Unconditional

“Morning.” Garrett gives me a small smile. “You know, you talk in your sleep.”

“I don’t!” I gasp, distracted for a moment.

He chuckles. “You do. Carry on quite a conversation when you’re out like a light.”

“What did I say?” I demand, trying to remember what I dreamed about.

“Now, that would be telling.” Garrett grins, a slow, mischievous smile that hits me right between my thighs and sends me rushing back to that dock: his arms tight around me, his mouth driving me wild.

And right away I want him all over again. I want to kiss him forever, anything to feel that way.

I catch my breath, my pulse suddenly racing in my veins.

“So…” I start, self-conscious, but my voice fades away. Should I bring up what happened, or pretend like nothing did? I don’t know how to handle this kind of situation; I’ve never acted so rashly in my life before.

I don’t kiss guys first. I don’t throw myself into their arms.

You don’t pour out your deepest secrets to a total stranger, weep like there’s nobody watching.

Remembering everything I shared with him, I suddenly feel naked, exposed. I pull the blanket around me, like that will help at all.

I sneak a look at Garrett, but he’s still impossible to read: lounging with his feet up on the porch railing, wearing a faded pair of jeans and a blue T-shirt. The morning sun catches in his hair, picking out glints of gold in the ruffled chestnut hues, his stubble shading his strong jaw.

I feel a flutter in my stomach, like I’m sixteen all over again.

But you’re not a teenager anymore, Carina. You’re a grown woman: start acting like it!

I brace myself. “About last night,” I say.

Garrett’s smile fades.

My heart falls. “Thank you,” I say quickly, “for stepping in and helping with Dad. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been there.”

“Of course.” Garrett frowns. “You don’t need to thank me.”

“I do.” I nod. “You’ve been amazing, letting me stay here, listening last night while I babbled all about my bullshit issues. You didn’t have to.”

“Don’t say that.” Garrett’s voice is quiet. He looks at me gently, kindly. “Don’t apologize for needing help. You were in a bad place, and I was there. You don’t owe me anything.”

“I know.” I frown, confused. “I just wanted to say, it means a lot to me. Not everyone would do what you did.”

Garrett shrugs, still modest, but he doesn’t realize: there’s nobody else who would have stepped in to protect me like that. Not one single person in my life I could have confided in the way I did with him, who would have listened, without scorn or judgment, and helped me through such a dark night.

“I mean it,” I insist. “You were too good to me.”

Garrett bolts to his feet. “Stop, I can’t listen to you say all these nice things about me.”

“But Garrett—”

“No!” he cuts me off. “It’s not right, not after…” He turns away from me, and when he looks back, there’s a conflicted agony on his face. “I owe you an apology.”

I blink. “For what?”

“For taking advantage of you last night.” Garrett’s face twists with regret. “You were hurting and vulnerable. You trusted me, and I let you down!”

What?

“No!” I cry. I leap up, crossing the porch to him. “Garrett, listen to me. You did nothing wrong.”

“I did; you know it’s true. I can’t believe I could be so low.” He turns away, still looking pained.

I feel the bitter sting of rejection but I stand firm. I can’t believe that he’s blaming himself for that kiss, when we both know it was me that reached for him, me that pressed my lips against his, demanding until he finally responded.

He thinks what we did was wrong, tainted. A mistake.

He doesn’t realize it’s the one right thing I’ve done in years.

“Well, I’m not sorry.” My voice rings out, clear on the porch.

Garrett stops, his back still turned to me.

“I wanted to kiss you,” I continue, loud and true. “Maybe it was a reckless impulse, but I felt it. I wanted it. Do you realize how long it’s been since I wanted anything? Felt anything at all?”

Slowly, Garrett turns to face me. His expression is wary, like he can’t decide whether to believe me or not.

“You can be sorry if you want,” I continue defiantly. “You can think it’s a mistake, and want to undo it—that’s up to you. But I’m not ashamed, and I’m not sorry. I won’t take it back.”

I don’t think I’ve ever been so honest in my life before: just said what’s on my mind and in my heart, claimed the truth I felt without wondering how it seemed from the outside, if it would reveal too much of me or look all wrong.

Baby steps, but they matter to me. They matter more than anything—almost more even than his response.

I stand there, my heart racing, waiting. Finally, Garrett nods.

“OK.”

OK?

My head spins. What does that mean? That he still regrets it? That he accepts my non-apology? I watch him for any sign of his mood, but Garrett’s expression stays unreadable. He leans back in the doorway, still on edge.

“So, what are you going to do now?” His voice is casual, but the message is clear: the kiss is done. Whatever happened last night, we’re moving past it.