“Can I ask you something?” he asks.
“Of course.”
“Why’d you come back? I mean, if you really wanted me to have that money you could have just donated it online.”
I press my lips together. “That’s true.”
“So?”
“I needed to see you,” I admit.
Matt pushes his chair away from the table and stands up. He holds his hand out to me. My heart threatens to pound its way up through my throat and out onto the floor. I place my hand in his, let him pull me up to standing. He puts his hands on my waist. “I think I needed to see you too,” he says.
“You think?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I just—” he begins, but no more words come.
My mind races with conflicting emotions.He wouldn’t try to do anything.He’s with Leyla. And Brett’s right there on the couch.
Matt places his hands on the sides of my face, and I become acutely aware of my pulse throbbing in my neck. My mouth goes dry as he leans in, closes his eyes, and gently brings his lips to mine.
Every part of me tingles with a combination of desire and nostalgia. His mouth tastes of strawberry Chapstick and wonton soup; the angle of his jaw cupped in my palm brings back memories of my teenage years. The kiss is soft and careful. I yearn to feel his tongue on mine, but it’s not that kind of kiss. It’s like a sigh, a quieting of the mind, the realization of running for so long only to finally come home. It’s a gift: the most cruel, ironic second chance I neverdreamed I could have.
When it ends, he pulls back slowly, resting his forehead against mine. “Thank you,” he whispers.
“For what?” I wonder.
“For reminding me that it could be like this.”
I close my eyes, wishing time could freeze right here.
Chapter twelve
17 Years Ago
Iwas 14 years old when I had my first kiss.
It was a particularly hot day in the middle of July, one where the whole camp spent the afternoon at the beach. Each side of camp had its own enormous set of beach stairs to contend with: 272 stairs on girls’ side and 266 on boys’ side. The steps were a thin, winding series of wood planks butted up against each other like fallen dominoes that sliced a pathway through the woods and down the cliff. Smelling entirely like pine, fresh dirt, and composting leaves from the prior season, the steps allowed for a single-file line of kids to march down to the beach for a welcome reprieve from the summer heat.
Once on the sand, the boys had to trek a half mile along the dancing edge of the Long Island Sound to get to where the girls had haphazardly strewn their towels. A cacophony of terrycloth patterns gave life to one of the most peaceful spots on the north fork of Long Island. Across the clear blue horizon one could see tiny specks of the Connecticut coastline, and on a day like this where the sound was calm, the small waves were painted light gray with streaks of pale green and teal. The sand ended about 10 feet from the actual shoreline, where it was replaced by a thick band of tiny pebbles in every earthly colorimaginable. Although the pebbles’ edges were rounded and smooth from the constant shifting of the tides, they felt sharp under bare, wet feet, turning sandbars into a respite for weary swimmers afraid to cut their toes on barnacles or jagged rocks hidden by the churning blackness of deeper waters. It was different than the Atlantic surf of the south shore, different still from the muddy shoreline along the bay. The Sound held its own majesty.
The pack of feral boys arrived, a band of nomads hopped up on sugar courtesy of their post-lunch trip to the canteen. Towels and T-shirts lay carelessly over their heads to protect their scalps from the scorching sun. The male counselors who were lifeguards wore red shorts and lanyard whistles around their necks that matched the red tank one-pieces the female lifeguards wore. The cut of those suits accentuated the round swells of the more well-endowed guards, like Callie. That summer, I was obsessed with breasts, constantly checking my chest for when my own might arrive, in much the same way I waited for a care package from my parents to show up at the camp office. So far, both were a no-show this summer.
Still, I tried to look good, having chosen a blue and white striped bikini that showed off my long legs and tanned stomach. My hair cascaded down my back in tangled waves. Boys were noticing. Case in point: at the end of the first session, I performed at the Council Fire with my dance class. I was in the back row focused on getting all the steps right when I heard, “Yeah, Taylor!” coming from one of the older boys. I almost tripped over my own feet.Catcalls?Other boys joined in. I couldn’t help but smile to myself. When the performance was over, Matt gave me a high five. “You looked awesome,” he told me. “Like you were glowing, with the giant fire behind you.”
I noticed the boys, too. Finn Zeigler, for example, was the lifeguard who led the giant, straggly pack of boys down the beach, and whenhe was shirtless, I couldn’t help but admire the golden tan of his skin and the way his chest hair glimmered in the sunlight. He had a tattoo of a python on his calf, which simply served to remind me how much older he was.Totally out of my league. But hot, regardless.
“Scooch, Roberts,” Matt said, hip checking me at my towel. “Make room.” He laid his plush, oversized towel out in the spot I’d saved for him.
“Got snacks?” I asked.
“You know it. Check in here,” he replied, sliding his backpack off one shoulder and handing it over. A long can of Pringles potato chips was wedged along the side of the pack, next to a bag of Sour Patch Kids and a Charleston Chew that was probably frozen at some point but now perspired all over the extra T-shirt he had rolled up around his MP3 player. “Help yourself.”
I slid the Pringles out of the backpack. “Did your mom send these?” They weren’t available for purchase at the canteen, thereby making them the most exciting snack of the three options.
He nodded. “Yup. Got the package yesterday. Saved them for today, though.”
“That’s why you’re my favorite,” I said into his ear while giving him a quick hug from behind. That was new also, the touching. We’d both been testing the waters with it. A little hug here, a playful shove there. I kept to myself with the boys at school; despite noticing several of them, I never wanted to draw attention to myself. Those boys (and the cool girls who laid claim to them) all knew my back story—at least enough of it that I knew none of them would ever seriously consider me a real option for a potential girlfriend.
