That would fix things, right? Actually doing it, I mean? That would fix the kiss obsession. Or make it ten times worse. Only one way to find out.
I pull her to me, a soft weight that presses my spine firmly into the mattress. She says with a low-level glower, “What was that for?” Coming from Celine, this is basically a polite inquiry.
I give her my best smile. “This friendship thing is going really well, don’t you think?” I am testing the waters. If she says Sure is, handsome, and licks my neck, I’ll take that as a green light.
Celine props herself up on her elbows to look down at me—but she doesn’t get up. “Am I squashing you?”
“No.”
“Okay.” Her gaze avoids mine and her round cheeks hollow a little bit, like she’s nibbling the insides. This close, she is all gleaming darkness and shiny pink makeup and long eyelashes that flutter away from me. “Um. Yes. It is. Going. Well.”
I beam. “That was great, Cel. Deeply emotional. Ten out of ten.”
She rolls her eyes, but she still hasn’t moved. I’m feeling very optimistic about this, if you ignore the way my stomach is churning with nerves and terrible potential futures are flashing against the back of my skull like a sped-up cinema reel. I throw a very thick, dark curtain in front of the screen and say, “I’m going to suggest something.”
She is rightly suspicious. “What?”
“Do you. I mean. Would you…like…to…” Whew. This is harder than I thought. My heart is playing a drum solo right now. How did I get Isabella to make out with me? Oh yes, I remember now: I said, “Bella, I really like you,” and she handled the rest. But if I tell Celine I like her, she’ll probably jump out of the window as a reflex. For some reason that makes my heart hurt.
And yet…
“Celine, I really like you.”
She rolls off me and lands on the floor with a very loud thud. Well, crap. I scramble to the edge of the bed just as she pops up like a daisy.
“Everything all right up there?” Dad shouts.
“Dropped a book,” I shout back.
“Sorry,” Celine says breathlessly, rubbing her hip. “Didn’t realize the…floor was…there.” Then she smiles brightly.
My stomach plummets into the earth’s core. “Oh God. You don’t like me.”
Her jaw drops. “What are you talking about, Bradley? Of course I like you!”
“Right.” I nod rapidly, trying not to die of embarrassment. Sadbarrassment. “Of course! We’re friends!”
“That’s what you meant, right?” she asks. “As friends.”
That is very sweet of her, to give me an out. Except she’s still smiling—not one of her normal, accidental smiles where her eyes scrunch up into dark shiny gems, but a perfect, polite smile that seems nervous. Or anxious. Or…something else I don’t want her to be.
“Well, no,” I say slowly. This is ridiculous. I am ridiculous. There is an enormous possibility I am making things worse—
Which might be worth the tiniest possibility of making them better.
“No,” I repeat, more confident now. (If I’m going to do things wrong, I might as well do them with style and conviction.) “When I pulled you on top of me and, you know, gazed dreamily into your eyes and said I liked you, I did not mean as friends. Obviously.”
Her mouth opens. Her mouth closes. Between that and her slow, slightly dazed blinks, pop her in a bowl and she could be a goldfish.
“It’s okay, though,” I add quickly. “I’m not going to be weird about it, or anything. I’m…I’m glad we’re friends.” Friends is good. Friends is an infinite number of times better than before. There is no reason for my internal organs to be blowing away in the winds of my desolation. I am completely fine.
“Well,” Celine says. Her voice is so pretty. Like shiny metal. I am very okay right now. “Gosh,” she says after a moment.
I manage to be patient and reasonable for another 0.3 seconds. “Not to pressure you, but I would love a few complete sentences right now.”
She sits down on the bed very suddenly. Actually, it’s possible she fell. “Are you sure?”
I almost fall at that. “Am I sure?”
“That you, er…like me,” she whispers.
I count to eight. “Celine. WHY WOULD I NOT BE SURE?”
“Well, I don’t know!” She throws up her hands. “This all just seems very out of the blue—”
“It is not—”
“We’ve only been friends again for forty-nine days,” she says, then adds guiltily, “give or take.”
I stare. “You’ve been counting?”
