I nod. Because I’m pretty sure it’ll involve kissing, it has to.
But it will also involve lying and sneaking. I still remember the first time I lied when I was a little girl—the shame and fear over one measly cookie. Worrying about getting caught—and then getting caught—was so not worth that Oreo. I logically concluded that it wasn’t in my best interest to lie.
The one time The Giant caught me in a lie—I said there was a meeting after school for drama, but I was really getting Pepsi Freezes with the girls—I was grounded for a solid month. So I just … didn’t lie. Pretty much ever. And then you came along. Lately, I catch myself lying all the time, little fibs that buy me extra minutes with you. Instead of feeling bad about it, I feel liberated. Being a good kid hasn’t been working out for me. So I let the bad girl in. Each lie is something that’s mine, that my mom and The Giant can’t take away from me. Each lie reminds me I’m an actual person with rights and desires and the ability to make choices on her own. Each lie is power—control over my life.
So I sneak out, chasing that power, chasing you, wearing next to nothing. You grab my hand and we sprint down the street, to where you parked your car well away from my house.
“Don’t distract me while I’m driving, you minx.”
I hold up my hand. “Scout’s honor.”
The streets are empty. The night is ours. You turn into one of the new housing developments and stop in front of the skeleton of a half-finished house. You grab a blanket and pull me inside. You lay the blanket in a dark corner, where the moonlight can’t touch. Above us, the sky. Just rafters where the roof of this house will one day be. You pull me down onto the blanket and there is no space between us, not even a centimeter. You want me, I can feel it. You’re hard and you press against me and I bite my lip and you groan.
“You better lie next to me,” you say.
I love that I’m torturing you.
“And why is that?” I press closer and you close your eyes for a second.
“Because I’m about two seconds away from ravishing you,” you say.
I actually have no problem with this, but I laugh and slide off you. We lie on our backs, staring at the constellations. And then—a shooting star. We gasp at the same time and you reach out and grip my hand.
“I’ve never seen one before,” I say.
You smile. “It’s a sign.”
“Of what?”
“That we’re meant to be together.”
You bring my knuckles to your lips and your mouth moves across my skin. You keep your eyes on me as you kiss each finger. You drop my hand, your mouth moving closer to mine. I can’t breathe. You put your fingers on my lips and lean over me, studying them.
“You better fucking kiss me, Gavin Davis.”
The corner of your mouth turns up. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
You laugh softly and rest your weight on your elbows, eyes roving over my face. I am dying. I want to scream. You smile.
“This is the best part,” you whisper, nuzzling me.
“What?” I say.
“The before.”
You bring your lips to my ear. “Are you sure you want this?”
“Yes.” There isn’t the slightest hesitation in my voice.
Your lips brush my earlobe, snake across my jaw, and when they finally fall onto my own we are hungry and want more, more, more. You crush your lips against mine and I open my mouth to let you in. You taste so good, like cinnamon. We roll around and now I’m on top of you, kissing you like it’s the only chance I’ll ever have to feel your lips against mine. Your hands slide up my thighs, under my shirt.
“Tell me when to stop,” you whisper as you pull the tank top over my head, then pull off your own shirt.
I don’t want to stop, not ever.
I forget about parents and rules and all our empty promises to each other to take it slow and I can’t think, I’m dizzy. Your hands are everywhere and I’m a door that’s thrown wide open and I let you in. We kiss and we kiss and we kiss.
“Fuck,” you whisper, “I left the condoms in the car.”
I shiver, hold you closer. “We shouldn’t, anyway. Until … until we figure out what we are.”
I’m not losing my virginity to a guy who isn’t my boyfriend. I don’t care how much I like you. Also, WHY AREN’T YOU MY BOYFRIEND?
“Voice of Reason,” you murmur, your lips finding mine again.
All that want of the past few weeks washes over us, drenching. This is something else I will learn while I am with you—not now, but later: there are so many ways to drown.
*
IT’S LUNCH AND we’re in the drama room. You’re about to go off-campus—only the seniors get to do that—and Lys has caught you kissing my cheek, whispering sweet nothings in my ear.
“Oh, hell no,” Nat says from where she lies sprawled on the floor, using her backpack as a pillow.
You look back at her, frowning at the scowl on her face. “Um…?”
“You just cursed,” I say to Nat, smirking. She calls cursing the “height of uncouthness”—the fact that she uses words like uncouth is part of why she’s my best friend.
“This calls for it,” Nat says, sitting up. She smooths her hair and turns to Lys. “It might be time to do that thing we’ve been talking about.”
Lys nods, serious. “Yep. The time has definitely come.”
They get up and cross the room.
“You,” Nat says, grabbing you by the arm, “are coming with us.”
“I am?” you say.
“Yep.” Lys crosses her arms. She manages to look intimidating despite the Alice in Wonderland–style dress she’s wearing, complete with white tights and her signature platform sneakers. “We want to know what your intentions are toward our best friend.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh my god, you guys.”
Okay, but seriously, what are your intentions? Because this sneaking-around thing is getting old. But I’m too afraid to say that. I don’t want to scare you away.
“I assure you they’re honorable,” you say.
“Uh-huh,” Nat says. She starts pulling you out of the room.
“You guys!” I say. “Stop being dumbasses.”
“You’ll thank us later,” Lys calls over her shoulder.
You look back at me. “If you don’t see me by the end of lunch, call the police.”
You flash me that half smile (so sexy) and then you’re out of the room.
The bell rings half an hour later and you still aren’t back. A tiny knot of worry twists inside my chest—I hope my friends aren’t screwing this up for me. Whatever this is. I start heading toward English when someone grabs my hand—you—without breaking your stride.
“You survived?” I say.
You’re holding my hand in public. This is a good thing. They must not have freaked you out too badly.
“I did,” you say. “Though they threatened to cut off my balls if I break your heart.”
“That sounds like them.”
You laugh. “Those girls do not fuck around.”
“I don’t know if I even want to know what you guys talked about.”