by Jay McLean
I wanted to kiss her.
I’ve wanted to kiss her since the moment I saw her.
But we were eleven. It would’ve been weird.
Now I’m almost eighteen, and I’ve kissed enough girls to make up for all the pent-up angst that’s built from not finding the courage to actually kiss the girl I want to kiss.
She told her dad that she’d dated. She’d never told me she dated, never even mentioned a date or a guy in passing. And it made me want to kiss her more. I didn’t want to bring it up because I knew she had other things going on, but I was curious. So I asked, and she answered, and her answer made me furious.
Curious and furious.
And rhymy, apparently.
“Watch!” Lachlan demands.
I push aside my thoughts of Laney and focus on my brother. “I see, bud. You’re getting good at brushing your teeth on your own,” I tell him through the reflection in the bathroom mirror.
He smiles wide, toothbrush in hand, a mixture of baby and adult teeth on full display. “I’m Thor years old!”
“You mean four?”
“No. Thor! Tongue to teeth, Luke. Thhh-or!”
With a laugh, I say, “Four is the number. Thor is the superhero. And you’re six, dude.”
“I know!” he laughs out, looking down at his hands holding up five fingers. “Six.” Then he continues to brush his teeth. When he’s done, he asks, “Do you think I’ll live to be eleventy-three?”
“I’ve told you, eleventy-three isn’t a number.”
“Is so.”
“Is not.”
“Is so.”
Sigh.
“Lucas, will you buy me a four hammer? I asked Dad. He says I have to do chores. But you’ll just buy it for me because I’m your best friend, right?”
I shake my head. “If Dad says you have to do chores, then you have to do chores. And you are not my best friend. Laney is.”
“And Dumb Name.”
“Don’t call Garray that.”
“Why not?” he asks, stepping down from the stool we have set up so he can reach the taps at the sink. Clearly, he got his height from my mother. “Everyone else does.”
“Because…” I drop to a squatting position and wait for him to climb onto my back. “Just because.”
“Because why?”
When he settles, I stand up and piggyback him to the door. “Because I said so.”
“Fine,” he moans, switching off the light. “Laney’s my tooth fairy.”
“What?”
“Daddy said she’s there to watch out for me and take care of me if no one else can.”
I walk us to his room, a room filled with my trophies and medals and pictures of me running, pictures of us together. I drop him on his bed. “You mean your godmother? How in the world do you get godmother and tooth fairy confused? You goose!”
“I’m not Luce!” He cackles and squirms on his bed, shifting the blankets beneath him. “You ready for your one minute?” I ask.
He nods, still squirming. When Lachlan was a baby, he wouldn’t sleep unless he was being held. Then as he got older and moved to a big boy bed, the only thing that changed was that only I was allowed in his bed. So every night at 7:00, I’d get in his bed with him and wait until he fell asleep. Sometimes, he wouldn’t be able to sleep and after a long-ass time of lying there, wide awake, I’d attempt to leave. He’d cry. I’d tell him that I would only lie with him for one minute. He had no idea how long a minute was so it was more like five seconds. At some point, he started calling tuck-ins “one minute” and now it’s stuck.
I fix his blankets and tell him to get under before joining him. “Can I cuggles you this time?” he asks.
I shift to my side and face him. “Sure.”
His small arms wrap around my neck and pull me toward him so his forehead’s touching mine. “Remember that time when you weren’t here to cuggles and do my one minute?”
My eyes narrow, my mind searching. “When I was at track camp?”
He nods. “And New Jersey at the start of summer.”
“How do you remember track camp? You were three.”
“I remember things from when I was free.”
“Three,” I correct. “Tongue to teeth. Thhhh-ree.”
“That’s what I said!”
“Okay.” I close my eyes, the exhaustion quick to consume me. I hadn’t slept much last night, and I’d been out with Lane most of the day. I’m almost tempted to sleep in Lachy’s bed with him, but the second I close my eyes, Laney fills my mind.
