Based on and containing elements of "Want To" as performed by SugarLand. 

 

 

It’s past midnight, probably closer to two or three, and I’m exhausted.  But I can’t sleep.  Don’t really want to, for that matter.

 

If I lay here, still and quiet, I can listen to her breathing.  Every now and again, she’ll shift in her sleep, moving closer to me.  Her hair has come out of its ponytail and it’s tickling my nose, but I’m not about to move it.  That strawberry smell is something I never want to forget.  Whenever I take a deep breath, I can pick up on the vanilla scent of the body wash she used in the shower.  Those two smells combined – strawberries and vanilla – they’ll always remind me of her. 

 

Being right here with her . . . I don’t want to forget it, but at the same time, it floors me that we’re actually here together.  It’s surprising and amazing and scary and fantastic and strange all at the same time, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to get my mind to wrap around it.

 

How long has it been?  It has to have been at least twelve, maybe thirteen years . . . no, that can’t be right.  Surely it hasn’t been that long.

 

It seems like it was just yesterday that I was watching the moving truck unload next door.  We hadn’t been in Florida very long ourselves and I remember thinking it was weird that someone with such an old-fashioned taste would have so many kid’s things.  For every antique-looking piece of furniture that went through the front door, there was something that looked like it should belong in a little girl’s room.

 

Obviously, that should’ve tipped me off that there was a little girl . . . but I’ve never claimed to be a genius.

 

Stephanie Watson joined the neighborhood quietly, moving in to the house next to mine with her grandmother.  I can still picture her standing by the truck, biting her bottom lip and hugging this tattered looking teddy bear while my Mom talked to the older lady on the front porch.  She looked a little too old to have a teddy bear, but the expression on her face was so scared, completely out of sorts, and I figured that maybe she needed it.

 

Sometimes we all need a teddy bear, I guess.  No matter how old you get, there’s something comforting about knowing that you’ve got that one thing that’s familiar, whether it’s the feel of the worn fur or knowing exactly which eye is missing or being able to see where you’ve patched it up to cover the rips and tears.  Heck, when we first started out and went to Europe . . . there were a few nights when I think I’d have done just about anything to have my old teddy bear back.

 

Yeah, I’m a softie.  So what?  That’s what makes me so lovable.

 

Anyway, later that night, Mom told us about how Stephanie’s parents had been killed in a car accident up in Maine and how her grandmother had thought it’d be better to move off, get away from the area and start fresh.  Strict orders were passed down that we were not, under any circumstances, to give her a hard time.  She’d been through enough lately and didn’t need the older neighborhood kids causing her any problems.

 

We were never really friends – she was twelve, I was fourteen and that didn’t fly in our neighborhood – but I always knew that she was there.  She never said a word, just hung out in her own back yard, alone except for the puppy that appeared halfway through that first summer.  Then school started and she got on the bus with the rest of us, blending in until she was almost invisible, quiet as a ghost.  For months, people wondered if she even knew how to talk.

 

And it eventually caused her problems.  I can remember that she always sat alone on the bus, either reading a book or staring out the window until our stop.  I think I was a sophomore when a few of the kids my age decided they’d give her a hard time, ganging up on her and messing with her stuff, calling her names and making fun of her for being so quiet.

 

The look on her face was heartbreaking, those big blue eyes tearing up as she stared at them, almost terrified to make a sound.  Before anybody knew it, I’d pushed them all back and away, glaring at them in disgust as I helped her gather up her things.  The first thing I ever heard her say was a quiet “Thank you” that day on the bus.

 

After that, everything went back to normal.  She went her way and I went mine, nothing more than a quick “Hi” passing between us as we walked around the neighborhood.

 

She breathes deeply, turning over so that she’s lying on her back, her brow furrowing as she tries to get comfortable.  Every little movement makes the springs in the mattress creak, a sound almost as irritating as finger nails on a chalk board, but at least now I have a good view of her profile.

 

Yeah, we met as kids.  And we kind of grew up together, in a way.  Pretty much everything from before I left is fuzzy, but I do remember seeing her every now and again, in town and around the block.  But I never really thought much of it.

 

Now, I wish I’d paid more attention.  I wish I’d actually watched her grow up.  I wish I could say that I’ve known her like the back of my hand since we were teenagers.

 

But I can’t.

 

Just a little over a year ago, we bumped into each other at my grandma’s funeral.  I didn’t even recognize her when she came up and gave me a tight hug, that’s how much she’d changed.  Gone were the braces, pigtails, and pleated skirts she’d lived in as a kid, the shyness running off with them.  Everything I remembered about her had vanished.

