“No, it’s called an upper cut. It doesn’t count because you didn’t kiss me back.”
Of everything that went wrong that night, this is what bothered Jeremy most. Not the fight with his father that’d made him want to get drunk in the first place. Not that he’d been too inebriated to listen when he tried to kiss me and I said no. Not that I’d hit him, or the fight we’d had before I took his car keys and walked myself home. No, what bothered him most was that I hadn’t returned that kiss. Not at all. It may have started out like my kiss with Reece, but it ended very differently. It never had any traction. Never turned me inside out like Reece’s kiss had. I hadn’t lost myself in Jeremy’s kiss for a single minute. Because I’d never wanted it to begin with. But I’d never told him that. Instead, I’d hidden behind Mona’s rules. To tell him that now, when we were so close to finding our way back to normal, felt unnecessarily cruel.
“Well, it counted to me. And I’m sure if you hadn’t been such a sloppy drunk, you would’ve proved yourself a much better kisser than Reece Whelan anyway.” I teased a sad smile from him. Jeremy’s kiss may have been a disaster, but it had been real for him. He’d wanted it. He’d wanted me. And I wasn’t sure I could say the same for Reece.
I fell back onto the mattress and stretched. Let my muscles melt into the thick down comforter. They ached, swollen and knotted with the tension of the past few weeks. With the door shut and the blinds closed, the house quiet and Jeremy lying beside me, I relaxed.
Jeremy cleared his throat softly. “So I heard Reece got expelled . . .”
“Suspended,” I corrected before he could finish.
“Right . . . suspended. I was thinking maybe you’d need a date for prom? We could go together . . . if you want to?”
For a moment, neither of us spoke, and the look on his face was two parts regret and one part hope. I opened my mouth to speak, but couldn’t find the right words. I hadn’t intended to lead him on when I told him he was probably a better kisser, but it was too late to take it back.
“I kind of assumed you’d be taking Anh to prom.”
Jeremy frowned. “I haven’t asked anybody yet. I was hoping maybe you’d want to go. I mean, I know you hate crowds. And I know there’s going to be like a thousand people there, but I just figured maybe . . .”
The thought of a crowd that size made me cringe, but throw alcohol, drugs, and touching into the mix and it made the prom seem like a tame alternative when I considered Friday night’s rave. The difference was the matter of choice. I didn’t have a choice about the rave—I had to be there, like a mandatory graduation requirement. Prom felt more like an elective.
“You should probably go ahead and ask Anh,” I suggested as gently as I could. “I hate those things. Wouldn’t be caught dead at a school dance.” I looked over at Jeremy. He stared at the ceiling, his chest motionless. I twined my fingers in his and felt the thin ray of hope slip out of him, making room for heavier emotions that tugged down the corners of his smile and pulled the color from his face. He was still angry with me, and it was a sour and metallic knot in my throat, but I made myself swallow it like medicine. I deserved it.
“It’s okay,” he said numbly. “I figured as much.”
We lay quietly, hand in hand until his disappointment started tasting more like bitter determination.
“There’s a rave on Friday night.” His fingers twitched with an eager thrill that covered me in goose bumps.
I sat up, letting go of his hand. “You’re not going, are you?”
“I thought it would make a really cool piece for my portfolio. It’s kind of edgy. I thought a little grit might make me look more . . .” he paused, choosing his words carefully. “Might get more attention in a college application than something as lame as another canned food drive.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Translation: This is the worst idea. Ever. Jeremy had no idea what he was getting into. “I mean, you do know what goes on at a rave . . . don’t you?”
He looked insulted. “Jeez, Leigh. I may be a loser, but I’m not an idiot!”
“I wasn’t suggesting that you’re an idiot . . .”
“And I happen to enjoy doing Sudoku and watching the History Channel on Friday nights. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
I laughed, kicking him gently with the tip of my shoe. “I didn’t say there was. I just don’t want you to get in trouble.”
“I won’t.” He kicked me back. “I already talked to our sponsor. She said I can run the article as long as there aren’t any photos of ‘questionable content.’ Besides, I’m not going to print any recognizable photos of anyone’s face, and I’ll change the names to protect the innocent.”
My laughter evaporated as I considered the best way to tell him . . . tell him what? That I’d be posing as a narc’s girlfriend to facilitate a drug deal? That it might be my name he had to change?