Chapter 10: Porchlight Confessions

Night Air

The porch swing creaked as I sat beside her.

We didn’t speak at first. Just listened—to the cicadas, to the hum of distant sprinklers, to the silence between us that had gotten louder all week.

Carla leaned back, arms folded tight. Her carry-on bag rested at the edge of the porch, packed and zipped.

“Still time to cancel,” I said, only half-joking.

She gave me a look. “Don’t tempt me.”

Loose Ends

“You nervous?” I asked.

She hesitated. “About the wedding? No.”

“But?”

She sighed. “It’s been a while. Seeing everybody again ... it’s not just a vacation, you know?”

I nodded. “Homecoming.”

“Something like that,” she said. Then quieter, “Some of them haven’t seen me since—before.”

Before she changed. Before she left. Before she became the version of Carla who sparred in garages and danced barefoot in living rooms.

“You don’t have to explain,” I said.

“Gracias.” A pause. Then: “You always say the right thing.”

Edge of Something

I shifted to face her more fully. The porch light made her skin glow honey-gold. Her curls framed her face like something sculpted.

“Maybe I just say what I mean,” I said.

She turned. Our knees touched.

It was so quiet. So still. I could feel the heat from her body in the narrow space between us.

“I’m gonna miss this,” she whispered. “You.”

I didn’t trust myself to answer. So I just watched her. Felt the ache behind my ribs.

She leaned closer. Barely. A breath away.

Then stopped.

“Don’t,” she said, voice tight.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t make this harder.”

Stillness

We sat in that almost-kiss for what felt like forever. Neither pulling back. Neither giving in.

Then she leaned her head on my shoulder.

I closed my eyes.

And in that moment, I knew.

I wasn’t waiting anymore.

I was already hers.