“I don’t wanna mess anything up,” he says softly.
When I hear those words, I know for certain that things have been different since September. It wasn’t a figment of my imagination. My fingers tremble just a little as I rest my hand on his chest. “You can’t mess up what’s already changed.”
His whole body relaxes and he wraps his hand around mine, holding it there over his heart. I recognize this feeling. It’s the same one from the other night, when he leaned his forehead against mine. The air is thick with meaning. Ripe with possibility.
Finally, he breaks the silence. “Will you go to the Spring Fling with me?”
“As . . . friends?”
He shakes his head. “As more than friends.”
I squeeze his hand harder—partially from excitement, partially to stay upright.
“Wanted to ask you at Dooney’s party,” he says, “but I chickened out.”
I nod without taking my eyes from his. I didn’t just imagine that moment. He felt it, too. “Probably better this way, ’cause, you know, now I’m not . . . wasted.”
He laughs, that easy, quiet huff from earlier in geology, a laugh that you only notice if you’re watching. “Yeah. I didn’t know if you really felt this way or if . . . you know—”
“It was the Cabo Wabo?”
He nods.
Without moving my hand from his, I straighten up, shoulders back, all business. “Ben Cody, I, Kate Weston, being stone-cold sober, will hereby accompany you to the Spring Fling.” I move my other hand up to his cheek, and whisper, “And anywhere else you want to go.”
When you have an unexpected crush on your childhood best friend, you spend a lot of time imagining the way you might kiss him one day. The fantasies I entertained of this moment were ridiculous clichés, based on movies and TV shows and the romance novels I used to find in the pool clubhouse at Grandma Clark’s condo. These scenarios often involved a helicopter over the Grand Canyon, a ski lift in Colorado, the top of the Eiffel Tower amid fireworks, or an unspecified beach in California.
But then it happens.
Right here in the hallway at Coral Sands High School, next to the senior staircase, in front of my locker. He wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me into him like it’s the most natural, least preposterous thing ever.
Then he’s kissing me. And I’m kissing him back.
I forget to be concerned about being good at it, or what I should do with my hands—or my lips. It all seems to happen on its own. I don’t worry for an instant that there aren’t fireworks over our heads or waves crashing across our feet. The where doesn’t really matter at all. Turns out any ordinary place can be made extraordinary by the presence of the right person.
We’re still kissing when that god-awful tone sounds, only this time I don’t jump out of my skin. It doesn’t faze me at all. In fact, neither one of us seems to hear it. With that blaring of the concert B-flat, a wave of students crashes down the hall. At some point, a gasp from Rachel filters through and a shouted laugh from Christy. I become aware of male voices across the hallway chanting bros before hoes but we keep right on kissing.
All of the games and pretense, all of the manners and posturing are swept away. The truth of Ben and me is out there for everyone to see, laid bare in front of a bunch of hooting Neanderthals.
And we don’t care, because we have each other.
Greg and Randy start chanting along with Dooney and Deacon. It reaches a fevered pitch and makes Ben and me start to laugh. We’re both blushing as we take a step back.
He squeezes my hand.
He promises to call me later, even though he doesn’t need to.
I already know he will.
Lindsey lets out a tiny squeal and four italicized rapid-fire questions. “Where did that come from? What is happening? Are you official? Tell me everything.” Christy is making gagging noises as she digs around in her locker for her books. Lindsey punches her in the shoulder. “I thought it was sweet.”
Rachel slowly shakes her head and stares at me. “You know how to pick ’em, Weston. Hashtag: total package.”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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ten
ON TUESDAY MORNING, I forget it’s St. Patrick’s day, and spend the walk to geology dodging pinches from Rachel and Christy because I wore my green yesterday.
For the second day in a row, there is no reply when Mr. Johnston calls “Stallard, Stacey.”
For the second day in a row, there is also a six-foot-four guy leaning against my locker at lunchtime.
For the first time, however, John Doone is there, too, waiting with Ben as the hall empties in the general direction of the cafeteria.
Dooney is looking at Ben’s phone as I walk up. “You sure it’s gone?”