Bananapants: A Bonkers Romantic Comedy

“And what excellent boiled potatoes.”

— Pride and Prejudice (2005)

Iwasn’t avoiding Des.

However, I could understand if he thought I was. The problem was my family. Actually, the problem was almost everyone but Des and me.

People kept pushing us together and then leaving us alone. My aunt Ashley feigned dizziness and dragged me over to the living room couch where Des was sitting, talking with her husband, my uncle Drew. She forcefully pushed me on to the middle cushion—next to Des—then sat on my left for one minute before jumping up, telling her husband they had an important matter to discuss, and then leading him away. Likewise, everyone else had suddenly vacated the room.

Exasperated and flustered, I’d also left.

Similar situations continued all afternoon. According to my aunt Sandra, only Des and I were allowed in the kitchen to peel the apples for pie and we weren’t allowed to leave until they’d been skinned and chopped. Later, my father sent the two of us on a wild-goose chase to the community garden to pick tomatoes even though there were no tomatoes.

Still, he’d insisted, saying, “No, no. I’m certain I planted the new variety of spring tomatoes that’s all the rage in Luxembourg. Or was it Pangaea? Go and have a look. Fetch plenty. Don’t come back without them.”

Subtle, these people were not.

Only my mother and Des’s parents didn’t find ridiculous reasons for us to be alone together. My mother had never been one to be obvious about her maneuverings and Des’s parents seemed genuinely too shocked by his presence to do much other than look confused and happy.

Well, Des’s mom looked confused and happy. Des’s dad didn’t wear his expressions in public. He wasn’t a cold guy, he was reserved and didn’t usually speak unless someone asked him a direct question. Thus, the fifteen minutes Des stayed in the same room with his dad were spent with the two big men standing next to each other, not looking at each other, and saying absolutely nothing.

Frustrating.

Later, when I found myself alone with Desmond outside at our wooden picnic table, everyone else either having found a reason they suddenly needed to go back inside the house or dragged away by someone else, I wasn’t particularly surprised. But also, I wasn’t exasperated anymore. I was whatever happened after exasperated. Tiredly conceding defeat and surrendering to my fate, perhaps?

Whatever it was, I resignedly glanced at Des. He sat far away, diagonally from me, and had recently taken a bite of his hamburger, chewing while mildly glancing around the backyard.

Unlike me, he’d taken the whole afternoon of antics in stride. Every time we’d been left alone, he’d rolled with it. At no point had he seemed even the tiniest bit bothered or awkward. Apples were peeled without complaint, and nonexistent tomatoes were dutifully sought. He’d even tried to make impressively polite small talk with me during the walk to the community garden, asking about movies I’d seen, places I’d traveled.

My answers had been succinct, one word, if possible. Each of the tepid, short conversations were devoid of sarcasm, humor, and personality. And at no point had he and I traded commiserating or meaningful looks. If I dwelled on it, I wasn’t sure if he’d met my eyes directly since we’d left the basement.

I’d been frosty. He hadn’t. He’d been perfectly indifferent. And, wow, let me tell you. Indifference really hurt. I mean, it hurt like a motherclucker, pecking away at all that armor I’d built around my heart in preparation for his arrival today. One good thing had come out of all the hurt, however. After today, I would truly let him go. I never wanted to feel like this ever again.

“They’re cute,” I said to myself from my spot at the wooden table, referring to the miscreants who’d finally left us alone. Again. Rubbing my chest to ease the tightness in my heart, I sighed at my sandwich. The bread was rye instead of pumpernickel.

Rye was fine for some people, but I vastly preferred pumpernickel. I knew my preference for pumpernickel got me in trouble sometimes, but I couldn’t help it. I wanted what I wanted and I couldn’t pretend bread substitutes were okay with me. If I can’t have pumpernickel, maybe I don’t want a sandwich at all!

“Terribly misguided and delusional, but cute,” I muttered under my breath, still irritated with my parents and their friends. Suddenly, I had no appetite.

Glancing up again, I found Des’s eyes on me. He must not have been expecting me to look up at that moment because his gaze darted away, down to his food, to the left, and then returned to mine slowly, full of indifference.

This was stupid.

Okay, yes. He didn’t want to know me. Fine. But I had him here now. Maybe this was the last time I saw him for the rest of our lives. Did I really want these moments to be spent with me being frosty and him being indifferent? Part of being an adult was learning how to get over hurt gracefully. He didn’t care. I did. So what? Nothing I could do about either of these truths.