I wanted to kiss her.
When she told me she’d miss seeing me every day—I wanted to kiss her.
“Do you love Laney?” Lachlan asks.
The kid reads minds. “What?”
“Do you love her?”
“Yes,” I tell him truthfully.
“Like Cam loves Lucy?”
I wanted to kiss her when we were in that store, my hand on her waist, her chest against mine. I wanted to dip my head, find her lips with mine and devour them the way I’ve only ever dreamed about.
“Luke!”
“What?”
“Do you love her like Cam loves Lucy?” he asks again, his blue eyes big and waiting.
“How do you think Cameron loves Lucy?”
“They sex,” he says simply.
“What the f— What the hell did they teach you in school?”
“Do you and Laney sex?”
I get out of his bed and throw the blankets over his face. “Go to sleep.”
“Do you?” he shouts, but I’m already rushing out of his room. “Do you and Laney sex?” he yells, louder this time.
Dad freezes at the top of the stairs. “Did he just say what I think he said?”
I nod. “I don’t know where he got it from.”
Surprisingly, Dad grins. “So, do you?”
“Do I what?” I ask, bouncing on my toes, anxious to leave.
“Do you and Laney have sex?” he asks, arms crossed, waiting for my response.
“I have a girlfriend!”
“Keep telling yourself that,” Logan says, stepping out of his room.
I ask, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know what it means,” he says, eyes narrowed.
Leo climbs the stairs, deciding to join in. “What’s going on?”
“Luke and Laney are having sex,” Dad says with a chuckle.
I sigh. “This is how rumors get started.”
“They’re not having sex,” Leo mumbles, removing his t-shirt as he walks past me and moves to the bathroom.
“How do you know?” Logan asks, raising his chin.
Leo steps inside the bathroom and turns to face us all, one hand on the door, ready to close it. “Because Laney’s smart and beautiful and way too good for Luke.”
“What the hell is so wrong with me?” I whine.
“SEX!” Lachlan shouts.
I tried to get her off my mind, but the only thing I could think about was Laney.
One last year with Laney.
Sure, I’d see her on holidays, and I’d make sure to come home on weekends whenever possible, but it’s not the same. I’d be gone, living a life where she wouldn’t be around to call me out on my screw ups, and she’d move on and live every day without me. Fuck the fact that I wouldn’t be able to crawl into her bed whenever I felt the need to be close to her, but I’m positive she’d fill those nights with date after date, guy after guy. All of them not me. That thought alone has my stomach doing somersaults and my heart beating wildly. I almost thump at my chest, mad and frustrated with myself, because I have one year. Just one year to make her want me the way I want her. She listened to me talk about girls, about my awkward-as-fuck fumbly first time, and she never mentioned anything. Not a damn word. And now I’m mad. At her. Because she should’ve said something, right?
Without thinking, I slip on my running shoes and head out. I have zero knowledge of the time. It was seven when I
put Lachy to bed, but who the hell knows how long I’ve been in my apartment, pacing back and forth, trying to push thoughts of her out of my mind.
I’d felt closer to her today. Closer than I’ve ever felt. And not just physically. I feel like there’s a giant clock hanging over me, counting down the days, hours, minutes, seconds until… I can’t even process what happens when the final second ticks over.
Before I know it, I’m at a crossroads. A literal crossroads. I’ve spent day after day here—the only part of my routine run where I stop. I look left. Look right. Not for the cars, but for guidance. Right brings me past Laney’s work, toward the school, and a couple more rights take me home.
Left?
Left brings me to her.
With two fingers on my pulse, I attempt to count the beats, but the numbers are blurred, my concentration drowning in thoughts and images of her.
She looked good today.
She smelled even better…
Fuck, I almost lost my mind.
I’m still losing my mind.
I take the 468 steps to her door.
I knock once.
Twice.
On the third time, I begin to panic, because seriously? What the fuck am I doing here? I turn to leave, but the door opens and my panic triples.
