I stare into his green eyes as he glances from my eyes to my lips and back again, wondering whether or not to kiss me. I draw a shaky breath and force myself to look away, knowing I’m not ready for it to happen.
“It’s getting late,” I say, breaking the eerie silence between us, “I should get inside.”
He looks away from me, finally, then sits up, “Yeah,” he says, “Okay, sure. Have a good night.” He stands from the hammock and starts walking back toward his own cabin.
“Wait,” I say before I can stop myself. When he turns and looks, I practically choke, “Uh—Your sweatshirt, don’t you want it back?
“Keep it,” he replies, a smirk playing at his lips. “I’ve got more.”
I nod slowly, watching as he turns back around and walks away. Dammit, I’m such an idiot. I think to myself as I sit, now alone, on the hammock. Sighing, I stand as well, walking away from where we once sat comfortably together, but I do not go to my cabin. I walk down the beach, looking out over the dark waves as they roll over the shoreline.
I find the dock with ease in the darkening evening and walk to the very end, sitting down and dipping my toes into the frigid water. All I can hear is the water as it rustles past the rocks and boards of the dock, only to peacefully roll up against the shore a few seconds later.
A few minutes pass of me sitting in silence. Then, it’s interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the dock and a voice behind me that belongs to the curly haired boy who had minutes before, walked away from me on the beach.
“On second thought,” he says as he gets closer, “That’s my favorite sweatshirt.”
I smile, but force it away before I look at him. When I see his face, however, eyes glistening in the moonlight, I can’t help but let the smile slowly creep back onto my face.
Gently, I pat the spot beside me on the dock and he smiles and sits down. We sit in silence again, which is normal for us. Suddenly, I feel something touch my fingertips. I glance down to see his hand resting beside mine. He moves slowly, trying to intertwine my fingers with his, but I, instinctively, hesitate at his touch. Immediately, his hand stops moving.
All I do is stare at our hands, resting on the wood between us, wondering what it would be like if I let him continue and take my small hand in his stronger one.