 

Not that I’m complaining.  This version of Stephanie . . . yeah, I like it a little bit. 

 

As soon as it registered who it was that I was talking to, all I could do was stand there and stare, taking in the full picture . . . in the exact same way I’m looking at her right now.

 

She’s taller, of course, and her hair is longer, sandy brown with subtle highlights from being constantly outdoors.  Her attitude has pulled a complete one-eighty, going from shy and withdrawn to outgoing and confident.  That little girl who’d duck her head and whisper a greeting has . . . well, blossomed, for lack of a better word.  Kind of like the whole caterpillar-butterfly morpha-meta-whatsis process thing.  Now she’s a woman who is sure of herself and she made that clear as she moved around the funeral home, greeting old faces with a hug and meeting new ones with a smile and a strong introduction.

 

Her wardrobe has changed, fitted pants, skirts and blouses taking the place of the frumpy clothes she used to wear, making it clear to the world that she’s far from having a little girl’s figure.  The knee-socks and penny loafers her grandmother forced on her have disappeared, high heels and panty hose taking over and showing off fantastic legs that seem to go on forever.

 

The freckles that used to overtake her pale cheeks are gone, either having faded into oblivion or becoming masked by the glow of her natural tan.  Her skin is clear, smooth, and if the smile and laugh lines hadn’t appeared with her change of expression, I’d have thought she was porcelain.  Those awful braces she used to have to wear have been removed, leaving her with an absolutely killer smile.  You know, one of those smiles that just makes you want to smile back even if you’re having the worst day of your life.

 

Even now, staring at her, I can’t honestly say that I’d call her gorgeous, but I’d certainly say that she’s beautiful. 

 

Except for those eyes.  Her eyes are definitely worthy of gorgeous status. 

 

That’s probably the only thing that hasn’t changed about her.  She’s still got those big blue eyes that scream for you to drop everything and spend a little time with her, get to know her better, make sure everything’s all right in her world . . . protect her.  The kind of eyes that make a guy want to stick close to her and get her to want him to stay that close.

 

Okay, so I like this version of Stephanie a lot.

 

We only talked for maybe ten minutes, then she was off and talking to my mother, giving her a big hug and apparently saying the right thing . . . it was the first time I’d seen Mom laugh all day.

 

I didn’t see her again during the service, and I was scheduled to be on a plane the following day, rushing back to finish up the last month of shows and all the post-tour media blitzing before heading back into the studio.  But right before I left, Mom smiled and passed me a little slip of paper . . . Steph’s number.

 

“Stephanie was on her lunch break and had to get back to work, so she didn’t have time to catch up with you yesterday.  She wanted me to give you this, said for you to give her a call when you could.”

 

So, yeah, I called her.

 

Who am I to ignore the phone number of a pretty girl?

 

And it’s comments like that one that make me sound exactly like the player the media portrays me to be.

 

That’s not me.  So just pretend I didn’t even think it.

 

Anyway, I called her . . . and I fully expected it to be one of those quick, maybe twenty minute calls where we give the Cliff Notes version of the past umpteen years, then say we’ll talk to each other later, but neither of us ever gets around to it and that’s that.

 

But that’s not how it went down.

 

That first call . . . I think it was right after one of our shows in New York, but I could be wrong . . . well, it lasted for over an hour.  A little after midnight, she actually fell asleep, her steady breathing carrying over the line.

 

Now, I have to say that that was a first for me. 

 

I’ve dealt with shrieking girls . . . even if that was mostly because Justin was standing right beside me.  Crying, screaming, passing out . . . even laughter I can handle no sweat.  It’s common in this business.  So are the random girls calling the hotel room.  That number gets leaked out and you end up with an endless stream of women making those provocative calls that are supposed to make you curious enough to take them up on whatever they’re offering you.

 

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not innocent by any man’s standards.  I’ve played along with those phone calls, laughing under my breath as I got the faceless female all worked up only to hang up on her.  I know, it sounds mean, but what do they expect when they pull crap like that? 

 

But boring a girl to sleep on the phone . . . that’s a new one.

 

For about five minutes, I just laid there in my bunk and listened to her breathing, trying to decide whether or not I should be laughing over the whole thing.  Finally, I flipped my cell closed and stretched out on the blanket to smile at the carpeted ceiling above me until I fell asleep.