She lifts her chin, defensive. “Haven’t you?”
“Well, of course I’ve been counting. That’s my thing! I count things! And I like you, remember? What have you been counting for?”
She folds her arms and shrugs.
I cannot believe this. I cannot believe this. “YOU LIKE ME BACK.”
“Shut up!” she whispers. “Your brother is probably lurking outside like a sneaky alligator.”
I’m so busy losing my mind I don’t even have time to enjoy the nonsense coming out of her mouth. “Why the hell did you decide to argue with me about this? You impossible human being! Do you realize we could’ve been making out this whole time?”
Her whole body perks up like a meerkat. “Well, do you want to?”
“Of course I want to! Why do you think I even said anything?”
“Your heart was burning with tender sentiment?” she suggests dryly.
God, she is so annoyingly fantastic. “I was being assertive.”
“I see.” She considers this for a second. “My turn?”
This takes the wind out of my sails and I finally absorb the truth: the person I like simultaneously likes me back, and anyone who’s ever liked anyone knows that that almost never happens. Also, the person is Celine, which is like adding rocket fuel to a firework. Or to me. There is rocket fuel in me. “Okay,” I say, but what I mean is: Yes, definitely your turn, do something please, right now.
She bites her lip and grabs my wrist and pulls me forward. Closer. To her. I shuffle over with all the grace and dignity of a Labrador puppy. My right knee touches her left. She leans into me and she smells like a holiday. I can see the texture of her skin. I can count her eyelashes. I can—
“Brad,” she says softly, smiling, for real this time. “You’re supposed to close your eyes.”
But she’s so pretty. “You first.”
“On three.”
I’m laughing as we count. One, two, three. My world is dark and Celine-scented. I feel her breath against my mouth as she speaks.
“You’re right,” she says. “I do like you too.”
Fuck yeah.
“We should talk about it,” she continues, and this time I think I feel the slightest brush of her lips against mine. Sensation glitters in my stomach. She’s going to murder me.
“You’re volunteering to talk about something?” I rasp, trying to sound amused and unaffected and seriously missing the mark. “You really do like me.”
“Smartarse,” she mutters. Then she very gently presses her lips to mine—only for a second, the single softest second of my life. An electric shock runs from my head to my toes and I’m vibrating with it.
“More,” I tell her, and put a hand on her cheek. The curve fits my palm perfectly.
I feel her smile. “Okay.”
This time, I kiss her. Longer. Harder. Her mouth is warm and silky and her breaths come quick. My brain falls out of my head. She holds my wrist again, and I can feel my pulse against her fingers, and it is very fast.
I should’ve been doing this for the last five thousand—
“Dad!” Mason shouts. “Brad’s having sex!”
Great: my brother has arrived, right on schedule, to ruin my life. I jerk away from Celine, stomp over to the slightly ajar door (that absolute pervert freak), and shove it wide open. Mason’s already running downstairs.
I turn around. Celine’s eyes are wide and unfocused, her chest is heaving, and for a second, I forget to be pissed because I’m very pleased with myself.
“Hey,” I murmur.
She blinks hard, presses her lips together, and stands up. “Crap. We should…go downstairs.”
“Probably.” I’m going to creep into Mason’s room tonight and smother him while he sleeps.
As we head out onto the landing, our elbows touch. Something zips up my stomach. Cel slides me a scandalized sideways look and rubs her arm like I just bit her.
My own arm tingles. “I really like you.”
“Shhh.” She widens her eyes meaningfully at me and leads the way downstairs. “I don’t want your dad to hear!”
Aw. She’s so easily embarrassed but trust me; Dad’s going to love this. Celine is one of his favorite people. Still, I keep my mouth shut because she’s spooked, and I know feelings aren’t her thing. We just had a moment and now she needs space. (God, I’m so mature. Someone should make a note of this.)
We reach the kitchen in adult silence and find Dad chopping spring onions at the island while staring at us with raised eyebrows (which is very poor kitchen safety; eyes on the knife, Dad).
“Hi,” I say.
His eyebrows somehow get higher.