—
A few minutes later, or maybe much later, I can’t really tell, David takes my hand and leads me outside to the backyard, which is mercifully quiet. My head is humming and my edges are blurry and the world is rolling. I’m drunk. That much is obvious. How drunk I am and how much I will regret this tomorrow remain to be seen.
“Do you want my jacket?” David asks, and I shake my head, which is, of course, a mistake. A wave of nausea hits fast and hard.
“Let’s sit down,” I say, and we find our way to the back porch steps. I scoot up next to David, since it’s cold out. We are the only people dumb enough to be outside. Even the smokers have abandoned their cigarettes for the warmth of the house.
“You okay? You’re not going to throw up or anything, are you?” he asks, and I don’t know why I find this hilarious, but I do. I laugh and then he does too, and the laughing and the cold somehow clear away the nausea.
“Nope. I pinky-swear I will not blow chunks.” David winces, and then of course my face goes red. Why did I have to say blow chunks, which is by far the least romantic word combo in the English language? I could have just said no. “I mean, I’m fine.”
“You match, you know? Your outsides and your insides are beautiful,” David says, and he throws one arm stiffly over my shoulder. The movement is awkward and clumsy and because of this awkwardness and clumsiness—not despite it—I’m charmed. Or maybe it’s the four vodka shots and whatever concoction Annie made for me. Either way, I like sitting here, with David’s arm heavy around my shoulders; I like studying his profile, basking in the glow of his compliments. I want to reach up and feel the tiny bit of stubble along his jawline. Unlike the rest of the guys here, he is more man than boy.
“I like to match,” I say, which I realize makes no sense but I think still comes off in a flirty way. It’s so much easier to flirt drunk. How come I never realized this before? This is the sort of basic information I’m sure someone like Lauren Drucker already knows. David smells good, and the crook of his neck seems inviting. The sort of place where I should rest my dizzy head. And I do. Nuzzle right in there. Which is something I would never do without liquid courage.
“We match,” I say, and as soon as the words are out I already know that tomorrow will come and I will remember this moment and wince. We match?? And so, even through this drunken haze, I feel relief when he doesn’t laugh at me. Instead he squeezes me a little tighter, brings me a tiny bit closer so my edges are against his edges, and it’s all warm. Our bodies fit. I secretly sniff him, and get rewarded with his fresh lemony scent.
I want him to kiss me, I realize. There is nothing else really left for me to want. I can’t undo the past two months. I can’t make my dad be alive. Or my mother not be a cheater. I can’t undo the accident, am no longer naive enough to think that figuring out the math could somehow make it better. I can’t become editor in chief. I can’t change or fix any of it. But kissing David would feel good, good enough for me not to think about Lauren’s warning that I better not hurt her brother, good enough for me not to worry about whether David will understand the concept of a casual hookup, good enough for me not to think about why I ever started the Accident Project in the first place.
Good enough that I will not think about my dad or my mom or anything at all.
David has told me I am beautiful, not once but twice, and right now I really feel that he isn’t lying, that I am, or maybe that one day I could be, beautiful, inside and out.
Kissing David would make me forget.
Is that so wrong? For me to want to forget for just a little while?
Kissing David would feel good.
Do I need a better reason than that?
Team David, I think. I’m totally on Team David.
Kit’s head is resting on my shoulder. She is wearing a red dress that makes her look like a mummy. It’s made of supertight blood-colored bandages, the kind of dress that should be illegal for a teenage girl because she looks about twenty-five, not sixteen. I want to touch her. I want to tell her that she is the first girl I have ever loved, since I think that must be what this feeling is. Love.
I have never felt this way before. I’ve never had someone loom so large in my brain that the rest of the stuff gets crowded out. Out here, in this quiet backyard, I can tune out the distant thump of the music. Out here, with her head on my shoulder and the smell of her shampoo—almond and honey—and the feel of her soft hair against my cheek, I can forget that I am David Drucker. I can forget everything. That I’m the kind of person whose mom has to hire a social skills tutor so I can learn how to have a basic human conversation. That I’m the kind of person who routinely receives texts that say things like Die, loser. That I’m the kind of person who would be stupid enough to go into a bathroom stall with Justin because he promised he “had something cool to show me.”
How do I kiss her? Miney gave me a ton of advice, like not to jam my tongue down Kit’s throat or to be too slobbery. She even made me watch YouTube tutorials on technique. But we never got around to how to actually do it. How do I move from us sitting next to each other, ostensibly observing the stars and listening to the eerie creak of the swing set, to putting our lips together?
“Kit?” I decide I will just ask her to kiss me. Or better yet, ask if I can kiss her. Best to be direct and clear. Leave no room for miscommunication, my specialty.
“Hmm,” she says, which I assume means yes.
“How would you feel about me— I mean, what do you think about the idea—” I can’t say it. How would you feel about me kissing you? Can I kiss you? would be better. Yes, that would be more accurate. I want permission, not a complicated discussion of her emotional state.
Can I kiss you? Four simple words. I can do this.
I turn my head again, and as I talk my lips brush her forehead. Almost a kiss. Just seven and a half inches off.
“Can I—?” But before I can ask the question, her head shifts and she leans in and wraps her hand around the back of my neck and closes the gap. Seven and a half inches erased just like that. Her lips are on mine, and we are kissing.
All I can think is Kit kissed me, over and over until I stop thinking altogether.
I am kissing David Drucker. I am kissing David Drucker. I am kissing David Drucker.