 

After the next night’s show, I found a voicemail message from her.  She sounded appropriately embarrassed as she tried to explain that it hadn’t been me, she’d just been exhausted, slipping in apologies all around.  Overall, it was a really cute message.  I think it stayed on my phone for at least a month, ready to play whenever I needed a boost or wanted to smile.

 

We played phone tag for about a week before she finally caught me again. 

 

Thus began the pattern.  Once a week, we’d catch each other and take an hour to sit back, relax and talk about whatever.

 

She told me about her life, where she was and where she wanted to be in the future.  Her grandmother had passed away a few years earlier.  There was a fiancé in the picture – Ben, the architect and workaholic.  She taught second grade and was taking classes three nights a week to try and finish her Master’s, aiming to teach high school English.  Home was a little house in one of the suburbs of Orlando that she shared with two ferns and a stray cat.

 

Of course, there really wasn’t much to share about myself . . . all the basic stuff has been hashed out in thousands of interviews and articles over the years.  So rather than give my own life story, she would simply pull out information that was reported and confirm whether it was the actual truth or if there was more to the story.  It was an awesome feeling, knowing that there was somebody who didn’t take the stories at face value, who was interested in knowing what was behind the answers. 

 

Especially concerning all those articles that made me out to be a Hugh Heifner in training.  I’ll be the first to admit that I love women, I love the chase and I love dating.  I’ve been through several relationships and just as many break-ups, some easy and some rough, most of which were reported as if it was simply more proof that I’m restless and not ready to settle down.  But here she was, giving me the opportunity to explain that it’s nearly impossible to keep a relationship alive when you’re hardly ever in the same place for more than three or four days at a time.

 

Being reduced to conversations over the telephone, even if it’s every night, doesn’t do much to keep any kind of serious relationship alive, dating or otherwise.

 

I think I probably know that better than anybody.

 

And that’s why it was so surprising that Steph and I hit it off so well.  Maybe it was because we weren’t face to face, or maybe it was because we both needed an ear, even if it was only to gripe about seven-year-olds and cancelled dinners or exhaustion and lying tabloids.  I don’t know why, exactly, and I don’t expect that I’ll ever figure it out.

 

Our conversations were a safe harbor, a place where we could vent to somebody who was completely removed from the situation at hand.  Now, I love the guys more than anything – they’re my brothers – but when it comes right down to it, we’re all griping about the exact same thing.  And after a while, you really don’t want to hear about it anymore, especially when you’re living the same life they are.  Just like her closest friend is a fourth grade teacher . . . the complaints are basically the same and other teachers really couldn’t care less if you’re having a hard time, because they’re at the end of their rope, too.

 

After a few months, we were so comfortable talking to each other that no topic was out of bounds.  She listened to me rave about how awesome it was to get to meet people like Janet Jackson and the President, then I’d give her time to growl about what a headache her Advanced Literature class was becoming.  She’d gush over one of her kids, how bright little Jessica was that day in class.  I’d gripe about one reporter or the other putting words in my mouth and not letting me get my point across.

 

There were times that I had days off while I was in town and we made it a point to go to dinner whenever we were able.  No expectations, no hidden messages or vibes . . . we were simply two friends enjoying a meal together.  Every time we met, it was either a Monday or Tuesday – Fridays and Saturdays were set aside for Ben, just in case he was available.  We always arrived separately and paid our own way, steering clear of all the high-class restaurants that drew the camera flashes and fans to choose little hole-in-the-wall places where nobody would assume anything.

 

During those dinners, it was almost like we’d always been friends, like we knew each other inside and out.

 

Then another tour started and it was back to the old telephone.  But this time, it was easier to imagine that she was right in front of me. She spoke with her hands a lot, her demeanor changing with the topic of conversation.  It got to a point where I could picture her facial expressions, visualize the postures and gestures that accompanied the different tones she would use.  We could be on opposite ends of the country, but at the first sound of her voice, it was like she was right there on the bus or in the hotel room with me.

    

About three months ago, she decided that she’d finally had enough of Ben and broke the engagement. 

 

To be honest, I was glad she’d taken the initiative and walked away.  From what I could see, he’d never done much more than let her down, anyway.  He was always canceling their plans, walking out on dates or completely blowing her off, not even bothering to show up at all.  His family made her uncomfortable, with their larger-than-life homes and servants and formal dinners where she knew better than to open up and voice her opinion.  He’d stopped making her feel welcome, forcing her to accept that she wasn’t a necessity to him in any way, shape or form.

 

All that was reason enough to end it, but when she told me that she’d caught him cheating on her with the president of his agency’s daughter . . . I very nearly lost control of my tongue.  Her voice was quavering as she said that she was giving him another chance and I really wished that I could reach through the phone and gently tap some sense into that pretty head of hers.

