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“There’s no way. There’s just… no way.”
This has become something of an affirmation for Mark. A string of words to which he clings, tethering dreamlike days to unbendable reality. It is almost a relief to hear them outside his own head, touching external ears, though Devon looks dubious.
He finds comfort in her scepticism. It occurs to Mark that these are the only circumstances under which he could talk about even a whisper of his worries; sitting with his sister, at her kitchen table, with a pair of mugs between them.
Despite how sullen he feels – despite the want that looms and the disappointment that hovers – Mark manages a smile.
“What?” he asks.
“Well,” Devon says, fighting a smirk. “Forgive me, m’lady, but I think you’re being a little bit dramatic.”
Mark scoffs. “I’m not being dramatic. Trust me, if you knew – ”
“I know enough. I know you talk to this woman every day. You wouldn’t do that if you got the impression it was annoying her.”
“Yeah, we get along,” Mark agrees, easily. “We’re sort of… friends.”
A tender feeling overwhelms him. He hopes that Gemma views him as a friend. They’re coworkers, their interactions are confined to the university campus, but they have a rapport, don’t they? A warmth that transcends courtesy.
“Oh my god,” Devon says. “Mark. You have a crush!”
“I know,” Mark groans, putting his head in his hands. “How did this happen? I’m an adult. I feel like this shouldn’t happen to adults.”
He laughs when Devon laughs, aware of how funny this must seem. He surfaces from his fingers to smile pitifully at her, and she puts a consoling hand on his shoulder.
“Hate to break it to you, buddy, but crushes are definitely a lifelong predicament.”
“I don’t think I’ve had one since high school,” Mark says. “Attraction, interest, sure, but this kind of constant wondering, and hoping… I feel like a complete idiot.”
If Mark were in front of anybody else, he’d be self-conscious about how pathetic he sounds. But there’s never been any point in hiding his reality from Devon. She always looks at him as though she knows him better than he could ever know himself.
He sighs. “Why am I embarrassed by this?”
“It’s embarrassing for everybody,” Devon says reassuringly. “You’re not special, Mark, we’re all scared of pretty women.”
For a moment, he is transported to the university library. He watches Gemma glide between the shelves, her graceful fingers skating over the spines of the books. He thinks about her ochre eyes, her warm smile, her high cheekbones.
“Pretty is an understatement,” Mark mutters.
Devon nudges him, draws him back to the present moment. “This is, like, excruciatingly sweet. Please tell me you’re gonna do something about it.”
“Like what?”
“What do you think? Ask her out. The worst she can say is no.”
“That’s not actually true,” Mark says. “Besides, I don’t want to make her uncomfortable at work, and I don’t want to mess up our dynamic, and – ”
“Mark,” Devon interrupts him. “Can you really tell me there’s no vibe between you?”
“I mean, maybe. I don’t know. She sort of smiles when she sees me.”
No sort of about it, but it feels like a dangerous observation, even watered down. Gemma lights up when their eyes meet. Mark doesn’t know what to make of it, when there’s no way that she could be interested in him in that way. There’s just no way.
Gemma is beautiful in a manner he struggles to describe. She is clever without being pretentious, kind without being meek. She makes him laugh, she makes him smile. The possibility of spending five minutes of the day with her is enough to make him spring out of bed in the morning.
Devon puts her chin in the palm of her hand. “I’m obviously going off limited information here, but it sounds to me like you and this Gemma are in the same boat.”
“You think so?” Mark tries not to sound too hopeful.
“Yeah, I do. And crushes are so embarrassing. You should do the decent thing and put her out of her misery.”
Mark stands in a café, scrutinising the muffins on display for signs of dryness. He’s been teaching on this campus for years now, but he can never seem to remember where to go for reliable food. He decides to take the gamble, reaches into his pocket for his wallet, when he notices movement in the corner of his eye. Gemma is rising from her seat at one of the tables and walking towards him, her face sweet with surprise.
She comes to a stop in the breath before their shoulders touch.
“Hey,” Gemma says, smiling. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“Fancy that,” Mark says, swaying closer without thinking about it. “You come here often?”
