“You’re not,” I say, wishing he would touch me again, wondering if I’m massively screwing this all up, if I’m doing everything wrong, if I’m saying the wrong things.
“I’m not?” he asks. “Your face is red,” he says, grinning, and I know it is—I can feel heat fill it, I can feel my whole body flood with warmth—I’m just surprised he can see it in the dark.
I swallow, my saliva thick and difficult to get down. It takes effort, conscious thought. I don’t look him in the eye as I admit, “I’m just not used to people saying things like that I’m beautiful.”
He puts a finger under my chin, lifts my face so I look at him. “Well, you are,” he says. “You are beautiful.” He stares hard and then he asks, teasing, the moonlight slipping out from behind a cloud just then, flickering off his eyes and making them glow, “You have kissed a boy, haven’t you? Or is that not since fourth grade too?”
“Yeah,” I say, breathless. “I have.”
“When?” he asks, like he doesn’t believe me.
And I could tell him it was exactly three weeks ago yesterday, though the guy was so bombed out of his mind there’s no way he remembers and probably wouldn’t have kissed me if he was sober, but instead I take a page out of Skylar’s playbook and say, “It’s not nice to kiss and tell. Besides, it’s none of your business,” which he likes because he grins.
He says, “Well played, Reese like the candy. Well played. I like you.”
All I hear isI like you, which I overthink. Does he like me-like me, like actuallylikeme, or is he not serious? Is he kidding? Is it just something you say?
He says, “You know, we could just kiss and get it over with,” and my knees go weak. My heart almost explodes out of my chest. And I want to say yes. Let’s kiss. Because it’s all I’ve been thinking about since the first time I laid eyes on him yesterday afternoon: what he would taste like and what his tongue would feel like in my mouth. I’ve imagined it again and again in my mind, trying to manifest it, to make it happen, trying not to think about how many other girls like me he’s kissed out here in these woods.
“Why do you think I want to kiss you?” I ask, because Skylar always says to play hard to get, because it makes them want you more.
“You don’t?” he asks, looking hurt.
“No. I don’t,” I say. “At least not until you show me what I came to see.”
“Are you scared?”
“Of kissing you?”
“Of what I’m going to show you.”
“Should I be?”
“No,” he says. “I’ll protect you.”
“Protect me from what?” I ask.
What is he going to protect me from?
Is there something I should be afraid of out there in the woods?
“You’ll see.”
We turn, following the path through the trees, which narrows with every step. I lose track of time until, eventually, I’m not so sure we’re even on a trail anymore. The brush gets taller. It comes to my ankles first and then my knees, making me wonder what lives in there, though I trynotto think about those things, but to think about something else instead, like the soft stroke of his shirt against my arm as we walk or his deep voice saying,You know, we could just kiss and get it over with.I play it back in mymind a thousand times, fantasizing about how it will happen, about if it will happen. If it will be gentle, his soft lips grazing mine, my face cradled in his hands, or if it will be fast, frantic, urgent, our hearts wild, our breathing heavy, hands drifting.
Or if it won’t happen at all.
If he’ll decide at some point that he doesn’t want to kiss me, that he doesn’t even like me.
Branches scrape against me as we walk. Twigs pull at my hair. The sound of crickets is rhythmic, throbbing. I feel it in my chest. Daniel reaches for my hand, his warm despite the cool night. He pulls me closer to him, steering me through the trees and over fallen logs and exposed tree roots as if he’s got night vision, as if he can somehow see in the dark. I hear him say it again in my mind,You know, we could just kiss and get it over with.And this time I fantasize about him stopping us where we are, about him turning and pressing me into a tree, feeling the knobby bark against my back as he leans in and kisses me.
“How do you know where you’re going?” I ask.
“I just do,” he says, and then he asks, “Do your parents always fight like that?” and though they’re the last people in the world I want to talk about, it’s easier than talking about things like boyfriends and kissing.
“Yup. Pretty much.”
Except it’s not true. It wasn’t always this way. There was a time they got along, and I don’t know if that makes things better or worse. Emily and Nolan were never the PDA type, but they used to like each other, I think—either that or they had the willpower to fight where we couldn’t see or hear, which is unfortunate for Mae because they don’t give a crap what she sees or hears now. Sucks being the third kid.
