“We’re going to shake up Cross Pointe,” I say with a laugh.
“No, Jonah, we’re not.” She stretches a hand out to cup my cheek, and I wonder if she can feel me tense beneath her palm. “No one’s going to care. This is the time of year where people are worried about finals and GPAs. Summer jobs and getting off wait lists and going on swimsuit diets. Maybe for a minute they’ll be surprised that either of us is dating anyone, but that’s about it. And if that’s why you want me—so you can prove a point or something—then you’re going to be disappointed.”
I release the breath I was holding. Can she really think that? “Of course it’s not.”
“Jonah.” She bites her lip and looks down for a few seconds before peeking up at me. “I’m not excusing anyone’s behavior, and don’t get mad, but maybe the reason you never became part of Cross Pointe is you never gave anyone a chance to include you.”
I want to pull away, but she reaches up with her other hand, holds my face between her palms and forces me to look at her when she says, “Please don’t be mad at me.”
“I’m not.” My voice is everything but happy. I want to lose myself in her lips, not think about this. But earlier in the night she never would have said anything she thought might upset me.
“Liar,” she challenges.
I reach up and take her hands from my face. I’m tempted to push them back at her, but instead I flip them palm up and trace the welts on one and the Band-Aids on the other. Her scars from tonight are visible; mine are all internal. “I’m not mad at you, Bright. I’m mad at me, because I know you’re right. It still sucks.”
“Yeah, it does. Or did. But in this case, it’s not a bad thing anymore. It’s a reason not to worry about us—don’t you get it? People are so self-absorbed. Except for the people who care about you and me, no one is going to give us a second thought. I bet Adrian and Silvia are distracted by each other and already forgot us. And my friends will love you. You make me smile; you’re important to me. That will be enough.”
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.