I reach in, grab a juicy-looking red gummy, and pop it in my mouth.
Ash lurches up. “You didn’t have to—”
I close the bag and toss it back in the drawer as I chew. The gummy isn’t nearly as juicy as it looked. It’s kind of chalky. “Can’t touch Welch’s,” I say. “How long does it take to work?”
He looks at me with amazement in his eyes. “Depends on the person, I guess.”
I’m glad he thinks I’m amazing, because I only feel shaky. My mom likes to tell me horror stories of WEED OVERDOSE, like it’s some epidemic. People going paranoid and running into the street, people falling asleep and never waking up, people getting so sick they throw up for hours. I don’t think any of herstories are true. And if they are, I know I’m not going to get that way from one gummy. People use marijuana to medicate for cancer, why shouldn’t we do it for feelings too?
My mind is already taking close stock of my body, trying to figure out if I’m feeling effects or if I’m making myself think I am. To distract myself, I turn and look down at Ash.
“This might be blunt,” I say, “but do you like me, or something?”
His face turns tomato red again. He huffs, his mouth twisting into a kind of terrified smile. He props himself up on his side. “What makes you think that?”
“A few things,” I say. “You already had my phone number when I didn’t have yours. You were pretty forceful about telling me I wasn’t bothering you. You invited me over to look at your computer. And you just said there’s a bunch of stuff you had to tell me, but you’re clearly uncomfortable about it and wouldn’t have told me normally, so I feel like that’s probably some kind of declaration or something.”
“Okay, well, shit,” he says.
“Am I right?” I love being right.
“I thought it would be weird,” he says. “Since you were Alissa’s best friend.”
I stand up. I’m too excited to stay sitting. “Youlikeme?”
He flips onto his back again, crossing his arms and scowling at the ceiling. “I guess.” I’m smiling the biggest smile I’vesmiled in days, in weeks. Ash glances at me. “Why is your face like that?”
“Nobody’s ever told me they liked me.” No one I believed; no one who wasn’t joking around.
“Okay. So, cool.”
He’s grumpy. Why is he grumpy?
Oh.
“I like you too,” I say.
His jaw unclenches. “You do? Why didn’t you start with that?”
“It hasn’t happened often.”
“You’re weird,” he says.
“Everyone knows that,” I say. I sit back down, pulling my legs up on the bed. I feel light, almost bubbly. I had a crush on Ash when I was twelve, because he was older and athletic and cute and good at things. But I buried it because he was Alissa’s brother and he was terrifying and I didn’t think he even noticed me. He’s watching me again, and he looks almost scared.
Ash Whitaker looks scared. Of me.
“Can I kiss you?” I ask.
He clears his throat. “Uh. Yes.”
I lean over him, one hand braced above his shoulder, the other beside his ribs. My hair falls around me, so I scoop it to one side. Ash pushes himself up onto his elbows, scooting me back. His breath comes out in short, sharp bursts. His eyes are beautiful, a kaleidoscope of gold and green and blue. Any worryabout kissing someone for the first time leaves my head as I press my lips to his.
His lips are dry. Soft. I can feel the ridge of his scar, like a topographical landmark on an unfamiliar map. I pull back, and we look at each other, breathing hard.
Ash looks down. “Sorry. The scar is gross, I know—”
“It’s not gross.” Because I know he’ll let me, I run my thumb over the scar. His lips part and his breath washes over my wrist. “It’s you.”
