Page 46 of Keepsakes and Kismet

“You ready to go home?” I ask, buckling my seatbelt.

“The question you should be asking is, ‘Are you ready to listen exclusively to music from the 1950s for nearly an hour?’ And my answer is a lukewarm sure.” She smirks.

I turn the key in the ignition, and the song we were listening to when we got here starts back up again: “I Could Write a Book” by Dinah Washington. The lyrics seem fitting for the two of us. I probably could write a novel about Peyton. The preface on how I met her is practically drafted already.

While Dinah croons in the background, Peyton spends the next fifty-minutes regaling me with hilarious stories about the chaos that ensued each time she picked the “wrong” Goodbye at a few of her former gigs.

It’s the best drive down Route 23 I’ve ever taken.

As soon as I park my truck outside her place, I unbuckle my seatbelt so I can walk her to her door.

But Peyton doesn’t make a move to get out of the truck. She sits and plays with the yarn dangling from her scarf.

I can’t get a good read on her. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” she says, but now she’s twisting her hair around her finger, which I’m starting to realize is a nervous habit of hers.

I don’t want to push, so I stay seated and say nothing. I’m fine with silence—comfortable, even—and I’m happy to sit here with her until she’s ready to go inside.

We both stare out the windshield. The street lamp is the only glow illuminating my truck. And when I look over at Peyton, my eyes linger on the burnt orange streak of light stretching across her collarbone. Not wanting to stare for too long, I wrestle my focus back to the building ahead of us.

When she starts speaking again, her words are so soft I almost miss them.

“I’m wondering if we could try again.”

“Try what ag—” I cut myself off. Because I know what she’s talking about. “You want me to touch you?” I swallow thickly, still looking straight ahead, not wanting to scare her with an over-the-top reaction.

She clears her throat. “Um, since that didn’t work out great last time, I was wondering if… I was wondering if I could touch you.”

I know my answer. But I slowly turn toward her, wanting to see the consent on her face. When our eyes lock, the sheer hopefulness in hers makes me dizzy. It feels like I could grab the tension straight out of the air between us and hug it to my chest.

“Yes, Pey.” My voice comes out low and throaty. “You can touch me.”

“Just your hand… I want to rest my hand on yours, if that’s okay. If I can.”

God, I hope she can.

“I promise not to hurt you this time. I’m buckled, see?” She points to her fastened seatbelt, giving me a weak grin. “Limited range of motion, so.”

I can tell she’s replaying what happened, and I don’t want her to feel bad about it. She’s not the sum of her negative experiences.

Trying to bring some light back into her eyes, I deadpan, “Don’t worry about it. After your attack, I read up on martial arts. According to an online quiz, I’m better prepared to defend myself against you now.”

“You are so fucking weird,” she mumbles between giggles.

The light teasing doesn’t last for long. When I turn down the music to a soft hum, she says, “So, how do you think this will go?”

“Are you asking if I think it’ll go good or bad?”

She shakes her head. “No, um, I-I think one of the problems before was that I never knew when I would be touched and in what way. It was always so… unexpected. And there was an unwritten rule that once I touched him, he’d get to touch me.”

I think I understand what Peyton’s asking. She wants to know what I’ll do once she initiates touch. No surprises. And I deeply relate to that feeling. Being prepared reduces my anxiety around my own potential triggers.

I nod, then say, “I’ll put my hand on the center console between us, palm down. After you rest your hand on mine, I won’t move unless you ask me. I’ll stay completely still until you’re ready. Then I’ll put my hand back in my lap.” I place my hand on the center console, exactly where I said I would.

She chews on her lower lip. “Okay. That sounds, um, good.”

I hold her gaze. “Peyton. It’s important to me that you know I’d never touch you without your permission.”