She laughs softly, shakes her head. “It’s my first time, and probably my last.”
“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”
“I’ll give you three guesses.”
He grins. “Yeah, campus cafés tend to be hit or miss. What’d this place do to you?”
Gemma, sweetheart that she is, checks that none of the young people behind the counter are in hearing distance before she answers. “They put milk in my green tea.”
Mark’s laughter comes out in sputters. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious.”
“Wow,” he says, shaking his head. “It makes you wonder what the parents are thinking, letting these toddlers roam around the city.”
“It’s definitely a worry,” Gemma agrees. “Although, I think I hold the record for the most amount of money spent on bad coffee, so that’s something.”
“They’ll never be able to take that away from you,” Mark says.
His smile stretches impossibly wider, and then that’s all they’re doing. Standing in the middle of this café, staring at one another, giggling like the children they gently tease.
It dawns on Gemma in the same beat, and her smile becomes bashful. She gestures back towards her table, offers, “Do you want to sit? I got the orange and poppy seed muffin, if you want to try it. It’s actually nice.”
“Oh, yeah, thanks. That’s the one I was going to get.”
“Really?”
It wasn’t, of course. But Gemma glows like that coincidence has made her day, and Mark decides that he doesn’t want to eat another flavour of muffin for the rest of his life.
From the looks of the slivers on the wrapper, she’s cut her muffin into quarters and eaten one piece. She plucks the largest remaining portion and offers it to him. It’s warm to the touch, soft and buttery in his mouth.
Mark hums. “A rare hit. You were right.”
Gemma gives him an oddly happy look and picks up another quarter. “I think so. But I also think we’re overdue for some good coffee. I might know a place, if you’re interested.”
She gives him a smile that borders on shy, and Mark wants to smack himself in the head. All at once, this seems rather simple, and Mark feels rather foolish. They’ve been doing this dance for weeks now, and he’s been present for every step, every spin. He has no reason to be surprised by what she’s asking.
He should probably feel some shame about his failure to ask first, but he’s preoccupied with gratitude for her bravery.
“Yeah,” Mark says. “I’m definitely interested. More than interested.”
Does that make sense? Does that give away too much? Mark doesn’t have it in himself to be worried about what he’s saying, because his nonsense words are making Gemma’s eyes shine.
“I’m sure you already knew that.”
“I had a hunch,” she admits. She puts her palm on his knuckles, and warmth rushes from the point of contact, filling his veins.
Reluctant to say goodbye, they take a walk after their coffee date. What starts out as a turn around the block turns into a trek throughout the surrounding streets, nooks and crannies of the city that Mark has never bothered to notice. Ordinary things, made special by their purpose, serving as a backdrop for Gemma.
The sky goes glittery purple before their loop brings them back to his car. When Mark offered to pick Gemma up and drop her off, he was unaware that he would find it so difficult to part from her on the very first date.
“Walk me to the door?” Gemma asks, as he pulls onto the curb outside her house.
Mark takes heart in the evidence of her hope. Maybe he isn’t the only one who feels eager to step off this precipice — though, there’s no doubt which of them is managing the suspense with superior grace. For all of the ease they’ve shared today, the possibility of a goodnight kiss has thrown Mark off-kilter, rendered his fingers skittish.
Gemma notices his fidgeting hands. She looks at him with fondness, with amusement.
“You’re nervous,” she exclaims. “I didn’t expect you to be nervous.”
Mark chuckles. “I couldn’t even gather the nerve to ask you out, remember?”
“You would’ve got there eventually,” Gemma says. “I just got impatient.”
A shred of inadequacy pierces Mark’s chest, and he pushes it aside. He’s determined not to overthink this wonder, not to doubt it, not to lose it. She’s here with him, and it feels like a miracle because he’s never known joy like this before, but it’s real.
Every part of him, every part of her. All real.
On the porch, Gemma turns on her heel, gazes at him with starry eyes. Mark has never been this close to a face so beautiful. She would be intimidating if she didn’t carry such a kindness about her.
