I didn’t move for a second or two, my brain unable to catch up with my body. Then he swept his tongue between my lips and my blood pumped harder as my mouth moved against his.
It was a hard kiss, but it was gentle, too. His lips were soft and his tongue tasted like red wine. His hips held me pressed against the door while my legs were wrapped around him, his hands holding my ass, squeezing gently. It had been so long since I’d felt something so . . . erotic. I felt like one of those inflatable Christmas decorations that people put outside—they lay limp all day, but at night the lights come on and the air starts pumping and they come to life.
That kiss breathed life into me.
Paul James’ kiss made me feel alive.
When he pulled his mouth from mine, he took a little nip at my bottom lip that made me gasp. We were both breathing hard, our chests heaving up and down. I clutched his muscular shoulders as he slowly lowered me to the ground, holding me for a moment to make sure I got my footing, which took a minute because my legs felt like jelly.
I swallowed hard as I looked up and met his gaze.
“You don’t have to think so hard about that first kiss now.” With a small, mischievous smile, he added, “I’m lucky I got to be the first man to kiss the woman starting a new life.”
Moments later, I was still plastered to the door when he drove away.
Ashley is leaning forward in her chair, her eyes, painted in thick, black eyeliner, fixed on me. “So it was a good kiss?” She’s practically drooling.
A smile creeps across my lips. “It was the best kiss of my life,” I admit.
Ashley nods as she watches me, seemingly pleased with my answer. Then she collects herself. “Same time next week, Clara?”
“Sounds good.”
Two days later, I’m about to knock on Neena’s bedroom door when I hear her talking from the other side. I listen for a moment, wondering if she’s talking to herself, but quickly realize she’s on her phone.
“I’ll bring it today and give it to you,” she says.
Pause.
“Hey, you wanna grab some food this afternoon?” she asks, her tone hopeful.
Another pause.
“Oh . . . okay.”
Pause, again.
“Yeah, I understand.”
Pause.
“Okay. See you later. Bye.” After a few seconds, she hangs up.
I listen for another minute or two. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it. Who was she talking to? The only friend I’ve heard mentioned is Mills, and that was by Paul. Was it Mills? Did he just reject her? Shit. That’s all she needs right now. I know it’s a crush, but she could use a friend closer to her age. Even if it’s a high school kid. She’s barely wanted to get out of bed the last two days, and now this. Finally, I open her door. She’s standing in front of her full-length mirror, shoving tissues in her bra. As I enter, she rushes to her bed and grabs her pillow, covering herself. “Can’t you knock, Mom?” she snaps, her voice quivering with anger.
“I-I’m sorry,” I stutter. I look to the floor, unsure of what to do here. Should I leave or should I stay and discuss what I’ve just seen?
“I’m a teenager. I deserve privacy.” She’s upset with me. And embarrassed. But she shouldn’t be. All women have been there at some point; been that young girl desperate for womanhood, but stuck in that in-between stage where our bodies don’t look as sexy as our minds think we should or as sexy as society tells us we should. She’s not doing anything wrong. I just want her to understand it’s normal to feel this way.
“Sweetie, I didn’t mean to—”
“You’re always doing that!” she shrieks. “You’re always just walking in without knocking. I’m not a little kid anymore.” Her voice cracks with emotion, her lip trembling. Then . . . the tears start. She flops down on her bed and yanks the tissues out of her bra, tossing them on the floor.
I take a moment to pick my next words carefully. I’m pretty sure no matter what I say, she’s going to yell at me. Looks like we’re having one of those classic teenage daughter-mother moments. If it meant she’d live, I’d take a million a day just to keep her here. “You know, boobs aren’t all they’re cracked up to be,” I murmur as I take a few steps inside of her room. “Bras are so damn uncomfortable and boobs just want to flop around when you run or work out.”
She doesn’t look at me as she uses the back of her hand to wipe at her nose. “I don’t care,” she gripes. “I want them.”
“I know you do. Every girl your age wants them.”
“Yeah, well I’ll never have them so it doesn’t matter. I’ll be dead before I even have a chance to grow boobs.”
I close my eyes. Keep it together, Clara. “You don’t need them, honey. You’re beautiful. Boobs don’t equate beauty.”
She flies off the bed and flings the pillow to the side. She’s wearing a tiny, white bra and pajama pants, revealing her frail body and thin arms. Each one of her ribs is defined, her pale skin stretched across them. “Look at me, Mom!” she shouts, her eyes glossy with tears as they stream down her face. “Look at me!”