Every Summer After

“Yeah . . . in the winter it is.”

“You do know it’s the middle of summer, right?” He shifted on his feet. It hit me then that Sam was nervous. Sam was almost never nervous.

“I’m aware. When it’s hot, I, uh”—he rubbed his neck—“I usually, you know, sleep in my boxers.”

“Okaaaay,” I murmured. “Sweats it is.”

We both looked over at the single bed. “This isn’t going to be weird, right?” I asked.

“Nope,” he said without confidence.

Sam folded back the navy-blue top sheet, and I climbed in. I wasn’t sure what the protocol was here. Should I face the wall? Or was that rude? Maybe I should lie on my back? I hadn’t made a decision when Sam sat down beside me, our bodies touching from shoulder to hip. I could smell his peppermint toothpaste.

“Do you want the light on to read?” He eyed the book I was still holding.

“I’m still pretty tired from the swim today, actually.” I passed him the paperback, and he placed it on the nightstand and shut off the lamp.

I decided lying on my back was best, and shuffled down the bed so my head was on the pillow. Sam followed suit. We were squished up against each other. I lay there with my eyes open for a good ten minutes, my heart racing and my skin sizzling everywhere it touched his.

“I’m really hot,” he whispered. Apparently neither one of us was sleeping.

“Just take off your sweats and the shirt,” I hissed. “It’s fine. I’ve seen you in your bathing suit. Boxers aren’t too different.” He hesitated for a few seconds, then wiggled his pants off and pulled his T-shirt over his head. I couldn’t tell, but I think he folded them before putting them on the floor. We were still both awake when Sam turned his head toward me, his breath hitting my cheek.

“I’m glad this isn’t weird,” he said. I burst out laughing. He tried to shush me through his own laughter, but that just set me off even more. He rolled over to face me, putting his hand over my mouth. Every cell in my body came to a halt.

“You’ll wake Mom, and, believe me, you don’t want to do that,” he whispered. “She was so tired she took her wineglass to bed with her.” He slowly took his hand away, and I fought the urge to put it back on my face. We lay there silently, him turned toward me, until he spoke.

“Percy?” he asked, and I rolled onto my side. I could barely make out the shape of his body—the nights up north gave new meaning to the word dark. “Do you remember when I told you about kissing Maeve?”

My heart picked up a pair of drumsticks.

“Yeah,” I murmured, not sure I wanted to hear what came next.

“It didn’t mean anything. I mean, I don’t like her like that.”

The question flew out like a reflex: “Why did you kiss her then?”

“We went to the end-of-year dance together, and the last slow song of the night was playing . . . and, I don’t know, it just seemed like the obvious move.”

“You asked her to the dance?” He had told me he went, but he didn’t say he had gone with a date.

“She asked me,” he clarified. “I know I didn’t tell you, but I figured we don’t really talk about this stuff. I wasn’t sure.”

I chewed on this for a second, then asked, “Was that your first kiss?” Sam was quiet. “You’re not going to tell me? You were there for mine.”

“No,” he replied.

“No, it wasn’t your first kiss, or no, you aren’t going to tell me?”

“It wasn’t my first kiss. I’m sixteen, Percy.”

“When?” My voice was hoarse.

“You sure you want to know?” he asked. “Because you sound a little weird.”

“Yes,” I hissed. I wanted to scream. “Just tell me.”

“It was last year—a girl from school. She asked me to go skating, and she pushed me in the penalty box and then kissed me. It was kind of crazy.”

“She sounds psycho.”

“Yeah, we didn’t go out again.” He paused. “But I went out a couple times with Jordie’s sister’s friend, Olivia.” Jordie’s sister is a year older than us.

“And you kissed her?” My voice was strangled. My head was spinning. Three girls. Sam had kissed three girls. Sam had kissed an eleventh-grade girl. It shouldn’t have surprised me. He was cute and sweet and smart, but he was also mine, mine, all mine. The thought of another girl spending time with him, let alone kissing him, made me nauseated.

“Um, yeah. We kissed.” He hesitated. “And we fooled around a bit.”

“You fooled around with an eleventh-grade girl?” I squeaked.

“Yeah, Percy. Is that so surprising?” He sounded offended. “You don’t make out with your boyfriend?” I took a deep breath.

“He. Is. Not. My. Boyfriend.” I was whisper-yelling. I shoved Sam’s shoulder once, then again, and he grabbed my wrist, holding it against his bare chest.

“And you don’t make out with your non-boyfriend?” he asked.

“I’d rather make out with someone else,” I blurted, immediately wanting to suck the words back into my throat.

“Who?” Sam asked. My skin went tight with adrenaline, but I kept my mouth shut. He squeezed my wrist slightly, and I wondered if he could feel how quickly my pulse raced. “Who, Percy?” he asked again. I groaned.

“Don’t make me tell you,” I said so quietly I wasn’t sure if I’d said it out loud, but then I felt Sam’s hot breath on my face and the press of his nose and forehead against mine.

“Please tell me,” he pleaded softly. I was overwhelmed by him—this smell of his shampoo, his damp hair, the heat coming from his body.

I swallowed thickly, then whispered, “I think you know.”

Sam stayed silent, his mouth inches from my own, but his thumb began to move in back-and-forth strokes across my wrist.

“I want to be sure,” he murmured.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and let the words fall from me.

“I’d rather kiss you.”

As soon as the admission left my mouth, Sam’s lips were on my lips, pressing and urgent. It felt like jumping off a cliff into warm honey. Just as quickly, he pulled back and rested his forehead against mine, taking quick, shallow breaths.

“Okay?” he whispered.

I shook my head. “More.”

He closed the gap between us, peppering kisses on my lips, sweet and soft, but not nearly enough, and when he let go of my wrist, I put my hand in his hair, holding him closer. I ran my tongue over the crease of his bottom lip, then pulled it into my mouth. He moaned and suddenly his hands were everywhere all at once, on my back, over my hips, across my stomach. And then his tongue met mine, minty and teasing. I wrapped a leg around his and pulled our hips together. A pained, desperate noise vibrated from the back of Sam’s throat, and he gripped my side, putting a sliver of space between us.

“You all right?” I asked. He didn’t respond. “Sam?”

“I’m nodding,” he said.

“Sorry,” I whispered. “I got a little carried away.”

“Don’t be sorry. I liked it.” He took a deep breath, then paused before adding, “But I think we should probably try to sleep. Otherwise I’ll get carried away.”

I nodded.

“Percy?” he asked.

“I’m nodding.”

And then he kissed me again. At first it was slow, all hot tongue and gentle sucking. I whimpered, wanting more, more, more, and moved my hands down his back and into the waistband of his boxers. In reply, he grabbed my butt and pulled me against him. I could feel his excitement, and I pressed into him. He sucked in his breath and froze.

“We need to stop, Percy.” Before I could ask if I’d done something wrong, he rasped, “I’m like really close.”

I exhaled in relief. “Okay.”

He brushed my face with his fingertips. “So . . . sleep?”

“Or something like that,” I laughed quietly. Eventually, I turned to face the wall, a smile on my face. Somehow I did fall asleep, and just before I drifted off, I heard Sam whisper, “I’d rather kiss you, too.”



* * *





SOMETHING WOKE ME suddenly. I opened my eyes, not sure where I was, feeling a weight across my middle. I blinked at the wall a few times before remembering.

I was in Sam’s bed.

With Sam.

Who had kissed me.

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