What I could do was take maximum advantage of the situation. I could talk to my old friend, maybe see his smile once more, maybe hear him laugh. I could take a mental snapshot of both to keep tucked away for when he disappeared again. Maybe we could even share a proper goodbye. Not for him—since he didn’t care—but for me.

Picking up the sandwich I didn’t want to eat, I scooched down the bench until I sat directly across from him. He followed my movements with his eyes, which were still distant with indifference.

I thought about taking a bite of the inadequate rye bread in order to have something to do with my mouth. But I found I wanted to talk to him, hear his voice before he disappeared again. It didn’t matter what we discussed.

So I said the first thing that occurred to me. “Hey. Remember that magician who came for your seventh birthday party?”

Des’s expression showed no surprise or outward reaction to the question. “Yeah.”

“Do you still keep in touch with him?” I opened the top of my sandwich and picked up a pickle slice. I would eat the sandwich innards without the bread. Bread was overrated. Lots of people lived happy lives without bread.

“No.”

“Hmm.” My eyes on Des, I ate my pickle. Pickles were good. Some people preferred pickles to bread.

He glanced at me, features entirely impassive. “Why?”

I picked up another tasty, tasty pickle. “My friend is having a birthday party for her middle kid and I thought he’d be perfect, if he’s not retired.”

Des nodded. “Ah, I see.”

“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to do it?” Smirking, I thought about kicking him under the table playfully. I didn’t. Instead I chewed my tasty pickle and decided that maybe I would live my life breadless by choice.

“Me?” No change in expression, but he did sound mildly curious.

“Yeah. You might need to practice a bit if you’re rusty, but you learned all his tricks, correct? All that sleight-of-hand stuff.” I made nonsensical movements with my arms and hands as though I might reveal a pigeon or pull a coin from behind his ear in the aftermath. “You were so good at it, I thought that’s what you might eventually end up doing.”

His eyes tracked my hands and seemed to grow sharper, brighter at the ridiculous moves. His lips firmed. “What? Playing kids’ parties? Being a magician?” He was trying not to smile. What a cute dummy.

I hate that he’s still so cute when he smiles and when he tries not to smile.

“Maybe. I dunno.” Turning back to my sandwich, I inspected the rye, once more deeply mourning the lack of pumpernickel. But I’d get over it. I would persevere. “Like I said, you’d already mastered all his tricks by the time you were eight. You were basically already better than he was. A sleight-of-hand master, never getting caught.”

“Until I did get caught,” he mumbled darkly, pushing his empty plate away. He’d already eaten all his food.

Without giving myself a chance to second-guess the question, I asked, “Why’d you do that, by the way? You were such a little delinquent.”

I chuckled at the memory of a thirteen-year-old Des stealing my brother’s wallet, putting three condom packets inside, and returning it to Jack’s back pocket without once breaking eye contact or halting the flow of conversation. My dad found the condoms and was very—and loudly—proud of his twenty-one-year-old son, buying Jack a cake that said, Congratulations on Making Good Choices decorated with faux condom wrappers made out of fondant and frosting.

Meanwhile, as of today’s date, there existed no evidence that Jack had ever actually had a girlfriend, or boyfriend, or personfriend, or situationship. My brother guarded himself like he was an illegal state secret and all other humans were whistleblowers.

Des’s attention was fastened to some spot behind me and his voice struck me as bored when he responded. “I like it, and it’s one of the few things I truly excel at doing.”

I thought about his response, and my first instinct was to disagree. Des had been good at so many things. He’d been amazing at drawing, sketching any space or building to scale by sight, gifted in anything related to body movement—dancing, martial arts—and anything related to languages and accents. He used to memorize full conversations or the details of books he’d been truly interested in and never lost his sense of direction, no matter what. We’d gone to a huge theme park in Florida with our moms when we were kids. He’d studied the map once and then became our tour guide, taking us to our destinations via the most direct route like he’d been there a hundred times.

Ultimately, though, I decided Des’s response to my question made sense. He’d always been remarkably excellent at sleight of hand and stealing things, no denying that. Likewise, he’d never thought of himself as smart since he’d always struggled in school. In his mind, he probably believed stealing things was his only talent as a kid.

It made me sad, but I wasn’t going to argue with him. Nor would I ask what he did for a living now. Uncle Dan had advised me earlier today, when I’d told him Des would be coming, to ration my questions. He’d also said I shouldn’t be surprised if my old friend simply didn’t answer at all. I counted myself lucky to get at least this response out of adult Des.