 

Turned out I didn’t need to.  Three weeks later, he canceled another date and she canceled the relationship.  Then she called me, doubting whether she’d done the right thing and worried that she’d just screwed up her life in a major way.  I stayed quiet, knowing that she didn’t need any interruptions, and let her get it all out.

 

But when she started crying . . . I realized the limitations of having a telephone friendship.  It tore me up that this woman that I felt I knew so well was to the point of not being able to do anything but sob over the line and I couldn’t do anything more than offer her the usual verbal reassurances.

 

I wanted to be able to hold her and comfort her.  At that moment, she needed someone to make her see that she was better off without him.  She’d grown so accustomed to his routine that she’d forgotten that she was still a beautiful, funny, smart, creative and amazing woman who deserved much better than what he’d given her.  Someone needed to remind her that she was far from being out of the game, that she still had time to find a guy who’d give her everything she needed.

 

She needed somebody to give her a big hug and show her that it was okay, that everything was going to be fine and that she was more than strong enough to make it. 

 

And I was stuck on a tour bus two thousand miles away, unable to do anything about it.

 

The faint light from the hallway is angled so that it illuminates her face slightly in the darkness, allowing me to see her features finally relax into the peaceful mask of deep sleep.  My fingers itch to reach up and feel the softness of her lips and cheeks, maybe comb through her silky hair.  But I know better.  As soon as she felt my touch, she’d be awake, looking at me with those big blue eyes of hers.

 

You know, looking at her now, it’s hard to believe that she was such a wreck that night all those weeks ago.  Once she got those first tears over with, it was like she’d made a promise to herself that she’d never cry over him again.  A smart decision in my book.  He didn’t deserve for her to waste a single tear on him, let alone lose it like she did.

 

After that, things went back to normal, the only difference being that she never brought his name up again.

 

Not that I minded that in the least.

 

Time passed, as it always does.  The tour came to an end and we decided to take a break for a month or so before we headed back to work on whatever the next project would be.

 

Then she called, excited that Spring Break was coming up, telling me about how she was going to make a drive up to Maine, to visit the little town she’d been born in and check on the family property that she’d inherited.  The trip would take about a week . . . she’d be leaving Saturday morning, stopping along the way at several of her favorite attractions, and arriving there on Thursday.  Two nights at her family’s cabin, then she’d head out bright and early the next Saturday, making a straight shot back down to Florida.  If all things went well, she’d be back late that night, giving her Sunday to rest and get her bearings back for classes to resume on Monday morning.

 

Let me interject here and tell you that I have a tendency to be very protective over the people who are close to me.  That being said, it shouldn’t be a surprise that I was concerned when she said that she was making the entire twenty-two hour drive on her own.  The world isn’t exactly the safest place.  There are all kinds of weirdoes and crazies out there who’d absolutely love to do awful things to a nice young woman.

 

I don’t care that she’s twenty-five and probably perfectly capable of taking care of herself.  There are some pretty rough areas between Florida and Maine, and if she decided to stop in one of them . . . just the thought of what all could happen to her made my skin crawl.

 

So I offered to come with her.  I needed a vacation and this way I could see the place she’d called home before her parents had died.

 

I’m so glad that she agreed and let me ride along.  Over the past couple of days, I’ve made a whole slew of memories that I’ll always be able to look back on and know that I was able to spend time with one of the most amazing people I’ve ever known.

 

The drive up was fun, filled with jokes and laughter and some of the best diner food I’ve ever eaten, but nothing could’ve prepared me for our arrival in Drakes, Maine late Tuesday afternoon.  The town is a pretty little place sitting right on the coast and the family property we were going to see was actually a small beach front house, not even a stone’s throw away from the crashing waves.  The view from the front porch . . . well, I’ve never seen anything quite like it.

 

Absolutely gorgeous.

 

But to tell you the truth, I highly doubt that the scenery of the beach will stand out much after this trip.  Nothing that’s already happened or could happen on the way back will be as vivid as my memory of tonight.

 

I can’t imagine ever forgetting it.

 

We were sitting out on the beach, stoking a small fire, watching the moon rise over the waves.  She’d brought a strange-looking box out with her, planting it in the sand between us, and had spent much of the time sitting there silently, staring at it.  As the stars began to appear, her fingers tightened on the corner of the box lid, quietly asking me if I’d help her as she raised the heavy wood.