“How dumb am I? I tried calling you,” she says, and I face her.
She’s looking right at me, her hair damp and loose, cascading around her shoulders.
I blink.
“Your phone, right?”
She’s not wearing pants.
Jesus shit.
She’s wearing on oversized shirt—her dad’s work one—and nothing else. Well, maybe something but I can’t see it, and so I let my imagination take me away.
“Luke?” She waves a hand in my face. “Are you here for your phone?”
When I don’t respond (too busy imagining what’s beneath the clothes—or cloth… or whatever the singular for clothes is), she says, “How long have you been knocking? I was in the shower.”
Goddammit. Now I have naked Laney in the shower in my head.
“Luke!”
Of all the things I can say, I choose to tell her, “My name’s on your shirt.”
“What?” she asks, looking down at her chest. Then she glances up, her eyes narrowed in confusion.
“Preston Construction,” I say because apparently she needs help reading. “My name.”
She shakes her head. “It’s not your name.”
“Is so.”
“Is not.”
“Is so.”
She spins on her heels and walks farther into her room, leaving the door open for me to follow. Which I do. Because did I mention she’s not wearing pants! Girl’s got legs for days and doesn’t even know it—this I learned the summer we were fifteen, and she showed up at my house in a bikini top and cut offs and kept asking why I was walking behind her, looking down at her shoes. I wasn’t looking at her shoes. Obviously.
She walks to her desk, hidden beneath the staircase leading to the rest of the house. “I think it’s dead,” she says, her back turned. I stand behind her, look over her shoulder, sniff her. God, she smells good. Her shoulders straighten, but she doesn’t turn around. “Did you just sniff me?”
I ignore her question, move closer to her. Just an inch. My chest is touching her back, her bare legs skimming mine. And I ask her something that’s been infiltrating my mind all damn day. “How far do you go on these dates?”
“What?” she breathes out. Her breaths are rapid, matching the rise and fall of her chest. Boobs. “Are you still going on about this?”
“I haven’t stopped thinking about it,” I tell her truthfully.
She’s struggling to breathe now.
So am I.
She turns slowly. Oh, so slowly. I don’t budge. Not a bit. Her dark eyes meet mine through her glasses. “Do you want to charge your phone?” she asks, her voice barely audible.
“Yes,” I say, but neither of us makes a move to do so.
She stares.
I stare back.
Six seconds.
Eight heartbeats.
Her throat moves when she swallows. I zone in on the movement and lick my lips, wanting them there, kissing her, tasting her. “Do they touch you?” I murmur. Her gaze drops, and my hands are quick to move. One goes to her waist, the other to her chin. I make her look at me. “Do they?”
“Luke.”
“Where do they touch you?”
“Who?”
“Any of them. All of them.” Jealousy can make someone insane. I’m proof.
Her hands are on my chest. I like her hands on me. Anywhere. Keep touching me, Laney. She’s fighting against herself. I see it in her eyes. In her fists, balled against me. She wants to push, but she wants me closer. Choose to be closer, Laney.
She pushes. “I hate when you do this.”
“Do what?”
“Tease me.”
I almost laugh. Almost. She has no fucking idea. “You think I’m teasing you? You’re the one who answered the door without pants.”
“I knew it was you,” she whispers.
“Exactly.”
She shakes her head, her arms extended, palms an inch from my skin. There’s space between us. I don’t want space. I want her.
One year.
Tick. Tock.
She says, “You didn’t come here for your phone, did you?”
My lips twitch. Curve.
Hers do the same.
She leans back against her desk.
I lean into her.
Bye-bye, space.
I say, “I came here for you.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to kiss you, Lane. Because I want to wipe the memory of every other asshole who’s ever touched these lips.” I skim my thumb across her bottom lip, and her eyes drift shut. Her lips part. My thumb’s in her mouth now, against her tongue, her soft, wet tongue, and Jesus Christ, I’ve never been this fucking hard in my life and I’ve barely touched her.