Thus, I said only, “Huh.” Well then. Mystery solved.

Turning back to my sandwich, I found I’d eaten all the pickles. I picked up a tomato slice and ate that. Tomatoes were also good. They were healthy, a lot healthier than bread.

“What?”

My eyes snapped to his at the sharp question. Des had propped his elbow on the top of the picnic table, his index finger lightly rubbing his upper lip as his gaze seemed to search mine.

“Pardon?” I asked.

“Huh.” He mimicked the sound I’d made earlier. “What does that mean?”

“Uh, it means, I guess, your answer makes sense.” I shrugged. “If a person likes to do something, and they’re exceptionally good at it, it makes sense they’d want to do it.”

His eyebrows pulled together. “It makes sense? Me stealing things makes sense?”

“Yes. Correct.” I nodded, busying myself by rolling the second slice of tomato, Swiss cheese, and roast beef inside the lettuce. I would use lettuce to keep my sandwich together, but not as a substitute for pumpernickel. There was no substitute for pumpernickel. I knew that in my soul.

Des made a short sound of disbelief, then mumbled, “You’re unbelievable.”

Instinctively, I pulled a face and said, ‘I think you mean, you’re understanding. Or maybe, outstanding, perchance?”

He made another short noise, this one more like a laugh.

My chest twisted at the sound, so I didn’t glance up. I did give in to my small smile though. But then, as I brought the rolled-up lettuce, tomato, cheese, and roast beef to my mouth for a bite, the tomato slid out.

Huffing, I unrolled the lettuce, placed the tomato back inside, and rolled it up again. I lifted it, the tomato slithered out once more, plopping onto the plate. I growled. This would never happen with bread, especially not pumpernickel.

“Having some trouble?” Des asked.

I ignored him. Clenching my jaw, I repeated the action—unroll, tuck the tomato inside, reroll—and again, the tomato departed the lettuce the moment I brought it to my mouth, this time taking the cheese with it. Oh, the humanity!

“Gah! ‘That’s your home! Are you too good for your home?’” I asked the tomato, using my Adam Sandler voice.

Des made another noise and, without thinking, I looked at him. His fingers mostly obscured his mouth, but I could tell by his eyes and shaking shoulders that he was laughing.

“Are you laughing at me?” Again, without thinking, I quoted Happy Gilmore. “‘You’re in big trouble though, pal. I eat pieces of shit like you for breakfast.’”

Without a pause, he responded with the correct quote. “‘You eat pieces of shit for breakfast?’”

I tried to hold back my answering laugh, but instead made a snorting sound, causing Desmond to laugh harder, which, you guessed it, made me laugh harder. And, my goodness, did we laugh. We laughed and laughed, especially when I brought my hand up to cover my mouth and then realized it was covered in tomato juice, juice I’d just smeared on my face along with a few slimy tomato seeds.

“Ack!”

“HA!” Des, now pointing at my mouth and laughing, didn’t even offer me a napkin.

Still laughing uncontrollably, I kicked him under the table, fighting to get words out. “Give me your napkin, dipshit.”

Instead of helping, he snatched his napkin away and crumpled it, holding it high over his head. Clearly out of my mind, I stood—as much as one can stand when trapped by the bench of a solid wood picnic table—and leaned across the tabletop, trying to grab his arm.

“Keep your hands to yourself,” he said even as he surrendered his arm. “Don’t get that slime on me.”

Making a big show as I sat, I ignored the napkin in his fist and gripped his arm between us, dramatically wiping my wet fingers up and down the hair of his forearm.

“Ava!” he protested but made no move to take his arm back.

“That’s what you get!” Maybe taking things a little too far, I lifted his wrist and wiped it across my mouth and chin to gather the slimy tomato seeds I’d inadvertently smeared there earlier. Relinquishing him with a flourish, I made sure to snag his napkin before letting him go.

Smiling like the doofus I loved, he held his arm apart from his body. “At least give me the napkin back.”

“If you want it, take it.” Daintily, I dabbed at the corners of my mouth with the crumpled paper, but also lifted one leg over the bench and settled my foot on the grass, ready to sprint if he decided to nab the napkin.

Gaze fastened to where I dabbed at my mouth, he braced his hands on the table and began unfolding himself from the bench. “Fine. I will,” he said, his tone threatening.

