Page 43 of This is a Kissing Book

Not that he’d ever think of me that way. Obviously. Not when he’s dated the likes of Iva Katz. But still. There’s no need to point it out so passive-aggressively… and with so much panache.

The elevator doors close on her laughter. Descending, Linc and I stand in separate corners as if we’re recalibrating to the baseline of not being blasted with noise pollution that some people call music.

When we reach the ground floor, it takes me a moment to come up with the right words. “That was illuminating.”

“Jules—”

That’s the second consecutive time he’s used that new variation of my name.

“I know I shouldn’t let it get to me, but her comment hurts like a paper cut, reminding me of girls in high school.” It’s immature of me, but I want him to make the raw, tender hurt his problem.

“Ignore her.”

“I get it now. This is your world, right? The excess, the wild waste, the people who destroy art for entertainment.” I dig deeper, partly because I need him to say I’m wrong.

Pathetic, I know.

“It’s not my world,” he says firmly. “I don’t want anything to do with people like Iva or Aiken.”

“But you know them. You dated her.” I flip my hand dismissively as if, on second thought, it doesn’t matter.

He puffs his cheeks. “Yeah. I did and learned a lot.”

“About how to apply guy-liner? Aiken seems like a pro.”

“Like eyeliner?” The chucklechump’s laughter echoes off the walls of the basement parking garage. “Definitely not that. The only art I’m interested in is the real thing.” He pauses and looks at me for a long moment.

Long enough for color to rise to my cheeks.

“The painting in the room was a reproduction and …” He trails off as his eyes drop to my mouth and then back up as if he’s looking at a piece of art.

The same silly, immature part of me who spent lunch break in the library for all four years of high school and was always passed over by the hot guys wants to believe him. The part of me who felt invisible, who was rejected, wants to trust him.

18

JULES

We’re quiet during the drive back to my place. I sense that Linc is thinking, working through a high-level equation where the variables keep shifting. His fingers tap rhythmically against the steering wheel—thumb, index, middle, ring repeat.

When we pull up in front of my building, neither of us moves to get out.

This feels dangerously like junior year all over again—when I got bold. That breathless moment when I realized the boy I’d been arguing with in debate class might actually like me back.

The game we played was pretending we didn’t notice when the other person stared too long, acting like accidental touches didn’t send electricity up our arms. It was all kinds of awkward, but exhilarating too.

That’s not what this is, right?

Monday feels like a lifetime away, and questions are burning in my throat that won’t survive the weekend, never mind that we have to keep it clandestine if there is any amount of corruption—at least for now.

“Can I please see your license?” The words tumble out before I can stop them, and I immediately want to crawl into the back seat.

Smooth, Juliana. Real smooth.

He tucks his chin. “And my registration?”

I shake my head. “No, you said this is your father’s car. I believe you. Just your license will suffice.”

“Do you run a background check on all guys? Let me remind you that you already let me into your apartment. I saw the doilies, needlepoint projects, floral wallpaper, oh, and the Care Bear.”