play on repeat.
"Here's to us," I echoed, the words strange and new on my tongue, a taste I wanted to savor forever.
Agatha unloaded our homemade feast, her laughter light and easy as she unwrapped the foil from a slightly charred quiche.
"Five-star cuisine." She winked, handing me a slice. "Only the best."
Biting in, I winced at the burnt taste but relished the effort. She watched anticipation in her deep brown eyes. She had apparently cooked it this morning, excited for our adventure.
"Delicious," I lied, thumbs up for emphasis.
"Let me try." She took a bite from her piece, grimacing playfully.
"Guess we won't quit our day jobs," I chuckled, reaching for a baguette that seemed less hazardous.
"Speak for yourself, Sodapop." Agatha grinned, buttering a slice with exaggerated care. "This is art."
"True, Angelcakes." I snorted, passing her the jam. "A masterpiece."
Her nose scrunched at the nickname, affection bubbling between us. We shared more bites, each flavor a discovery, each glance an affirmation. She fed me a strawberry, the sweetness bursting in my mouth.
"Who knew picnics could be such an adventure?" I said, munching on a celery stick. I was too afraid to try her muffins.
Legs crossed, we sat close, the ease between us a soft blanket of its own. Our hands touched, tentative still, exploring this new terrain. Rufus settled by our side; his contented sighs matching our own.
I packed away the last of our picnic, almost everything untouched except the fruit. Agatha reached for my hand, her fingers slipping between mine with ease.
"Let's walk," she said, a mischievous twinkle in her eye.
"Lead the way." My voice was a whisper, drowned out by the hammering of my heart.
We strolled down the winding path, our steps in sync. She hummed a tune, one I didn't recognize but joined in anyway, our voices clashing and mingling in the most delightful way. A peck on the cheek from her sent warmth spreading across my face, my lips brushing her temple in return.
"Arnold?" Her eyes were pools of joy.
"Agatha?" I mirrored her tone, playful.
"Race you to that oak tree!"