I squeaked and a shot of electric, fun adrenaline brought me to my feet. Clutching the napkin, I bolted from the table, laughing like a lunatic. But I made a critical mistake when I glanced over my shoulder to check his location. He was directly behind me.

Squeaking again, I tried to run faster, but it was no use. Des was wicked fast. And so freaking quiet. Or maybe it was the thundering of my heart that masked his footfalls. He caught me by the waist, wrapping his arms around me, and proceeded to lift me off my feet.

I didn’t struggle, instead I shouted, “Truce!” and offered him the napkin.

Settling me back on my feet, he spun me around to face him, shoved the napkin aside, grabbed the lower hem of my shirt, and rubbed his arm all over the fabric.

“Ugh! Now it’s on my shirt!” I made a half-hearted attempt to tug the shirt from his grip, which only made his fist tighten.

“Hold still,” he said, his eyes on his arm, a satisfied-looking grin on his face. “Accept your punishment.”

I sighed and went lax, the hand holding the napkin falling to my side. “Now my shirt is dirty,” I accused, making sure I sounded mad even though I wasn’t. I wasn’t at all. I didn’t want to think about what I was.

I’m having fun. This moment felt like a gift.

He shook his head, his gaze flickering up to mine as though to check if my expression matched the anger in my voice. As he studied me, his lips hitched to one side. “You were wiping potato chip grease on it earlier in the basement, apple juice when we were peeling them for the pie, and you’re mad at me for a little tomato seed slime? You’re a slob.”

“I decide what food particles end up on my shirt, not you.” I pushed the completely ruined paper napkin at him.

Eyes on my mouth, he accepted it, finally. But he kept one hand fisted in the hem of my shirt. Des seemed to hesitate for a split second before leveraging the fabric to tug me closer. I stumbled forward, blinking furiously, another electric shock of adrenaline—not necessarily the fun kind, more like the confusing kind—hit me square in the chest.

Before I could comprehend his intent, he lifted the paper napkin and wiped at the corner of my mouth. “You still have a seed here,” he said distractedly, his deep voice just above a whisper.

For some reason, which I’d likely obsess about later, his voice paired with his nearness made me shiver. At my involuntary movement, his gaze cut to mine, held. In the span of three or four heartbeats, his eyes seemed to subtly widen, a question clearly forming behind them.

Oh no! I was already pathetic enough, forcing him to come here, forcing him to talk to me. No way was I going to make a complete fool of myself and allow him to see that I had unresolved emotions where he was concerned. What kind of loser carries around unrequited and undefined feelings for ten years?

“Ha!” I said too loudly, stepping back and lightly karate chopping his arm so he’d release my shirt. Say a movie quote. Book quote. Distract. Humor. Defuse the tension!

“Ava—”

“‘Soylent Green is people,’” I croaked out. Don’t ask me why it was the movie quote that came to mind, but it was. “People!” I added louder, turning away and sucking in a deep breath. I walked forward, back to the picnic table. Once I arrived, I picked up the apple on my plate and took a bite, eyeing the bench seat.

I didn’t want to sit down again and face him. Feeling lost, I glanced around the backyard, trying to decide what to do next. My attention snagged on the swing set. Motion is good. Stay in motion.

Clearing my throat, I lifted my chin and began walking to the swings, careful to keep my steps unhurried. I took another bite of apple, chewing it carefully and swallowing with equal caution. Just my luck, if I didn’t mindfully chew and swallow, I’d likely choke. The last thing I wanted was Des’s arms around me again.

Then again, it also felt like maybe the first thing I wanted . . . ?

Whatever. I was confused. I needed to think.

Des, meanwhile, followed and eventually fell into step beside me, which left me floundering around for a topic to fill the silence.

“So, uh, what were you doing at that marriage thing on Thursday? Are you looking to hook up with an heiress?” my stupid mouth asked before vetting the questions with my brain. I cringed and covered the expression by taking another bite of apple.

Uncle Dan had said to limit my questions, but there was nothing to be done. The words were out there. The question had been asked. And you know what? I was curious. Did Des want to get married? Why else would he be there?

In my peripheral vision, I watched him shove his hands in his pockets. “It was work related.” His shoulder bumped mine and it was impossible to tell whether the small touch was purposeful or accidental. “Speaking of, why would you agree to go for your friend?”

Stopping in front of the swing set, I faced him and finished mindfully swallowing another bite of apple before asking, “What do you mean?”

He reached out and grabbed one of the chains holding a swing, his attention moving to a spot over my shoulder. “I mean, are you two close? Did you owe her a favor? Or were you there looking for a rich husband?” His tone sounded weird, stiff.

