Last time we hung out in a park, it ended with a kiss. I think we should begin with one today because I want it to be everything it should’ve been last week: stunningly perfect.
I stand next to her, using the bandstand for balance, and do what the violins tell me to do. The park melts away into a soundstage. It’s our big close-up in a movie. Makeup artists fuss over Jamie, using all the crimson in their paint boxes for her lips. Fangirls are going to break Tumblr with GIFs of us kissing with Jamie swept into my arms like they’re the last refuge on earth and me powerfully embracing her against the vicious winds of a ravaged tundra. Or jungle or postapocalyptic landscape or something more exciting than Portland on a cloudy day.
We’re on set and as she turns toward me, the wind machines gently pick up, her face softly lit and glowing. The director helps me out and says, Lean in, little bit more…slower. Still slower. Now cup her cheek with the palm of your hand. Brush her skin lightly with your thumb, not too much, but just enough. Good, now— Jamie grabs my hand and pulls it down. “What are you doing?”
I blink. The boom mikes and bounce lighting disappear.
The park sits around us, as dappled with midfall depression as ever.
“I was going to kiss you,” I say, deflated she smacked it down.
“I got that. And maybe you’re going to think I’m a complete prude, but please don’t do that.” Jamie edges back a touch and hugs herself. “I got to the park and it was like your brain evaporated and then, boom, all of a sudden you’re all up in my face and I just…I don’t know.”
I lower down into my chair.
“Don’t be mad,” she says. “Can I tell you something?”
“Anything.”
“I’m terrified.”
“You are? Of what? Me?”
“No! It’s just I’ve never done this before. The whole be-together-with-another-person thing.”
“No way.”
She laughs. “Why is that such a surprise?”
“Because I figured you’ve already had a whole ton of boyfriends, been going out with different guys since like the sixth grade or something.”
“Yeah? Not so much.”
“I don’t mean it in a bad way. More like, how can someone like you be available?”
“Someone…like…me…,” Jamie says with painful slowness. Her eyes narrow.
“Funny! Smart! Pretty!” I say because she’s looking at me with a bit of a death stare.
“Oh.” She smiles. I love it when she smiles. Jamie’s grin covers her head to toe.
“You should’ve been snapped up a long time ago,” I say. “I mean, it’s obvious why I haven’t been. You’re a different story.”
“But you’re smart and funny too.”
“You forgot pretty.”
She looks away. She knows it. “You’re a guy; you don’t have to be pretty,” she says. “But I’ve had crushes. There’ve been boys I’ve liked. I’ve just been too afraid to make a move. Actually, scratch that. I tried once. It did not go well.” Jamie lays a hand against her face. Like she’s hiding a freckle or something.
“His loss.”
“Maybe I’m being too hard on you.”
“If you don’t want to kiss, then we shouldn’t.” I fiddle with the armrest. “I figured that since we almost, you know…I guess I want too much.”
“And what’s that?”
To love someone else. To be loved.
That missing spark that I’ve never had before. I wanted to be her movie star, and now I’m feeling like the guy sweeping up popcorn and scraping old gum and boogers off the seats.
Jamie holds out her hand. I take it. Our palms meet. Her knuckles skim over mine as our fingers wrap together. “Let’s walk,” she says.
We go slow enough that I can push with only one hand at a time and not go crooked. When we come to the ramp, I let go and grip the wheels as I use my left foot as a brake, skidding against the brick incline. At the bottom, I look at her and she looks at me.
Our hands snap back together. Hers is still warm.
“This is good,” she says.
I nod in agreement.
“Maybe this can be us for now,” she says.
“Okay.” I frown. If it were up to me, we’d be full-on embarrassing the bandstand because I really want to kiss her. A lot. I sneak a look at Jamie. Her gaze studies the four trees ahead set up like a square, like she’s deciding which corner to stand on. It dawns on me, I will stand with her wherever she chooses. And maybe standing together for a little while is okay.
“I hope you don’t mind if I tell you that I like you, Dylan,” she says carefully.
I could pop. “Of course not! Why would I? I like you too.”
“Yeah?” She sounds delighted. Almost surprised. I wish she weren’t. I’m the one who needs to hang what she just said on a wall in a gilded frame with a commemorative plaque and everything. “I hope you don’t think I’m a total dork if we go slow.”
If it means more of our nightly phone calls that’ve become a welcome habit before bed and more texts in between classes at school, then I’m all for it. I don’t want her to be terrified, not by me or anyone else. I can wait. She is worth it all. “Dork is the absolute last thing that comes to mind. I’m too busy thinking how lucky I am.” I squeeze her hand and she squeezes back.
We stare at row after row of sleeping roses. They will bloom when they’re ready.
FOURTEEN