Looking to Lose (completed)

*18*

Something has shifted between Aaron and me. I can't explain it. Yes, my feelings for him had already changed, but I had been trying hard to keep our relationship the same. And besides my slip-up yesterday, I thought I had been doing pretty well: keeping my distance, limiting flirty comments, etc. But after our close encounter in the back room yesterday, there's been a change in energy.

I'm not sure anyone watching us would notice. It's little things. Whereas I've always felt as though he observes me, he's now acting on those observations, handing me a pen just as I realize I don't have one to write a receipt or passing me a mug as I'm about to turn around to grab one; it's as if he can predict my every move, knows my every thought. And he keeps finding subtle ways to touch me. At first, I thought I was imagining it, dreaming it, but as the number of electric sparks I felt throughout the day increased, I realized our normal touching quota for the day had been surpassed. When I reach across him for the half and half, he doesn't jerk away like usual, opting instead to remain casually in place, so my shoulder rubs against him.

It's certainly not one sided. I fixed his hair when a particular curl went awry earlier, leaning in with a smile and laugh, and he didn't stop me. When I pass him behind the bar, I run my hand along his back so that he knows I'm there and doesn't suddenly step back and collide with me. I know, none of these things are crazy. In fact, most humans touch this much on a daily basis without their fingertips jolting with electricity. But Aaron and I are different. We have always been reserved, held back, cold and formal. This warm familiarity between us is entirely new.

"Earth to Isa." A hand appears in front of my face, waving me back into the land of the living.

"Mom?" I say doubtfully, rubbing my eyes to clear the blurry spots that form from staring off into space for too long. When the spots clear, I see my mother, perched on a barstool with a big smile on her face.

"The one and only," she says cheerily.

"What are you doing here?"

"Well I was in town and I wanted to see my beautiful daughter hard at work." She stares sarcastically at the once-wet rag in my hand, now dried up, a victim of my daydreaming.

"Hi Mrs. Moore," Aaron says, coming to stand next to me behind the bar.

"Oh, please Aaron, call me Essie!" she says, waving her hand nonchalantly. He smiles sheepishly in return. He's never smiled at me like that; it's cute. I wish he would give me that smile.

Why am I always jealous of the way he acts towards my mother? Is it because he's polite to her while he isn't to me? Then again, do I really want him to be polite to me? Polite is so boring.

"What can I get for you?" he asks in his polite tone that  I am no longer envious of. I've decided I'd rather take his icy tone any day, because he reserves that one solely for me. And nothing makes a girl feel quite as special as something saved only for them, even if it's a tone of disdain.

"A mug of hot chocolate would be splendid," my mom says with a smile. Always with a smile. And it makes me smile too, at how perfectly she fits the role of mother. Her shoulder length brown hair falling in tousled waves over a summery J-Crew blouse, sporting a large mom-tote over her shoulder and a pandora bracelet with charms commemorating her fondest memories dangling from her wrist. She may be the most conventional mother to exist, but she's raised me with every ounce of love in her, and not for the first time in the last few weeks, I am struck by just how fortunate I am to have her.

"What are you thinking about sweets?" my mom asks as Aaron fills a large mug with steaming hot chocolate for her.

"About how much I love you," I reply honestly, giving her hand a squeeze across the bar.