But I was too distracted by the content of the question to give the tenor of his voice much thought. I felt like the answer should’ve been obvious, but I spelled it out anyway. “How many people have the opportunity to attend a fancy gemstone-pins-denoting-human-value, secret-society-marriage-matchmaking event while pretending to be somebody completely different? One girl.” I pointed at myself with a thumb. “And she’s currently in front of you, having lived to tell the tale. No thanks to you.”

“Oh, please.” He seemed to stop short of rolling his eyes. “You were moments away from being found out. No one has that accent.”

My mouth dropped open in true outrage. “I’ll have you know, I sounded exactly like Chelsea.” My earlier discomfort wasn’t forgotten, only shelved. I was too pleased that the conversation seemed to be flowing smoothly to dwell on the butterflies continuing to swirl in my stomach.

“Where is Chelsea from? The 1930s?” Gaze still fastened over my shoulder, his eyebrows frowned but his lips curved in a small smile.

“I have no idea. Chicago originally, I think.” I scratched my head, turning away from his mesmerizing smile, and stepped up to a swing. I sat in it. “But then she studied in England for a while, went to a boarding school in New England, and then college and law school out there as well.”

Des followed, standing in front of me, his hands in his pockets as his eyes tracked my movements while I anchored my feet to the ground and rocked side to side. “There’s no way she sounds like that.”

“I’m telling you, with Chelsea’s permission, and often in front of her face, I’ve done impressions of her at work. I feel like I have her accent pretty well figured out.” Cradling the half-eaten apple on my lap, I continued to keep my feet planted while I rocked back and forth. I needed to maintain small movements so I didn’t accidentally touch him.

Des adopted a disbelieving face, and then—obviously poking fun at my performance that night—said, “Ah, yes. Mummy and Daddy aw-ften vah-cation with Bianc-ah and me up to the Cape, lab-stah and cah-vi-ah every nah-t. We take the yah-t, yah know.”

I stopped moving, my jaw dropped open. “What? That is not what I sounded like!”

“That’s exactly what you sounded like.” Des grinned down at me, laughing a little. At me. Which meant I was fighting a smile. Again.

My brain momentarily short-circuited. A happy, spiky kind of warmth had blossomed in my stomach and was spreading up my chest. It felt so good to smile with him again. It felt so good to be teased and tease him in return. And it felt freaking amazing to look into his eyes and have him look back into mine. I used to be addicted to this.

Ugh. How will I move on again?

Des lowered his gaze to the ground between us. Using the front of his shoe, he lightly kicked my foot. “It was like watching His Girl Friday.”

I made an offended sound. “No⁠—”

“And a trash fire. And a train crash. And⁠—”

I tossed my apple at him.

He fluidly bent to the side, successfully—and impressively—dodging it and speaking around his infectious laughter, “‘You’re losing your eye. You used to be able to pitch better than that.’”

I hated that his Cary Grant impression was so good. I also disliked that my first instinct was to respond with, “Walter, you’re wonderful, in a loathsome sort of way.’” And when I did so, my recitation of Hildy Johnson’s line sounded exactly like my impression of Chelsea.

Des had been right. I had sounded like His Girl Friday.

He straightened, his hands in his pockets, his gaze knowing, his irritating blue eyes sparkling with unveiled amusement.

I crossed my arms, trying my best not to smile and completely failing. “Well, that’s what she sounds like,” I said stubbornly.

He shuffled another step closer. “In that case, you did a good job.”

“Thanks,” I said, but then added, “for nothing.”

He laughed again, stepping over my feet and taking the swing next to mine. I scowled at the backyard, working hard to suppress big feelings and questions. He seemed to be having a good time with me. If that was the case, why didn’t he want to know me anymore? Why ghost me for all these years?

I didn’t want to ask.

Actually, that wasn’t true. I did want to ask. What I didn’t want, what I wasn’t sure I’d ever be ready to hear, was his answer. I felt . . .

I feel so sad and happy and scared and it’s driving me up the wall.

We sat in silence for a bit while neither of us actually swung in earnest. We sort of moved our weight around, shifting left and right instead of back and forth, eventually bumping into each other.

It was on the tip of my tongue to finally ask him the burning questions I’d wrestled with for so many years. Why did you cut me out of your life? What did I do wrong? And what can I do to fix it?

