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Carla’s Point of View
I didn’t sleep well.
Kissing a man was a big deal for me. I lay awake with the ceiling fan turning above me and the sheet twisted around my ankles and the memory of his mouth against mine still playing on my lips — the salt, the warmth, the sound I’d made that surprised me when his thumb moved across my cheekbone. I replayed it.
I replayed it again.
The mountain behind us and the sun falling and his forehead touching mine and his breathing matched to mine, and every time I closed my eyes and tried to sleep I opened them grinning at the ceiling like a child who’d been given something she couldn’t put down.