Page 27 of The Art of Drowning

“Patchouli and old paper. I’m probably allergic. I feel a sneeze coming on.” Was I being ridiculous? Absolutely. But I didn’t care. It was all in good fun and Damien seemed to enjoy rising to the occasion.

“Maybe you’re allergic to me?”

“I doubt it. You’re here all the time.”

“Yeah, but you avoid me like you’re allergic.” He put his book down and approached me.

I should’ve stepped away and put some distance between us, but I couldn’t. My feet had grown roots and anchored me in place. I was stuck, while Damien moved so effortlessly, closing the distance between us. We stood in the doorway, half in the living room, half out.

The simple fact was that I couldn’t even protest. Couldn’t argue. He was right. I’d been avoiding him as much as possible. Hoping that my stupid feelings for him would go away, but it didn’t work. Then I’d been avoiding him because every time I touched myself, he was all I could think about. Damien in the water. Damien glistening in the sun. Damien licking moisture off his lip.

At the time, avoiding him seemed like the smart thing to do. He was Sam’s friend. Sam’s best friend. Sam’s straight best friend. I’d heard all about the heartache of being gay and falling for a straight guy, and I didn’t want that to be my fate.

Damien was closer now.

“Why?” he asked, holding my gaze.

“Why what?” I’d fully lost the plot. The entire context for his question had flown out the window. The simple fact was that Damien made me kind of stupid. It was hard to be cool and smooth around him and do things like form full sentences and follow the thread of a conversation when I was too busy remembering the way his body moved whenever he climbed out of the pool.

Damien. Got. Closer.

My heart thrashed in my ribs like it was a rabbit running a marathon. I suddenly had a taste for what prey animals must go through when they were being stalked by a predator.

Not that Damien was a predator. He was more like a hunter, and I felt like his quarry.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he repeated, his voice low and soft and maybe sounding a little hurt.

“I’m sorry,” I said, surprising myself with how much I meant it. Damien was so used to being ignored by his parents, it felt like such a cruelty that I’d worked so hard at doing the same thing. “I really am,” I added, my hands fluttering nervously at my sides. I wanted to touch him. To smooth the crease between his eyebrows. To… to fucking kiss him.

My gaze drifted upward to where the mistletoe hung above us, and I tried to look away before Damien realized what I’d spotted. He held my stare for what felt like forever, and then he glanced at the mistletoe too.

“Uh-oh.” Damien said, sounding not at all worried. “Now you have to kiss me.”

I opened my mouth and closed it again. Did he know? Did he know that I’d wanted to for months? That I’d never kissed anyone who counted. Because Sarah Jasper didn’t count. It had been like kissing a wall. Like kissing a pillow. I might as well have kissed my hand.

Before I could formulate a response, any response at all, whether it be a witty rebuttal or some kind of deflection, Damien’s tongue darted out and he licked his lips and then…

They brushed against mine, just the corner of my mouth at first, and I fucking whimpered. The sound ricocheted through the room like a gunshot, and I gasped, then staggered away from him and headed up the stairs. My vision swam as terror flooded my body. I’d whimpered. Fucking whimpered because of a kiss. A joke, clearly, but a kiss, nonetheless.

“Callum—wait.”

Damien followed me, and I tried to dart into my room and shut the door behind me, but he was there, pushing his way into my room. A place he’d seldom been.

I tried to slip into the attached bathroom, the one between my room and Sam’s, but Damien was there, pushing the door shut, caging me in.

“Callum, look at me.”

I shook my head. Damien took a deep breath.

“Callum, please. Will you please look at me?”

I didn’t want to, but I did. First I peeked at him over my shoulder, willing my body to stop being a slut. I should not be getting hard because Damien had me trapped in my own room. I should not be getting hard because Sam’s straight best friend gave me an almost-kiss as a joke.

When I turned around, I couldn’t look at him, though. I kept my gaze trained down and to the side. Like maybe if I didn’t look directly at him, he wouldn’t notice the way I wanted to do nothing but look at him. Stare at him. Drink him in. I wondered if he knew what he’d given me or what he’d taken. My first kiss. A joke. A mistletoe kiss that didn’t mean anything to him but everything to me.

“Callum,” Damien said and, for some reason, his fingers brushed the underside of my chin. He directed my head and I was gently coaxed into looking at him.

And then, impossibly, Damien leaned in again and he kissed me. Properly. His lips brushed against mine, soft and warm and perfect. It took me a full second to realize he was actually kissing me, and he nearly pulled away before my brain got the memo and I started kissing him back.