But as I inhaled for a bit of courage, Des caught the chain of my swing and gave it a shake until I looked at him. “Hey, so. If you hear from that Henri guy, you shouldn’t call him back.”

I lifted an eyebrow, saying nothing, still caught in the momentum of the questions I wanted to ask and frustrated with him for his choice of subject matter. Who cared about that Henri guy? Didn’t he want to talk about us?

Des’s lips still smiled, but his eyes had grown serious. “I mean it. He’s not a good person.”

I tilted my head to the side, inspecting my former friend. “What makes a person a good person?”

He blinked once, slowly, and it conveyed irritation. “You know what I mean.”

“I do?” My inspection turned into a glare. “Oh, that’s right. I do. Not ghosting people is probably on the list.” Shit, shit, shit! That wasn’t—I hadn’t⁠—

Sigh.

I’d wanted to ask him calmly, carefully, adultly. And what had I done instead? Acted like a fool.

His smile fell away. Des stared into my eyes for several seconds and it was like watching him disappear, withdraw inside himself. My heart lurched, but it was too late. He stood abruptly and walked away from the swing set, his steps unhurried, his stride unconcerned as he approached the back porch.

In a panic, I yelled, “Hey!” I stood but didn’t follow him. “I’m not done talking to you.”

“Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry and not turning around. “The timer on my watch just went off. My two hours of obligatory visitation are up.”

My throat tightened and I huffed a bitter laugh. “Okay. Fine then. See you in another ten years?”

Blaaaah. Shut up, Ava. Stop being dramatic.

He said nothing and continued sauntering toward the steps.

Frustrated, I grumbled loudly, “You can’t tell me who to see and who to talk to. I’ll talk to Henri if I want to talk to Henri.” I didn’t remember precisely who this Henri person was. I’d been so nervous on Thursday, no one had really made an impression on me after Desmond showed up.

Unexpectedly, Des’s feet stopped. A moment later, he turned and stomped back, pointing at me in a very stern, I’m-your-father-and-you’ll-listen-to-me sort of way his dad used to use on us. “No. You won’t.”

My spine straightened and I crossed my arms, struggling for a moment before saying stupidly, “Oh yeah?”

Whoa. Ava. What an awesome comeback. Slow clap. You really showed him.

Inwardly, I winced at my continued inability to be a damn grown-up. Why was I this way? Why couldn’t I be more mature and thoughtful? Why did I always feel like a dumb kid and do dumb-kid things?

Des continued to advance, his voice low and hard. “Yeah. You said I had to come here for two hours today. I came for two hours. In return, you promised—you promised—not to make contact with Henri.”

This was stupid. I didn’t even want to make contact with Henri. Be an adult, Ava. For once. If I wanted to say goodbye, now was my chance. Likely my only chance.

Determined, I lifted my chin. “Fine. I won’t. And so—so—I guess—I guess, this is goodbye,” I sputtered, swallowing around the thickness in my throat. I drew myself up and stuck out my hand. “Goodbye. Forever, apparently.”

Des’s glare moved from my face to my hand, then back again.

Lifting my eyebrows, I wiggled my fingers. “What? You’re not going to shake my hand?” I couldn’t help the raspiness and emotion that had bled into my voice.

Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry!

Here I was trying to adult and obtain some sort of closure, and there he was eschewing my attempt.

Now Des was the one to swallow, and as he did so, all feeling seemed to leach from his features. Even his eyes struck me as dull. His chest rising with a deep breath, his gaze fell once more to my offered hand and he slid his palm against mine. I fought another shiver at the feeling of his warm hand in mine. But instead of doing the shaking part of the handshake, he simply held my fingers, his thumb caressing the back of my hand. I had to blink several times to keep my stupid, stinging eyes from leaking.

“I hope—” he started, stepping closer, his eyes still on our hands. But he didn’t finish the thought.

Instead, he gradually leaned forward and the sandpapery stubble of his jaw brushed along mine, shocking the hell out of me. I stiffened. He placed a soft, lingering kiss on my cheek, his warm breath falling against the skin of my ear and neck. It lasted several seconds and was so unexpected, I felt paralyzed by it. By him. My heart galloped. I wasn’t breathing. I couldn’t. Maybe I’d forgotten how.

That electric shock returned, the confusing one. It traveled from the spot his warm lips touched, down my spine, and upward to wrap around my brain.

Des retreated well before I’d recovered and didn’t meet my eyes, instead whispering, “Goodbye, Ava.”

Then he released my hand, turned, and walked away.