I let myself reach for her, one hand on either side of her face, sliding up her jawline to stroke her cheeks with my thumbs. She stops talking, closes her eyes, and inhales—holds the breath for a beat—then exhales in a content sigh.
I study the curve of her eyelids, the wave of her eyebrow, the skin of her forehead as it relaxes and releases its lines. I lean in and brush my lips against the last furrow, a small indentation above her left eye, then watch the spread of pink across her cheeks and down to her collarbone.
These demand exploration, and it’s against the hollow above them that I give my answer, “I know.”
There are more words to say, and more questions I should be asking, but I’m transfixed by the play of pink across her skin and how it responds to my mouth, my tongue, and even my breath. Her breath’s faster too, falling into a gasp, as she leans back to expose more of her neck. I slide one hand behind her head and pull on the collar of her dress with the other. Two buttons: even unfastened they barely expose any skin. Not enough. Not nearly enough.
But I can wait. There is tomorrow—today—where I’m already factored into her life.
Where I’m factoring myself back into my own life too.
40
Brighton
ONLY TIME WILL TELL
I could stay like this for hours, melting under kisses and the touch of his hands. I avoid looking at his dashboard clock or the faint, faint line of pink that may be a distant sunrise … or someone’s outdoor lights.
“Will you be in trouble?”
He’s blinking at me in confusion. I rephrase the question: “I mean, will you be in trouble for getting home so late?”
“No. They’ll think I stayed over at Jeff’s. I can tell them I got up early and came home for whatever reason. They won’t care. Will you?”
“No. My mom waits up for Evy every time she goes out but hasn’t waited up for me since middle school—it’s a perk of being the good child.” He murmurs something about good against my neck, and I laugh and add, “Hmm, so neither of us has a curfew. In-ter-rest-ting. File that fact under Things That Are Convenient and Fabulous!”
I lean toward him but then he speaks, a laughing statement tinged with some of the cynicism I doubt he’ll ever lose, and I’m not sure I want him to: “Or under: Parental Oversights I Plan to Exploit.”
“Maybe it’s time for me to stop being the good one.” The words slip past my lips in a flush of embarrassment and did-I-really-say-that?
I wonder how he’ll respond—and true to his unpredictable form, he doesn’t give me a visible reaction at all. At least not beyond eyes opened wider, a quick intake of breath. So I give him one. I kiss him. Once. Just once in a breath-shattering, pulse-revving touch of lips and tongue.
I stare at his smile—I caused that. It’s a crazy, powerful, intoxicating thought.
Before either of us can say something to ruin the moment or uncover a new conflict—begin a new round of Truth or Dare—I scoop up my bag and slip out the car door. “Soon.”
He echoes it back, his eyes earnest. “Soon.”
I dance up the walkway to the door, not wanting to go to bed, but knowing Never will bark if I linger outside. Everything seems possible tonight. People can change; I can matter. I can kiss a boy. He can see me so clearly that it forces me to take a second look at myself.
Once I get through today, tomorrow and the entire summer stretch before me with so much possibility.
I shut the door and stare at myself in the foyer mirror. Never wanders over and leans his head against my stomach. I absently stroke his ears and continue to examine my reflection. My curls are wild. My eyeliner and mascara have melted and melded until I have smoky, smudgy eyes typically reserved for nightclubs or Goths. The collar of my dress has dried warped, and the left side points up while the right curls under.
I look like a disaster. No wonder Silvie wasn’t sure it was me.
And yet he kissed me.
Or, I kissed him and he kissed me back.
I give Never one last pat and pull away. His drool marks drip from hip height down to the hem of my dress. I bend and plant an impulsive kiss on his nose before heading up to the bathroom.
While I brush my teeth, I pull out the nail polish remover. Sometime around our arrival at the party, the green glitter stopped seeming rebellious or attractive. It might be someone else’s form of rebellion or someone else’s preferred color, but it isn’t mine. I erase the traces of sparkles from my fingers and drop them in the trashcan. I consider losing the Band-Aids too—my palm isn’t bleeding anymore, but they were sealed with a kiss and I’m not ready to let that go quite yet.
I blush at the cheesy romance of the thought, but my fingers still curl protectively over the bandages.
I reach for the bottle of Pointe-Shoe Pink Mom bought for between visit touch-ups. Shake it, uncap it. Then replace the lid and put it back in the drawer. I may not want green glitter, but I don’t want that either. Tomorrow I can decide on my new color, or color-for-this-week, or even if I want to be a girl who wears nail polish at all.