Speechless(135)

                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.