The nervousness I experienced about running the event is nothing compared to the emotions flying through me at the prospect of having coffee with Sawyer. I still can't quite believe he's here. Or that he actually spoke to me.
He even smiled. Not the terse one he used to give me at camp, but a real one, like he gives others.
After my letter to him, I didn't think it was possible for us to meet again without there being too much bad blood between us. He was so calm and contained, though, I have no idea what he's thinking. So he asked me for coffee. Maybe he's being polite, for Petr's sake, wanting to rebuild a bridge that can at least hold our weight so we don't upset my brother.
I can't read too much into this. If nothing else, coffee might give me the ability to say a few things I've been rolling around in my head. Closure.
Then it hits me; he's looking for closure, too. It dampens my spirits but does nothing to stop the fever inside me or the fact I have trouble focusing long enough to think straight.
His smile and the way he regarded me with familiar intensity …
It's too much to think about.
The rest of the day flies by. On the ride home, I'm trying to figure out if I want to text him now or wait until I get back. I don't want to seem either eager or the opposite, unwilling. Because I'm dying for some time with him and dreading it at the same time.
Disgusted with the emotions I thought had somewhat under control, I tuck the phone in my purse without texting.
The party is raging out back when I get there at eight. The evening schedule was a formal dinner and after-party style night. Open bar, electronica blasting, a dance floor on the back lawn …
My old scene. I wind my way through the crowd onto the deck, where couples are snuggled up together around fire pits. They appear cozy and happy. I'm trying to figure out if I'd ever be that relaxed around Sawyer when I trip over my own feet.
I catch my balance, tug off the high heels and continue through the kitchen and up the back stairs. Padding down the hallway where my room is, I frown when I see my door open. I walk in and toss my jacket and shoes on the bed. The closet light is on.
"Petr!" I complain before I get there.
"Just showing Sawyer the ammo depot," he calls cheerfully.
He calls my shoe closet the ammo depot, because of how well I throw shoes when I'm pissed. I'm not sure if he's seriously proud of the fact he organized it alphabetically by designer a few weeks ago or if he's messing with me. Having him home is great, except for the fact that he is always straightening up everything of mine. I like my messes the way they are.