I hold out my palm and study the contrast between the nails, skin, and blood. Nothing is its natural color in the thin glow provided by the parking lot lights. My nails look a reflective, rotten gray green, my skin seems translucent, inked with hieroglyphics by my blood. One puncture has stopped bleeding, the other still trickles. A single drop slips off the trail down to my wrist and falls in slow motion. I lose track of it midair when Jonah steps close—really close—and cups my hand in his.
“Admitting I know CPR seems like tempting the fates. Don’t get any ideas—I’ve no desire to prove it. And no to stitches; I nearly failed home econ, I wouldn’t trust me anywhere near a needle.” He erases the coded words on my palm, gently turning my hand to wipe the alcohol pad down along my wrist. My pulse drums beneath his fingers, tempo increasing as he slides his thumb across the fragile skin. He must feel it.
“How’d you get so good at this?” My voice is breathless, and I hope he knows I mean first aid, not making me flush, pant, and way too aware that his thighs are pressed against my knees as he plays doctor.
“I took a first-aid course. My dad had—well, has—a boat. Not that there was anywhere special to use it around here, but I bet he lives on it in Florida. He insisted I take first-aid training when I was younger. Bet he’s more worried about his new first mate’s ability to fill a bikini than handle a boat wreck.”
He settles my hand on my thigh and tears open a Band-Aid, ripping the actual bandage in half, scowling, and shoving it in his pocket.
A topic change is in order and a change in mental picture—I’m visualizing Jonah on a boat, shirt off … “Um, have you ever used the training? I mean, besides patching me up.”
“Yeah.” His voice quiets and his fingers still on the box of bandages. “Paul was holding Sophia a few weeks ago—and somehow she got a button off his shirt. I looked over and she was turning blue. He hadn’t noticed. I had to grab her and … Those seconds when I was holding her facedown and thumping her back … I think I stopped breathing till she started to cough.”
“You saved her life.” My whisper matches his and is twisted with awe for this boy I can’t begin to understand.
He makes a noise that’s reluctant agreement. “And I’ve been a dick to Paul—even though he’s practically destroying himself with guilt about it. Tonight was the first time Mom talked him into going out since it happened. Sophia’s fine, but he … he’s even been sleeping in her room.” His eyes twitch from the bandage box to my face, then back to my hand. He sighs so heavily that I feel it on my palm. “Sometimes I’m such an idiot.”
“Oh, Jonah.” If my hand weren’t otherwise occupied, I’d curl my fingers around his. I don’t have any wisdom to give him either, so after he applies the second bandage and closes the box I offer a distraction. “Now we’ll play some more?”
“You’re done playing tonight. These are barely sticking.” He presses again on the adhesive striping the length of my palm. I fight the urge to close my fingers around his thumb.
“And I was just starting to get the hang of it. There go my dreams of turning pro.”
He laughs.
I love his laugh.
“Thank you for this. Being up there, it was …” He looks at me, raises my bandaged hand, and presses it to his mouth.
My eyes grow wide and my lips part to ask a question—any question. I almost do. But then that’s how this night will end: with conversation. The choice is mine; the move is mine.
I make it. One deep breath and all questions are erased by the touch of my lips as I lean forward to press them against his.
37
Jonah
2:26 A.M.
HALF PAST—HOLY CRAP!
I’d be lying if I said I had no expectations. I’ve imagined kissing her a hundred times tonight. In a hundred different places and positions. But in the instant she kisses me, I’m not thinking about anything but her. The way her eyes widened with admiration and the shape of her lips when she commented about saving Sophia’s life. The feel of the skin on her inner wrist and the size of her hand in mine. The thoughtfulness of bringing me here and her willingness to go back up that hill—despite her bandages and her remarkable inability to throw or catch.
And I want to teach her. Today, tomorrow, the next day. I want to teach her to catch a ball. I want to teach her how to punch guys like Digg, walk Never, and deal with stress in ways that don’t end with bandages.
But right now, mostly I want to learn what she tastes like.
Press her back against the hood. Slide my hands up the backs of her legs. White cotton underwear. More!
Thoughts pulse against my brain as my mouth explores hers. But not her, not Brighton Waterford. I won’t. But, God, if she makes that little noise in the back of her throat again … And her legs. Does she know she’s let them slide down on either side of mine?
One foot wraps around the back of my leg and draws me closer; she knows.
My body wants to rush the moment, to find out what’s next, but I won’t let it. With Carly, kissing was like stretching before a game. It was important, but it wasn’t our final destination. With Brighton … well, I don’t want to be thinking about Carly.