“I’m glad you sped things along,” Mark says, his voice soft. “Tonight was a lot of fun. I still can’t believe we ended up walking for so long. Maybe we could go for a proper hike one day.”
She tilts her head at him. “Are you planning our next date?”
Mark smiles. “I don’t wanna get ahead of myself, but yeah. I guess I am.”
“Good,” Gemma says, nodding. “I’m looking forward to saying yes.”
It erases the bulk of his worry, because there’s no doubt that she alludes to more than another date. She’s led him here for a taste of the future he knows he shouldn’t be thinking about yet – but really, it seems like she might be thinking about it too.
She raises her eyebrows at him, so he steps into her space and cups her cheek. He hesitates for a moment, then kisses her, and it’s nothing like kissing has ever been. Gemma melts into him at once, curling her lips sweetly around his. She surrounds him with faint lustre: her soft mouth, her soft skin, her soft hair. Mark’s fingers drift from her face to the back of her neck and she makes a breathy noise that he wants to hoard under his tongue.
First kisses should be chaste, Mark knows. This might be the real reason for his apprehension on the walk to her door; he knew that he might kiss her, and he knew that he wouldn’t want to stop if he did. It’s too soon to grasp her waist like this, he thinks. He pulls away from her, his breath short, but he has no opportunity to compose himself before Gemma is pushing in for another kiss, her back arching under his hands.
When they separate, it’s together. They pant and laugh, their foreheads still touching. Mark doesn’t want to leave this moment where Gemma strokes his face tenderly, her eyes closed to prolong the dream.
“Goodnight,” Gemma murmurs. She presses a final kiss to his lips, the chaste sort that first dates typically call for. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Mark hears that word pulsing in the centre of every second it takes to get to sleep that night. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.
Mark makes it to the library ahead of Gemma. He chooses a table for them, the one he likes best, tucked in the farthest corner, away from the computer lab and its flurry of users. He notices a window nearby, framing a view of the sky and a tall oak tree. Its branches shake merrily in the breeze. Gemma might like that, he thinks. Hopes.
Three minutes later, Gemma steps through the door. Mark means to stand and wave, but he gets somewhat transfixed, looking at her looking for him. She turns her head to either side, her gaze raking eagerly over the room. The moment that she sees him, recognition makes her face go warm, and it’s a beautiful thing to witness.
“Hi,” she whispers, touching his shoulder as she sits down. She unearths essentials from her bag – her laptop, her notebook, her pen – and puts them alongside his. Mark knows it’s silly, but he likes the way that their things look, laid out together like this.
But then, everything about this is silly. They’ve met here to sit together for the hour before his next lecture. Never mind that they both have to work, that they won’t have any time to talk. Somehow, it still matters that they take the time.
“Hi,” Mark echoes, smiling softly.
Gemma returns his smile, looking every bit as happy as he feels. Under the table, she nudges his loafer with her own. She keeps it there as she begins to type, a point of contact. He thinks about a day where they might touch bare feet, their shoes and socks and tentative beginnings peeled away.
For now, Mark is content to sit by her side and listen to her breathe. He sees her eyes dart to the window and trace over the tree, and his insides expand with tenderness.
The sun is in good spirits today, making the clouds glow and the concrete glisten. Mark squints in the harsh light, finds his sunglasses in his pocket and pushes them up his nose.
By his side, Gemma looks concerned. “Do you have a hat?”
Mark makes a derisive noise. “No, I don’t have a hat. Do I seem like the kind of guy who would wear a hat?”
Gemma laughs. “Oh, so you’re too good for hats?”
“I love your hat,” he assures her, reaching out and pinching the floppy brim between his fingers. “I just don’t think I’m much of a hat person.”
“We’re going to be standing in the sun for hours, honey. You need a hat.”
He fumbles for an answer, distracted by his joy to be called something so sweet by someone so sweet.
“I have my sunglasses,” he says weakly.
Gemma gives him a sceptical look, then puts her hand on his elbow, pulling him to the side of the footpath.
“Here,” she says, taking off her hat, fitting it carefully over his head.