 

Inside the box, resting on the soft lining of padded velvet, were two urns, one large and one small.

 

She reached in and pulled out the smaller urn, the corners of her mouth turning up just a fraction as she ran her fingers over the smooth ceramic jar.

 

“I promised Grams that I’d bring her home one day.  We’d planned to come back a few years ago, but she got sick and couldn’t make the trip.” 

 

Very carefully, her trembling fingers had worked to loosen the seal and handed the ceramic lid to me before she stood and moved out into the beginnings of the surf.  For a few seconds, she just stood there, staring at the moon, then she took another step out and turned the urn over, sending the ashes floating down to the water, being washed away immediately by the tide.  She stooped down and let the water run into the jar, cleaning out every last trace of ash, before turning around and coming back to me.

 

The lid was tightened and the urn was placed back into the box, the trembling of her hands doubling as she reached for the larger piece of pottery.  She picked it up, cradling it against her chest before turning to face me.

 

“Mom and Dad spent so many nights out here, watching the stars and listening to the waves break.  They used to call it their own little corner of Heaven.  I . . . I think it’s time that I finally let them come back home.  The house requires a lot of upkeep and with the taxes on water front property going up  . . . I can’t handle the expense anymore.  Part of me wishes I could keep it, if only to hang on to a piece of my parents.  But a larger part knows that it’s best to let it go.” 

 

Her voice had died away, leaving us standing there in a quiet more still than I’d ever heard.  Even the waves seemed to mute themselves, showing respect to the end of a family’s legacy.

 

“They loved it here.  It was home.  They grew up, met, married and died here.  It’ll always be special to me . . . but my home is in Florida.  And it seems wrong to keep them there when I know they belong here.” 

 

She’d kept one hand on the jar, the other reaching out for mine, looking for any support she could get while doing this most difficult thing.  I followed her out into the water and stood by her until she finally let go of my hand to remove the lid. 

 

“Mom, Dad . . . you’re finally home.” 

 

With that quiet whisper of welcome, she took a deep breath and let their powdered remains fly.  Once the ashes were gone, she resealed the urn and let it slip from her fingers to splash into the water.

 

Immediately, I moved to catch it before the surf could pull it out to sea, but her hand settled over my shoulder and held me still.

 

“Let it go.  That urn kept them together for thirteen years.  It belongs here just as much as they do.”

 

I turned to look at her, the moonlight reflecting off the tears streaming down her cheeks.  When the first sob escaped I reached out and pulled her to me, not caring that we were up to our shins in surging water.  Her arms went around my neck and she buried her face in my shoulder, crying quietly as she let herself let go of the past.

 

We stayed like that for a while, until she felt comfortable enough to raise her head and whisper a quiet “Thank you”, almost exactly like she had on the school bus all those years ago.

 

Only this time . . . she kissed me.

 

Of course, this raises the million dollar question:  did I kiss her back?

 

You bet I did. 

 

But we’re not talking about one of those kisses you see in the movies, where they’re standing out in the moonlight and the chick tries to wrap herself around the guy while he’s got his hands all over her butt and looks like he’s trying to suck her lips right off her face before he picks her up to carry her off for a quickie in the sand.

 

Ugh, that sounds . . . awful.  Cheesy.  Not to mention that sand is really gross when you . . . never mind.

 

No, we weren’t reenacting any of those movie moments.  There were no tongues, no clinging, no groping, no sucking of faces . . . nothing that could be mistaken for a precursor of any kind.

 

This kiss . . . this first kiss from Stephanie . . . it was perfect.  It wasn’t forced or uncomfortable or awkward or any of the things that a first kiss usually is.  Unless you consider that I’m usually the one that makes the first move, then it was a little bit odd, but I really didn’t mind that in the least.  It was . . . refreshing, I guess.  I’d never had a woman take the initiative to make that first gesture without being forward and obviously out for something else.

 

And that’s what made it so memorable.

 

I’ll never forget the softness of her lips, how she tasted like a mix of ocean air and salty tears, how her arms tightened around my neck or that smile she gave me after she pulled away.  It wasn’t that killer smile that I’d been on the receiving end of so many times, either.  This smile . . . it was softer, a slight curving of her lips that complemented her thoughtful expression.

 

Now, like most people, I’ve had a few mind-blowing kisses in my lifetime, and I hadn’t counted on a kiss from Steph to rate that high on the list.  But I found out differently.

