And then we’re kissing.
It’s weird how comfortable it feels. With Joey, it was always awkward, his hands rough on the back of my neck, his tongue wet and weird in my mouth. But Sam is so gentle with me, lips barely brushing mine, one hand lightly cupping my cheek. He pulls back before we’ve hardly started and looks at me for a long time.
Well. That was unexpected.
I mean, there’s kind of been a vibe. But I’ve never been good at reading these things. It’s too easy to confuse friendship with something more. Especially when you’re looking for it.
His eyes search mine, and I have no idea what he’s thinking. Maybe he’s wondering the same thing, about me.
“I should go back to Rosie’s,” he says softly.
I nod, a little shaky. What we did—it was barely even a kiss, but I feel like I’ve just finished running a marathon. Completely out of breath, every limb as boneless as rubber.
He gets out of the car, walks around toward his. I roll down my window and am met with a blast of cold air. Sam sees me motion to him and, after a heartbeat of hesitation (please don’t leave, please don’t just walk away, please please please, my brain screams), he comes over, ducks his head to my eye level.
I don’t say anything. Of course. I reach a hand out, brushing it slowly through his brown hair. It looks almost reddish under this sticky light. I draw him down to me. We kiss through the open window for a little while, my face cold from the whistling wind, my back warm from the car’s heat, Sam’s mouth soft against mine.
When we stop—I can’t tell which one of us breaks away first—he keeps his forehead pressed to mine.
“So,” he says, a smile playing on his lips, “does this mean you’ll be my date for Winter Formal?”
days
twenty-eight &
twenty-nine
Discombobulated. It’s a word my mother often uses, and one that happens to describe me perfectly at the moment. I feel turned around and pulled inside out, all out of whack. But in a good way. I think.