My mouth waters.
My pulse pounds.
She sucks harder.
“Shit.”
She releases my thumb and her hand curves around my nape, pulling me to her. Her legs spread, welcoming me. My mouth’s on her neck, on her throat, right where I wanted to be. She arches her back, makes a sound that has my knees buckling, collapsing into her. She’s warm between her legs and she’s moving, searching, wanting. I finally, finally, go for the kiss. Her mouth’s open when I get there, her tongue warmer on my own than it felt on my thumb, and she’s grinding, grinding, moaning, moaning. And I’m falling, deep, deep, deep into her web, and swear, if she kisses every guy the way she’s kissing me I’m going to find every one of them and kill them dead.
I want to rip her shirt open, devour her breasts. Move lower so I can devour her some more. But I take my time. I reach up, undo one button. Another. My mouth doesn’t leave her. Her fingers are in my hair. Tugging. Pulling. She breaks the kiss. I miss her lips. Another button and I’m kissing her collarbone, listening to her make those sounds. Those damn sounds.
My body wants her.
My mind knows I have her.
Another button.
Then: “Luke, wait.”
I freeze. Blink hard. Keep my mouth on her. I try to stay focused on her. On here. On now. And not where I want us to be in ten minutes. Each and every one of her exhales hits me like a punch to the gut, bringing me back to reality. She says, “I’ve forgiven you for a lot before, and if this is some weird territorial thing because you realized I’ve been with other guys, then you need to leave. Now. Before we do something we’ll both regret and can’t take back.”
Each word is like rapid fire going off in my head. I try to stay calm. But it’s been four seconds, eight heartbeats. Thump thump thump. “We were supposed to have college,” I murmur, my mouth suddenly dry.
She isn’t pushing me away. Not yet.
So I keep going.
“I was supposed to have four more years to make you fall for me, Lane. For you to see me the way I see you and now… I’m not ready yet. I’m not good enough yet.”
She tugs on my hair, makes me face her. She’s looking at me, concern deep in her eyes. “What are you talking about, Luke?”
“I screw up,” I admit. “A lot. I make stupid mistakes and forget important things, and as your friend, that’s okay. But I can’t be that if I want to be more, and we were supposed to have college, Lane, where I don’t have to worry about raising my brothers and making sure they get to all their activities. And there won’t be this pressure to train so I can break Cooper fucking Kennedy’s stupid high school records and get to all-state. It’ll just be me and you and I can focus on you so I don’t fuck up and make mistakes and forget important things like you asking me to meet you after seeing your mom and I’m sorry. But I don’t want to be sorry. I don’t want to give you a reason where I have to be sorry. I want to be better.” I shut my eyes tight and pinch the bridge of my nose because I can’t believe I just said all that. To her. Spilled the truth I’d kept secret for so long. Girl after girl, night after night, trying and failing at not thinking of her when I was with each one of them and now we were here: crossroads.
“Do you love me, Lucas?” she asks, and I can tell from the weakness of her voice that she’s crying. I wonder how often I’ve made her cry without knowing. “And I don’t mean like a friend or a sister. Do you love me and want to be with me and only me? Because I need to know that you do. You have to show me. Anything less and this will ruin everything.”
I blow out a heavy breath and open my eyes to see her watching me, waiting. My response is instant. “I’ve loved you forever, Laney.”
I go slow with her, take my time, worship her body the way she deserves. She writhes beneath me, around me. Her skin’s light against mine, pale porcelain against sun-kissed tan, something I don’t notice until we’re tangled limbs on our bed. I spend a lot of time outside, running after my goals, after my brothers. She spends a lot of time inside… click click clicking with her knitting needles.
She giggles, makes a joke about it.
Then she comes once on my fingers.
Another time on my tongue.
She wants to do the same with me, but I know I won’t last, and it’ll be messy and “We’ll have time for that later,” I tell her. Besides, I want to be on top of her. Inside her.
