Just One Kiss - J. Saman Page 0,36

off the space heater. So instead I walk her up the stairs, kissing her forehead and unsure where to take her.

I want to take her into my room. I want to put her down on my bed. I want to tuck her in under my blankets. But I also don’t want to presume or push her or whatever the fuck goes through girls’ minds.

I’m not good with this stuff. Never have been.

Loving someone has only led to pain, and though I know that’s ultimately where this is headed, I don’t want her to know how far gone I already am, have always been, with her. It’ll scare her, and I can’t have that.

I’m on borrowed time as it is.

Decision made, I bring her back to the bedroom she slept in last night, setting her down and kissing her lips as I tuck her in. “I’m going to be outside, clearing out some of the snow so it’s easier to manage tomorrow or the next day. Okay?” I ask. She moans softly, rolling over. “I’m only putting you in here because it felt like the right thing to do by you, but tonight, I want you to sleep in my room with me.”

She doesn’t make a sound to this, so I kiss her forehead again and leave.

Betsy greets me at the garage door, already knowing my intention as I climb into all my winter gear. I step out into the three-bay garage and glance over quickly at London’s Porsche. It has a nice dent in the front on the driver’s side, and I’m curious why the airbags didn’t deploy. That’s likely why she hurt her head.

She won’t be able to drive it up to her parents’ house, and the thought of her driving herself in a rental car makes me sick. I could let her take my SUV, but the truth is, I want to take her. Make sure she gets to her family safely, but then what? Do I just turn around and leave her there?

The thought of leaving her twists like a knife in my gut. Though I knew better before I ever touched her, the thought of losing her already hurts so much more than anything else has before. Because even if she asks me to stay, she’ll eventually return home and I’ll do the same.

The garage doors are not powered by the generator, so I tug on the emergency open cord, hoisting it up and pulling the door open. Betsy goes flying out into the show, the way she always does, and I wheel the huge snowblower I have out, cranking it up with a deafening roar.

I push thoughts of London leaving out of my head.

I learned long ago that I can’t control the things others do. I can only control my reaction to them. I didn’t fight for London the first time. I never thought I was entitled to. But if I let that woman walk out of my life without a fight this time, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life and I already have enough of those.

Tucking the hood of my coat down lower over my beanie, I push the machine out into the deep, heavy snow. It’s coming down harder now than it was even last night and it’s not supposed to let up until tomorrow afternoon.

By then, we could easily have more than three feet of snow.

I plow out my driveway and the long walkway that leads from the street up to my front porch. By the time I wheel the snowblower back inside the garage, corral Betsy in, and step back into the house, I’m a nasty mess, reeking of gasoline.

I dry Betsy off with a towel I leave back here for her and stomp off the excess snow on the mudroom floor. After hanging everything up, I head into the main part of the house only to stop dead at the vision before me. London is wearing a green sweater and flannel pants, her long hair twisted up on top of her head in some kind of bun. She’s moving about my kitchen, making herself at home - as she cooks, listening to Christmas music as it pipes in from the speaker on her phone.

“Hey,” she exclaims, a radiant smile lighting up her face. “I figured since you’ve been doing all the cooking and snow plowing, I should make us some dinner.”

I stare unmoved, blinking like a mindless fool.

She tilts her head, some of that smile slipping. “Is