Page 91 of Sparks Fly

We stayed there like that for a long time, the porch swing rocking gently beneath us while the evening deepened and the harbor turned darker beyond the trees.

Eventually I stretched my legs out in front of me and let out a soft sigh. “We should probably get dinner,” I said.

Sawyer groaned dramatically. “Can’t we just stay right here forever?”

I kissed her cheek and stood, tugging her hand so she followed.

“Come on, biker girl,” I teased. “Let’s go feed you before you start whining.”

She grinned as she stepped off the swing behind me. “For the record, I’d whine for you anytime.”

We walked down the street like that, fingers intertwined and shoulders brushing, until we found a small Italian place tucked between two old brick buildings. The windows glowed with warm amber light, and soft acoustic music drifted through the open door.

It wasn’t flashy, not the kind of place meant to impress anyone. But the polished wood tables, flickering candles, and quiet conversations gave it a charm that made it feel special.

The hostess led us to a booth tucked toward the back of the room, where the light was dim and the space felt private. A single candle flickered between us.

I slid into the booth still wearing Sawyer’s jacket

Looking across the table at her, I realized I couldn’t stop smiling. “This feels like a real date.”

Sawyer leaned back against the seat, one arm stretched along the backrest. “That’s because it is.”

We ordered red wine, rich and earthy, and while we waited for our food, I twirled the stem of my glass slowly between my fingers.

Then I looked up at her again. “Tell me something no one knows about you.”

She raised one eyebrow. “No one?”

“Okay, maybe not no one. But something you haven’t said out loud before. Something true.”

She went quiet. Candlelight flickered across her face as she looked down at her wineglass, her thumb rubbing the edge of her napkin.

“When my mom died, I idn’t cry at the funeral.”

After everything she had told me about her mother, I understood why.

“I told you that after my sister died, she stopped being a parent,” she continued. “She started drinking and never really stopped. Eventually, her liver failed. Even when the doctors told her the alcohol would kill her, she kept drinking.”

Her thumb continued moving over the napkin.

“She drank herself to death.”

My chest tightened.

“She was a mean drunk,” Sawyer continued. “Once, she told me she wished I had died instead of my sister.” She paused. “I was twelve.”

“Sawyer.” I reached across the table, took her hand, and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “I’m so sorry.”

She squeezed my hand. “Thank you.”

I wanted to ask about her dad, but she had already given me so much. Instead, I held on to her hand and let the silence settle between us.

“I’m afraid my mom will hate me,” I admitted. “The real me.”

Sawyer’s eyes lifted to mine.

“I think that’s why I’ve never let myself do this before. Benji came out when he was younger, but when he turned eighteen, my parents kicked him out. They didn’t speak to him for almost a decade. My dad eventually came around, but my mom only did because he fought for him.”