I slide on some tinted lip balm and put my hair, still wet from the shower, in two simple braids. It’s a relief to slip into a T-shirt and shorts instead of a party outfit, but I have to shake the momentary urge to put on something nice to impress Jasmine.
“Your hair looks cute like that,” she says when I walk into the living room, where she’s splayed out on the couch, her tank top riding up an inch.
Warmth tinges my cheeks at her compliment. “Thanks. I didn’t know what else to do with it. Didn’t feel like blow-drying it.” I fiddle with the wet ends. “Don’t you dare give me an ‘I told you so,’ but I’ve been thinking about what you said in the gardens. About making a change. Maybe.”
She bites her lip to keep from laughing, and I stick out my tongue. “It was only a suggestion!” she calls over her shoulder as the microwave beeps and she hops up to get the puffed-up bag of popcorn. “But I would be totally pro a curly bob. Not super short or anything, but like, curls down to here.” She indicates her throat just past her chin. “Your hair’s naturally wavy anyway, right? It’d be so much less work.”
“That sounds… kind of cute, actually,” I say, but what I’m thinking is whether Shannon would think I could pull it off, and if Chase prefers long hair. His dating history would suggest he does. “I was also thinking of maybe going lighter. Like, actual blond—not my something-in-between-blond-and-brown color.”
She tips her head, examining me in a way that makes me feel warm all over, and nods. “You would look so good blond, I bet.” She puts the popcorn on the counter, walks over, and delicately lifts a braid. “Yeah, I totally see it.”
I forget how to breathe until the braid once again grazes my shoulder. “You think?”
“I definitely think. There’s a cool wig shop I’ve been wanting to check out, for fun and maybe a few pictures. We could try it, see what you think. If you like it, I know a great place only a few miles away with a stylist named Valentina who’s agenius. She used to style my mom’s hair when we came here before my parents’ divorce, and trust me, my mother would not let anyone who couldn’t medal in the hair Olympics touch her precious locks.”
It sounds scary and fun, and I’m not sure which emotion is winning. I haven’t changed my look in… ever, really. The one I have now has always worked well enough—it’s friend-approved, mom-adored, and even if I haven’t gotten the Boy, it certainly looks good enough to getotherboys for some fun here and there.
What would they all think if I came back with such a drastic change?
No, wait, screw that—what wouldIthink?
“Let’s try it,” I say before I can let anyone else’s voicemake me second-guess myself. “It’s just temporary, right? No commitment until I see if I like it.”
“Exactly. No cutting or dyeing until you get to see it on you. But I bet you’re gonna look amazing. I have an eye for these things.”
Considering how good Jasmine looks on a daily basis, I don’t doubt it. Not that I say that. “What do you want to watch?” I ask instead.
“Something fun and glamorous.” She grabs some peanut M&Ms from their constant spot in the kitchen cabinet and shakes them into the popcorn, then brings the bowl to the couch and pats the seat next to her. “I can always watchOcean’s 8orCrazy Rich Asiansor whatever for the zillionth time, or we can try something else if you’re in the mood.”
Those words aren’t meant to be suggestive, but my skin prickles anyway. Her tank top is hanging low and her hair looks soft to the touch and we haven’t established any sorts of rules, but it feels like I would be breaking one if I told her I was, in fact, very in the mood.
“Whatever you want,” I croak as I join her, careful not to let my skin brush hers. She shrugs and puts onCrazy Rich Asians, which she’s already watched at least twice this summer. Itisa fun movie, but it’s not a particularly sexy one, and I hope that watching it like a hawk will get these ridiculous thoughts out of my brain. But then she stretches the gold chenille throw blanket over my lap and I get the scent of her peach lotion and even Henry Golding can’t bring me back from the brink of madness.
Jasmine, of course, doesn’t notice a thing. She’s gluedto the screen, commenting on how much she loves every single character’s wardrobe and jewelry, oblivious to how badly I want to lean over and kiss her bare shoulder that’s inches away. I’m too foggy-brained to even think about how weird it is thatIwant to. The couple of times we’ve made out have somehow felt like the simplest, most obvious moves, but in reality, they’re so much more complicated.
But what I want right now isn’t complicated. What I want is very, very simple.
I wish people would just admit what they want when they want it.
Before I know what I’m doing, I’m resting my chin on her shoulder. Leaving the lightest of kisses behind on her skin. Glancing at her for a reaction.
Her eyelids flutter shut.
Okay then.
I kiss her smooth shoulder very deliberately this time. Again, a trace of my tongue. Again, a nip of my teeth. She inhales sharply, stops reaching for popcorn, stops saying a word about jeweled rings and couture dresses. I push her hair to the side and kiss my way to the top of her spine, bracing myself on her bare thigh. And then her hand covers mine, helps it slide over her skin, no doubt leaving peach-scented traces on my palm. It’s so much. Everything smells and tastes and feels so good and it’s making me dizzy.
I move in closer, my breasts brushing her back, and we fall on our sides on the couch, me still kissing her shoulder, her throat while she slides my hand higher, over her cotton shorts, up to her smooth, flat belly. Myfingers have the easiest access to her waistband, but her grip isn’t as strong, her desires less pointed and clear, and I’m not sure how far to go or how far Iwantto go. I settle for grazing my fingertips over the front of her shorts. She must be as wired as I am because it seems like enough.
It’s growing unbearably hot under the blanket, but one rule neither of us says aloud is that it can’t come off. As long as there’s a blanket, as long as there isn’t anything out in the open, it’s easy to imagine there’s nothing at all. And we need to imagine there’s nothing at all, because if this is something—if the fact that I desperately want to slide my hand down her shorts is real—then what are we?
What am I?
It’s one summer.
You can’t change into a different person over a summer.
Chapter Thirteen