Mark laughs with delight. The hat is unmistakably feminine, swooping heavily around his face, but he finds he doesn’t care. It belongs to Gemma, it carries her vague floral fragrance. It proves that she cares about him.
“Unless you’d rather this one,” Gemma says, pulling a hat out of her bag, this one made of straw and wrapped in eyelet lace.
“How many hats do you have in there?” Mark exclaims.
“Just one. I always carry a hat, you know.”
Of course she does. Sensible, sunshine-oriented Gemma. Mark realises that this means the hat he’s donning is what she planned for her outfit and frowns.
“I can take the lacy one, if you want the one you chose.”
“Mark,” Gemma says through chuckles. “I’m not going to make you wear either hat. But you have to get one for next time, alright?”
“Alright,” Mark says. Part of him doesn’t want to take her hat off, though he does take extreme pleasure in smoothing it back onto her head, his hands lingering on her cheeks.
Gemma cranes upwards, wanting a kiss. Mark has to duck around her hat to give her what she wants, which makes him smile against her lips.
He had little reason to consider the presence of sunshine, the danger of it, in his life before her. These days, the sun is interlaced with everything. Now he’s on his way to a flower show, tickets for which he bought the moment he saw an advertisement on a billboard. Caught in a rush of excitement, he didn’t doubt himself until after he’d texted Gemma about it.
There was no need to worry. Gemma was thrilled and touched. She remains thrilled and touched; he can see it in her face, feel it in her fingers. She holds his hand as they walk towards the gates, her thumb brushing over his knuckles.
Mark does not like large crowds, and he has no particular interest in plants, but he feels none of his usual impatience while navigating the garden show displays. He couldn’t be anything but serene when Gemma is so enthralled. She gazes upon the different flowers with varying forms of wonder, as though every blossom deserves its own reaction.
A pale iris claims her attention, and Mark tries to appreciate it as Gemma does. He considers the flaky petals, the curl of the stem. He knows that he doesn’t get it, that he doesn’t see what she sees, though he wishes he could.
He wants to see this hefty life through her gracious eyes. He wants to step into her world and stay there for as long as she’ll have him.
“How gorgeous,” Gemma murmurs. She crouches before a row of velvety dahlias, and her dress pools around her in flutters of violet-blue. She looks part of the scene, he thinks. She suits the flowers and the flowers suit her.
Feeling his gaze on her, Gemma turns and gives him a questioning look. Mark reaches for her, and though this is their fourth date, he feels faintly surprised when she entwines their hands.
Sometimes, he really thinks he might get what he wants.
Mark leans against his sister’s kitchen counter, his knuckles pressed into his mouth. He was right to assume that Gemma and Devon would get along. They’re pouring glasses of wine, talking like old friends, though they met less than an hour ago. He feels somewhat raw, watching these two parts of his heart interact.
“Please tell me some embarrassing childhood stories,” Gemma says to Devon, as she crosses the kitchen to give Mark his wine. “Right now, this guy seems too good to be true.”
Devon laughs loudly. “Oh, I can help you there. I’ve got no shortage of embarrassing Mark stories. I don’t even know where to begin.”
Mark rolls his eyes, but his annoyance is dim at best. Really, he knows that Devon’s worst recollection wouldn’t deter Gemma. He’s preoccupied with what Gemma said about him, her allusion to disbelief, his familiar reckoning. Could she really feel as awed by him as he feels by her? It seems impossible when he thinks about himself, his unremarkable kindness, his propensity for pessimism. But there’s no mistaking the love in her eyes.
Late in the afternoon, Gemma gets a phone call from her grandmother. She stands from her chair, apologising, assuring Mark and Devon that she’ll be quick, five minutes at most. They insist that they don’t mind, tell her to take her time, and she smiles gratefully before she steps into the hallway.
As soon as they’re alone, Devon whirls towards Mark with a wide grin.
“So,” she says. “When are you getting the ring?”
Mark should probably laugh it off, tell her it’s too soon. Instead, overwhelmed by hope, he takes her hand and squeezes her fingers.