 

Watching her gaze move over my face until her eyes met mine, I was surprised to feel that queasy, ticklish feeling that I hadn’t felt in more than ten years settling into my stomach.  For a few seconds, it felt as if I’d been transported back to one of those high school parties and had just been matched up with the gorgeous head cheerleader during a game of Seven Minutes in Heaven.

 

I stood there, staring into her eyes, not even realizing that we were still hugging each other – in water that was rapidly approaching knee-level – desperately trying to find something . . . anything to say.  But the only thing I drew up was a complete blank.  So, for lack of words, I smiled in return, squeezed her tightly, and kissed her forehead before taking her hand to lead her back to where we’d left the box.

 

Her sigh carries loudly through the dark silence, then she rolls over and into my arms, exactly as she did last night.  And just like last night, she snuggles her cheek against my chest, her arms coming up to hug around my neck before settling right back down. 

 

At that feeling of her lying against me, I can’t help but give a series of quiet thanks.  For the moths that had eaten through the material of the couch.  For both of us being tall enough that our feet hung off the end the bed she’d slept in as a child.  For her refusing to let me sleep on the floor, claiming that the last thing I needed was to spend two nights on the cold, hardwood flooring throughout the house.  Of course, I’d made the same argument in her case.

 

So we wound up sharing the queen-sized bed in the master bedroom.  And I’m much more comfortable with it than I ever thought I would be.  In fact, I haven’t been this relaxed, this content in a long time.  I’ll have to remember to thank her for that.

 

If I said that I’d never considered this whole thing as a possibility, I’d be flat-out lying.  I’ve been saying all along how beautiful and amazing she is, so it’d be rather idiotic for anyone to figure that I’ve only thought of her as a friend this entire time.  Several times over this last year, I’ve thought about what would happen if something more came of our friendship.

 

But there were always complications.

 

First, there was Ben.  No matter what any reporter says, I respect the bonds of engagement.  I’d never be so cruel as to break up a happy couple so that I could have my own pleasure met.  Even though they were obviously not a happy couple, I still kept my distance, refusing to be any part of the demise of that relationship.  He did well enough with that on his own.

 

Second, I’m not exactly able to offer her the most stable ground to build anything.  We’re always on the road or in the studio or doing promotional work or . . . well, you get the picture.  I’m not around enough to really make a serious go of it with her.  I don’t have the time to give her the attention that she needs.  I can’t give her a guarantee that I’ll be there when she needs me.  And that in itself is enough reason for me to back away and forget it.

 

She should have a guy who can be there for her, who can take her out anywhere she wants to go without worrying they’ll get mobbed, who can just drop everything and do all the things that any normal couple would do.  There’s absolutely no reason why she should have to watch what she’s doing for fear of the cameras catching her doing something that could be seen as questionable. 

 

And she should have someone who can take the time to surprise her with flowers delivered to her classroom, the hand-written card leaving no doubt in her mind that she’s thought of, that somebody cares for her.  Someone who can prove to her that no matter where they are, as long as he’s with her, then he’s at home.

 

All things that I just can’t do right now.

 

There are so many reasons it wouldn’t work, and they should be enough to make me to drop the entire fantasy, but my mind strays to other thoughts instead.

 

Laying here, looking at her peaceful face, I wonder if she even knows that she likes to be held when she sleeps.  And that makes me wonder if she’s ever had anybody who wanted to be the one holding her all night.

 

Like I do.

 

I know I shouldn’t even be thinking along those lines.  There’s so many ways that I’d let her down, disappoint her . . .

 

She deserves a better man than I am, needs much more than I can give her.

 

But even knowing that can’t keep me from wanting to be the man for her. 

 

I want to be the one that makes her feel safe, the one that gets to see that smile first thing in the morning, the one she knows is a shoulder to cry on.  I want to spend forever laying with her knowing that she’s perfectly comfortable with me, wearing one of my shirts over her pajamas and wanting me to hold her close because the blanket just doesn’t do enough to keep her warm.  I want to keep this sense of home that comes over me whenever she’s with me, to take it everywhere I go.

 

Everything in me knows it’s impossible, but I want to be the one she needs.

 

To channel Cheap Trick . . . I want her to want me.

 

It sounds crazy, I know.  Almost like that fluffy stuff some of the fans write about on the fan fiction web sites that Lance finds so funny.  You know, that whole love-at-first-sight, picked-her-out-of-the-crowd-at-the-concert, fell-in-love-with-the-gas-station-attendant, gag-me-with-a-spoon story line that always begins normal and ends with kisses and rings and babies and . . . and happily ever after or some crap like that.

 

Come on, people.  Get real.

