“Whatever. I don’t need this.” Dean gives Lucas a scathing look as he stalks toward the archway. “Glad the season’s over.”
We both look after him for a second; then Lucas moves toward an empty classroom nearby. I follow him inside, and he shuts the door, locking out the sound. We stay quiet for a minute, and then I clear my throat, feeling strange. “You’re . . . and you never told your swimming friends?”
He rolls his shoulders in that easy shrug. “I was scared,” he says, as if it’s nothing, as if admitting you’re scared isn’t gut-wrenchingly personal.
“Why did you tell Dean the truth, then?” I ask. “He would’ve believed it was a rumor.”
Lucas’s smile twists. It looks painful. “I wanted it back in my own hands, man. Didn’t want to start lying all over again.” He runs a hand through his hair. “By the way, we don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. I—I can go; I don’t want to make things awkward for you.”
“What, like I’m going to get all, no homo?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Yes.”
“Go ahead and homo,” I say dryly. “I couldn’t care less.”
He lets out a deep sigh. “Oh, thank goodness. After Monday, I thought you were . . .”
“Yes?”
“I don’t know. Not interested.”
“No,” I say, not quite grasping his expression. Caution, maybe? “You’re still interesting,” I say. “I avoided you because I doubted you’d take kindly to my punching—”
He leans down and kisses me.
It feels like I thought it would. Skin on lips, lips on skin. Of all things, the closeness is the strangest: the knowledge that Lucas’s mind is inches from mine, churning with his skipping, jumping thoughts, compiling lists and collections, cataloging everything that’s happening even now. He tilts his head, his nose presses into my cheek, and his hand finds the back of my head. One of his big, sturdy arms circles my back. It is too much sensation, almost, to process.
I frown as the kiss deepens, his tongue sliding against mine. Odd feeling. I wait for something new to happen in my head, something different.
Eventually, he pulls back, and his hand falls from my hair. “You’re not into it,” he says as I inhale slowly. The taste of him is cold on my lips, tingling mint. Not unpleasant. Not life-changing. Just another experience.
“Because I’m into you,” he says, his eyes holding mine. They are darker than I’d realized, spokes of dark chocolate on oil. “Really into you, Valentine.”
I sway. My cheeks burn. “Right. I sort of gathered that from the. Um. Yes.”
“And you . . .”
“I don’t . . . I’m not . . .”
“Right. You’re not into guys,” he says, disappointment settling onto his face.
Frustration mounts in my chest. He’s attractive; that’s obvious. I’ve never connected with a human being the way I have with him. And still—still . . . “I’m not into anyone,” I say desperately. “I don’t know if it’s because I’ve hardly had a friend, or what, but conceptualizing crushes has always been a problem, and I just—I don’t.” The words stick in my throat. I say them again, a broken record spitting broken words: “I don’t.”
“But . . . but I want you.” He sounds lost and confused, like a child.
I hold my ground. “Well, I don’t know what to do with that.”
“Oh.” Little by little, the disappointment vacates his expression, leaving him sober and unsmiling. I wait for a frustrated explosion, but Lucas just rubs his brow, seeming worlds away. “And it isn’t going to change,” he says.
“No. As far as I can tell.”
“Right.” Lucas’s eyes lift to mine, hopeful. “In that case, what do you think about going back to how things were?”
I frown, taken aback. “You—you want to?”
“Why would I not?”
“Because you have feelings for me, and I don’t return them.”
“If you’re okay with that, I can be, too,” he says. “Might take me a bit, but . . . yeah.” He smiles and extends a hand. “Friends?”
I look at Lucas, disbelieving. In under a week, he has lost his swim team posse, endured rumors about sleeping with a teacher, been forced out of the closet, and been turned down by me, of all people. And here he is with a smile on his face, one hand tucked into his North Face jacket, his journal sticking out of his backpack. Cool Lucas, handsome Lucas, overeager and optimistic Lucas. Mr. Sunny-Side-Up.
I take his hand. I want to say, Thank you; I want to say, I’m sorry; I want to say, You are some sort of strange miracle. “Yeah,” is what I say. “Yeah. Friends.”
THERE’S NEVER BEEN A SLOWER THURSDAY, I THINK, watching the clock. Usually I don’t even sense my afternoon hours slipping by as my lunchtime high wears off, but I haven’t smoked this whole week, and it’s throwing me off timewise.