Will’s Grammy pipes up, “Kennedy, aren’t you thinking about law school next year?”
I take a sip of water. “Yeah. I actually just submitted my applications. About a week ago.”
My phone buzzes on my lap.
Will:You look beautiful. Holy shit how are you even real?
I turn my head, trying to search for him. How did he see me and I haven’t seen him? “Where did you apply?” Paul asks.
I deliberately don’t look at my phone and try to focus on answering Paul’s question. “Bramwood, Michigan, Brown, University of Florida, and a couple of smaller safe schools.”
The parents start discussing my law school options as if I’m not literally sitting right here and I finally allow myself to read his messages.
Will:I need to tell you in person how good you look.
Will:Meet me at the stairwell by the elevator.
I know the exact place he’s talking about, a set of stairs that students use to bypass the main floor traffic. These stairs are in the corner of the building and are behind a set of doors. I announce, “I’m going to the bathroom,” hoping I don’t seem weird as I stand up.
My heart is pumping hard and fast as I walk out of the event hall and toward the stairwell. This is forbidden anddangerous. So, so dangerous. I feel like I’m sneaking out to go to a high school party.
When I push open the doors to the stairwell, Will’s already there, leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, looking like my high school dreams actualized.
“Come here,” he says, stepping into my space, fiercely pressing his lips to mine. Adrenaline is building with every passing second. We’d never be able to explain how we ended up in this stairwell togethermaking outwhen I should be in the bathroom and he should be doing whatever it is he should be doing.
Before I know it, my hands are sliding up his chest and my lips are parting, deepening the kiss. He walks us backward until my back is pressed against the cold wall and my legs are wrapped around his hips. I twirl my fingertips into the hair at the back of his neck and he lets out a moan into my mouth. “I’m not going to be able to make it through tonight, you look–”
The door next to us opens and someone walks in startling me. We jump apart and I let out a gasp like I was just hit with a bucket of water.Shit, shit, shit.Pure panic jolts through my body, anchoring my feet to the ground. It takes me a second to recognize this man as Will’s coach, but that doesn’t stop the surge of humiliation I’m currently drowning in.
“What the fuck are you doing, Taylor? Dinner is starting,now,” his coach says, standing there, holding open the door to the stairwell with his foot. Will looks down at the floor, red from the tips of his ears down his neck and under the collar of his crisp white dress shirt. I run my hands over the front of my dress, smoothing it back into place.His coach, Will’s shoes, the stairwell, the green of my dress, my gold ring.The sound of my breath, Will’s voice, his coach’s voice, the rustle of fabric. Vanilla lotion, deodorant, stale air.I’m fine.The strap of myheel, the bobby pin in my hair.Will runs a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry–”
“–And clean up that lipstick off your face,” his coach says. Will’s flush deepens, nodding once, both hands shooting to his face to wipe at his lips. Mortification consumes me, realizing that if Will’s face has lipstick smeared over it, then mine does too. I need to get out of here, this stairwell feels like it's closing in on me.
Without saying a word I slip around Will and his coach, practically running to the bathroom. I lock the stall door and press my forehead to the plastic door, eyes closed, finally letting out the breath I was holding.
It takes about a minute for me to regain composure, and brace myself for the big reveal I know is about to happen.
I clean up my smudged lipstick and reapply. Luckily, I’m wearing a pretty mild pinky-nude color tonight, so it's not that bad really. I force myself to do a grounding countdown once more before heading back to my table.
I sit down, expecting someone to say something, to stand up and point, sayingI know what she was just doing, look at her face, it's obvious.Or maybe even his coach standing next to the table scowling and whispering to his dad. But instead, I sit down without even an eyebrow being raised, a conversation still flowing around me about golf.
A few moments later, Will appears next to our table holding a tray full of ice water with one hand. I look up at him, catching his eye as he places the water in front of me, a small lopsided smile tugging on his lips. So he must not be in that much trouble from his coach.
I study him as he leans over, placing waters in front of everyone. His face is clear of any lipstick and his hair looks perfect. It's not natural how one person can look so good all the time.
His grandma gets out of her chair and gives him a hug. “You look so handsome in your tux,” she says, both hands on his shoulders, smiling at him.
“Thanks, grammy,” he says, tucking his tray under his arm. Then he turns to the table as if he rehearsed being a waiter and says, “I’ll be out shortly with salads and bread.” He takes a tiny bow and turns on his heel. He looks back at me over his shoulder, puckering his lips just slightly like he’s blowing a kiss.
Minutes later he reappears with baskets of warm bread and tiny individual butter cubes.
Miranda reaches for a roll from the closest basket, then hands the basket to me. I take a roll and add butter, observing the table and the tuxedoed guys coming and going. Hoping to get through the night without his coach talking to his parents. Or mine.
Next to me, Miranda’s phone buzzes again. She seems off. She’s been off all day. But like earlier, I don’t ask questions and pretend not to even notice how much she’s texting under the table and barely participating in the conversation. It has to be that mystery guy.
Will and another hockey guy bring out the entrees. Will sets up his tray stand next to me, face twisting for just a second, letting out a barely there grunt of pain as he maneuvers the heavy serving platter of food.
“Your knee bothering you?” Will’s dad asks.