 

Justin – or JC or Lance, for that matter – isn’t a prince, the princess isn’t the girl who checked us in at the Hilton and Britney Spears isn’t the psycho wicked witch.  Justin knows how to play the diva better than anybody I’ve ever met and I can think of at least one time that he’s dated something like three girls at once.  JC snores like a Mack truck, laughs like a hyena when you really get him going and is no stranger to the one night stand.  Lance . . . yeah, let’s just say it takes hours to give him that choir boy, super model look and if you catch him at the right time, you’ll hear him saying things that’d make Satan himself blush.  The girl at the Hilton was really a guy and he was old enough to be my granddad.  And Brit’s actually a really nice girl . . . maybe not exactly sane, but we can overlook that.

 

Sorry.  Got a little carried away there.

 

Anyway, the point I’m trying to make is that I’m not even considering the whole wedding bells, rings and promises stuff.  I’m having trouble convincing myself to go beyond the friends stage, so the very idea of looking ahead to something of that extent is absolutely insane.

 

I’ve loved her as a friend for the past year and . . . as clichéd as it sounds, while I know that I love her, I don’t think I’m in love with her.

 

Not yet, anyway.

 

But right now – feeling her deep breathing across my collar bone, shivers running all over my body with each exhalation – I know it wouldn’t take much for me to fall for her. 

 

And that could be very dangerous territory.

 

Hard as it might be to believe, I’m not a dreamer.  I know very well that this is real life and there isn’t always a happy ending.  I’ve been through enough break-ups to have that point driven home and hammered in place.  There’s a risk in every romantic relationship . . . you stick your neck out every time you let yourself grow attached to someone.  There’s always the possibility that one will begin to love while the other just wants to walk away, that it’ll all come crumbling down no matter how hard you try to make it work.

 

With Stephanie, I get the feeling that if I let myself fall for her, if I let this friendly love between us grow into something more . . . I may not be able to recover from this one if it falls apart.  If we try it and it’s as awesome as I think it could possibly be, if I let myself get lost in loving her only to have to watch her walk away . . .

 

She could be the one that ruins me.

 

We’re talking permanent emotional damage here.  Scarred for life.

 

I know all of this and my mind is screaming at me to be sensible about the whole thing, to look at it realistically, but at the same time, I can’t deny that it wouldn’t take much on her part to convince me to throw all caution to the wind and go for it.

 

Sure, there are problems that could surface, but for every problem, there’s a positive.

 

Contrary to popular belief, I’m a faithful guy, something she hasn’t had in I don’t know how long.  I’d never cheat on her . . . the exact opposite of that loser Ben.  She’d be taken care of . . . and I might even get to spoil her a little bit.  My name comes in handy every now and again, I’d be able to take her places she’s probably never been before.  I’d rather die than know I hurt her and I’d never make her cry.  Dates might not be regular, but they’d definitely be worthwhile.  I’d get to see her smile, hold her close and kiss her senseless.

 

She’d get to see exactly what it means to be mine.

 

The bed creaks when she shifts again, her arms tightening around me as she stretches out, staying against me as she moves her head so that she’s resting on the pillows directly in front of me.  With a deep breath, she relaxes once again, her fingertips just barely brushing my neck.

 

All I have to do is look at her and I know without a doubt that I want this.

 

I want to see what it’s like to be hers.

 

But I really don’t know if I could ever tell her.

 

We’re leaving in the morning, going back to the car and separate hotel rooms on the way home.  Back to the friendship.  Back to standing on the sidelines.  Back to wondering if we could’ve worked through the problems, if maybe we could’ve had something amazing with each other.

 

I don’t want that to happen.  But I also know that if I don’t get the nerve to say something while we’re here, obviously comfortable with each other . . . then I never will.

 

How will I ever know if we’re a possibility if I can’t even ask her how she feels?

 

I let my eyes shift, skipping over her, memorizing each feature until I lock on her mouth.  No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to pull myself away, obsessed with the soft upward curve of her lips.

 

Something tells me that the kiss out on beach . . . it was supposed to mean something.  Maybe she was trying to tell me something.  She’s never looked at me that way before . . . but what if it really didn’t mean anything?  What if she was only trying to be appreciative, friendly?

 

No way.  There’s absolutely no way she was trying to be friendly.  She’s too picky for that.

 

But what if I’m reading way too much into a moment that didn’t mean all that much to her?

 

My chest heaves with a frustrated sigh and it’s almost like my body goes on auto-pilot.  Before I know it, I’ve tightened my arms around her and leaned forward so that my forehead is against hers.  And there’s a childish voice echoing through my head, triple-dog-daring me to kiss her again. 

