“And that you should kiss me again. Many times.”
“As you’re now aware,” he says, his heated gaze dropping to my mouth, “I always follow your instructions.”
He closes the distance between us to do exactly as told, while colorful explosions continue overhead. And together, we make our own kind of fireworks.
Chapter Sixteen
West
There are many differences inthe day after what Cammie dubbed our “first kiss, round two” versus round one. Like:
Both of us are three years older.
I manage my anxiety by going to therapy, taking meds, and other ongoing self-care strategies, instead of pretending I’m fine and white-knuckling my way through everyday life.
I am not on the verge of several major life changes that make me confused about what kind of relationship I want with Cammie and am subsequently way less likely to say or do anything so out of line that we don’t speak for three years.
There is also one major similarity:
I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.
Waking up this morning, I’m half convinced the last twenty-four hours were a dream. There’s no way that I, West Jacobs, have been so lucky as to win Cammie Lovett’s affections for the second time in this one short life.
The first time, in all the years I’ve had to analyze it from every possible angle, could have been written off as a product of naïveté or convenience. We were pretty much each other’s entire social circle for most of our childhood. Stick us together on one cool international dig site after another, add a healthy share of teenage hormones, and puppy love was nearly guaranteed to result.
This time around, I know the last thing she wanted was to like me, let alone more. And still, in a hostile environment of our own making, feelings took root and grew. So they have to be real, and lasting, and not just because we were forced into close proximity for the summer.
Right?
My confidence in that fact is dropping the longer I go without any sign of Cammie. As is my certainty that we ended last night in a good place. After the fireworks—literal and in my mind—wound down, Cam and I were the kind of disgustingly affectionate couple I usually steer clear of if I see them in public. Holding hands on the train ride and on the subsequent walk from the station to Villa Russo, exchanging giddy smiles over nothing and everything, stealing a kiss every few minuteslike we were trying to meet a quota. At the door to her room, I’d slowly leaned in for a good-night peck, and she responded by gripping the fabric of my T-shirt in her fist and pulling me closer until she was pressed between me and the door, and I forgot where we were, what day it was, my own name. Nothing existed anymore but Cammie, her smile, and the way she makes my heart feel like it could beat straight out of my chest.
We finally managed to separate ourselves and retreat to our own rooms, only to meet again at the sinks, where we brushed our teeth side by side, and then I learned that Cammie’s toothpaste has a slightly sweeter mint flavor than my own.
When I told her this, she replied teasingly, “Maybe it’s just me.”
Maybe I’d already been thinking the same.
This morning, I’ve heard nothing but silence from her side of the wall. She wasn’t at breakfast when I went, which gave me plenty of time to sip my coffee and overanalyze every word that left a certain redhead’s mouth yesterday. All the ones I remember, at least, from when I wasn’t distracted by staring at said mouth or thinking about kissing it.
I’m busy staring at my phone as I start back toward my room, my message thread with Cammie sitting open with a blinking cursor as I try to figure out what to say. It needs to give the appropriate vibe of “just FYI, I’m still into you, twelve hours and a full night of sleep later, but in a chill, low-pressure way.”
But without saying exactly those words, thereby sounding like a chatbot’s best effort at mimicking human flirtation.
