For a moment, I think he’s going to say more. The thought is there, just on the edge of everything, but instead, he looks at me like he’s trying to say goodbye without actually saying the words.
I lean toward him because I don’t know how to thank him. We’re so close, but I don’t want to make the wrong move.
“Would it be okay if I gave you a kiss goodnight?”
“Such a gentleman,” he says. “I’d like that.”
His eyes flicker down to my mouth, and I get that weird tunnel-vision thing for just a second, like when I’ve skated too hard without eating enough beforehand. Then, without thinking, I close the space between us.
His kiss is soft at first, tentative. Even though it’s not our first kiss, it’s our first kiss after our first date. A soft moan escapes my lips because, after all this time, I’ve finally been on an actual date with Harry Peterson.
And then, maybe spurred on by the noises I can’t seem to stop, it deepens, and I forget about everything except the feel of his lips on mine, the warmth of his breath against my cheek. His tongue dances with mine, and at some point, he nibbles my upper lip. It hurts, but in a way that feels amazing.
“Fuck, Peterson.”
He’s back, kissing, biting, licking the inside of my mouth, and I’m so grateful I sucked on those mints. For a moment, I consider moving my hands from his chest to his groin, but then I remember what he said about it being the perfect night and wanting to preserve that memory as it is, so I don’t.
When we pull apart, there’s nothing left to say, just the quiet of the night outside my Saab.
He looks at me, his eyes soft and full of something I can’t quite name.
“Goodnight, Darius,” he says, a little breathless.
Leaning over,Harry plants the softest, sweetest kiss on my lips. Fuck, I could get used to this.
“See you in the morning.” He runs his thumb down my jawline and then moves to open the door.
I nod, my hand resting on the gearshift, as I try to recover from kissing him. “Good night, Harry.”
10
HARRY
“He brought skates for you?”
“He did. It was . . . sweet.”
Christine and I may have finished with this year’s musical, but we typically begin planning for next year immediately after. It gives us an excuse to eat lunch in one of our rooms a couple days a week and talk about topics we typically wouldn’t in the teacher’s lounge. Today, we’re in my classroom, and she’s brought a tub of her homemade coconut chocolate chip cookies.
“Honestly, Harry. You and Coach Hill hooking up was not on my bingo card.”
Christine’s black hair is pulled up into a high ponytail. I’m not entirely sure how it stays up, but there’s always at least one pencil sticking out of it, sometimes two.
“To be fair, it wasn’t on mine either.” I take a bite of the turkey sandwich I made this morning and wish it was a melt from Sammy’s.
“He brought me lunch.” I scoot back from the kidney-shaped table and cross my legs.
“Darius Hill made that pathetic dry-ass turkey sandwich for you?” Her hair shakes in perpetual motion as she tilts her head.
“No, no. I made this. He saved the day last week when I forgot my lunch. I didn’t have time to shop over the weekend.”
“Because you were exhausted from your sexy hotel romp with the hot, awful, but maybe not-so-awful-anymore PE teacher-slash-hockey coach.”
“Exactly.” I abandon my sandwich for the bag of salt and vinegar chips. “And the jury’s still out. I’m proceeding with extreme caution.”
“But, you’re proceeding.”
“He brought me skates.”