 

Just like in A Christmas Story, where the one kid is daring the other kid to put his tongue against the lamp post or whatever in the middle of the playground and the kid is stupid enough to do it and his tongue gets frozen to the metal.

 

God, I hate that movie.

 

But I like the idea of kissing her, even if she is asleep.  If she doesn’t know it’s happening, then she can’t turn me down.

 

It’s not smart, but if I’m careful, maybe she won’t wake up, won’t be any more the wiser.  She won’t know the difference and things will stay the way they are.  No awkwardness.  No weirdness.  We can go on being us without watching everything we do.

 

And so I raise my chin, moving that fraction of an inch so that I can brush my lips over hers, so softly I’m not even sure it actually happened.

 

I guess I’d better do it again.  You know, to be sure I didn’t imagine it.

 

This time, there’s no doubt, because I can taste the mint flavor of the toothpaste she used before coming to bed.

 

I should pull away, I know I should, but this is my chance.  If I can say it now, then I should be able to say it when she’s awake.

 

My eyes drop closed and I force the words out, my lips moving against hers with every syllable, not daring to speak louder than a whisper.

 

“If we try, there could be so much more between us, Steph.  We could be something amazing.  But I don’t want to if you don’t want to.”

 

One last kiss and I’ll back off, see if I can’t finally fall asleep.

 

Yeah, right.  Fat chance of that. 

 

If I keep watching out the window, I bet I’ll be able to see the sun coming up over the ocean.  Or maybe I’ll just spend the next few hours trying to get the courage to actually say it when she’s able to answer me.  Either way, at least I’ll get to watch her waking up in the morning.

 

I let my lips touch hers once more, but as I’m starting to move back, forcing myself away from her, I hear her sigh and her hand moves from my neck, her fingers sliding into my hair to hold me still, and her lips are moving under mine . . .

 

She’s kissing me back.

 

Wait . . . she’s kissing me back?

 

She’s kissing me back!

 

Surprised, I jerk away a few inches, my eyes flying open to meet hers, looking over me in the same way she did out on the beach, that smile on her lips once again.

 

For a few minutes, we just stare at each other.  I don’t know about her, but I really haven’t a clue what to say.

 

She laughs softly and shakes her head, letting her fingers comb slowly through my hair, scratching along my neck as she moves her hand to my shoulder.  Those blue eyes study me carefully before she leans forward so that our foreheads meet once again, her gaze locking on mine.

 

“I want to.”  The words are barely louder than a whisper, but I can hear her loud and clear.  “I want us to be something amazing.”

 

A pause settles for a second, our breathing the only sound in the room, and the more my mind races, the more I feel like I should warn her of what she’d be getting into.

 

“Steph, are you absolutely positive?  I’m gone seventy percent of the time.  We’re back in the studio in two weeks.  I . . . I can’t give you any guarantees . . .”

 

“I don’t need guarantees.”  Her hand squeezes my shoulder.  “I just need to know that you’ll be there when you can.  We’ll work out the rest.”

 

I shake my head, moving hers along with me.  “You deserve much better than what I can give you.”

 

“I think you’d be surprised at how much you’ve already given me.”  She moves away, turning her head and reaching back to pull my arm around until we can both see our hands, her palm pressing against mine to flatten it out.  Her expression is serious when she focuses on me again, lacing her fingers through mine and giving my hand a squeeze.  “It might be a little rough at first, but we can make it work.  I know we can.”

  

Then she says the words that make every last doubt fly away.

 

“Right now, all I want is you, Joe.  No guarantees, no promises or anything like that.  Just you.”  Questioning eyes search mine.  “Can you give me that?”

 

We could be standing on a stage in the middle of Madison Square Garden, with a packed house and cameras broadcasting every move we make to billions of people around the world . . . all that still wouldn’t be enough to stop me from kissing her this time.

 

And they’d be getting quite a show, too.

 

I break away just enough to grin at her.  “Just me, huh?”  She nods quickly.  “I think I can handle that.”

 

Her fingers release my hand and she laughs as her arms hug around my neck, pulling me back to her.  “Good.”

 

Hmm.  Okay.  So maybe this one does end with a kiss.

 

Or maybe it's beginning with one.

 

Yeah, yeah.  I know this isn’t fiction.  It’s real life.

 

But hey, I never said it absolutely couldn’t happen, did I?

 

Go right ahead and roll your eyes, but I’m gonna enjoy this.

 

Immensely.