“Why not?” I say, leaning against the door frame.
“Because I don’t know how to kiss,” she whispers, sounding mortified.
“Oh,” I say, my heart sinking. “Is that all?”
“Is that not enough?” she says. It’s not an answer.
I shrug and fold my arms, even though she can’t see me. “It’s not hard.”
“Says the man who’s kissed plenty of women,” she says. I hear the rustle of fabric. “Oh, these stupid coats!” she says. “They’re all squashy.”
“That’s on you,” I point out. “You chose the coat closet.”
“I didn’t know it was a coat closet,” she says. “I thought it might be a bathroom.”
“Nope,” I say with a grin. “Coat closet.”
“I know that now,” she says, and I can practically hear her roll her eyes.
“So what was your plan? Hide out until midnight has come and gone?”
“I hadn’t thought it through fully, but yes; that was definitely the gist.”
“You could just tell Jack you don’t know how to kiss,” I say. “I’m sure he’d be happy to teach you.” I try to keep the bitterness out of my voice, but I’m not entirely successful.
I wait for her response, but none comes. She’s silent, although I can hear her breathing.
“Mina?” I say after a minute.
“I don’t want Jack to teach me how to kiss,” she says, her voice quiet.
“May I ask why not?” I say. My voice is surprisingly steady.
“You could ask, yes,” she says, sounding hesitant. I hear the rustle of coats again.
“And would you answer?” I say, trying to make out her face in the dark, but it’s no use. My eyes haven’t adjusted yet.
“I might.”
“Am I not going to get any straight answers from you on this?” I say.
She pauses. “You might.”
Despite myself, I grin. She’s cheeky. “You’re impossible, Willy. You want to know what I think?”
She sighs. “Probably not.”
My heart picks up its pace. “I don’t think you want to kiss Jack at all. I think you’ve been fixated on him for so long that you don’t recognize that you don’t really like him after all.”
“Okay, Dr. Phil,” she says, but her voice shakes.
I shrug. “Think what you want. But you’re hiding so you don’t have to kiss him and so you don’t have to make excuses for not kissing him.”
“Can we just go?” she says, sounding exasperated.
I shrug. “Sure,” I say. I’m not particularly attached to the party scene anymore.
I open the closet door and slip out. She follows me, and we step out the back door. The wind is biting as we walk in silence around the side of the house.
When we reach my car, I lean against it and say, “So…did you like it when he kissed you? Was it a good kiss?” I can’t help it; I need to know.
“I don’t know that I’d know the difference,” Mina says, her voice flat. “Lack of experience and all that.”
I smile, watching as her hair whips around her face. “You’d know. If you don’t know, it wasn’t a good kiss.”
There’s silence. Then, so quietly I almost don’t hear her, she says, “Show me.”
My heart stops. Or maybe it speeds up. “What?” I say, narrowing my eyes.
“Show me,” she says, her voice stronger, although she still won’t meet my eyes. She scuffs her feet against the sidewalk as she speaks. “Show me a good kiss. Teach me.”
“I don’t think so,” I say, but despite my words I inch toward her.
“Don’t think you can?”
I move closer still. My heart is in my throat. “Are you taunting me into kissing you?”
No answer, but she folds her arms across her chest, and her breathing isn’t as even as it was a minute ago.
“You’re playing with fire,” I say. It comes out as a growl. I reach for her instinctively, and my hands slide into her hair. I lean forward—let my lips brush her ear as I say, “A good kiss makes your knees go weak. It makes your heart stop.” I trail kisses across her cheek, reveling in the sensation, at the softness of her skin. I knew it would be soft. Her breath is shallow, but so is mine. I’m ready to stop as soon as she tells me to—but I desperately hope she won’t.
“A good kiss,” I say, my voice low, my fingers trailing down the sides of her neck, “will make your mind short circuit. Do you think Jack can kiss you like that?”
“I don’t know,” she whispers.
“I don’t think he can,” I murmur against the corner of her lips. With an enormous effort of will, I pull back. “But if you find out, let me know.”
“How am I playing with fire?” she says, breathless.
I want to answer that it’s because if I kiss her, I’ll fall—completely and irrevocably. Instead I just smile at her as steadily as I can, trying to look teasing. “Because if I kissed you, you would fall immediately in love with me and all other men would be ruined for you forever.”
She stares at me, and I stare right back. My smile falters.
“Show me.” The wind whips around us, but her words are clear. “Teach me. Please.”
I sigh. “If I kiss you, it will feel real, Mina. You’ll think it’s real.”
Because for me, it will be.
“Fine. It’s not real. Now I know. Now teach me how to kiss.”
She’s killing me very slowly. I shake my head. “I’m not going to teach you how to kiss Jack.” Over my dead body.
“I never said anything about Jack,” she says, her voice even, her eyes intense.
My heart catches for possibly the billionth time in the last ten minutes. “Just so I’m understanding you correctly: You want me to teach you how to kiss?”
“Yes,” she says. “How to kiss well.”
I grin. “That’s the only kind of kissing I do.”
“Not self-conscious anymore, I see,” she says, smiling slightly.
“No,” I say, my eyes falling to her lips. My voice is hoarse.
She swats my arm, the corners of her mouth twitching. “Come on.” Her voice is lighter now; more casual. I’m glad for the change. “Instructional purposes only. Lydia’s advice was to practice on the back of my hand.”
I snort.
“Exactly. My hand can’t kiss me back. Are you going to help me or not?”
I step closer to her, and her eyes lock on mine. “Instructional purposes only?” I say.
“Yes,” she says, her eyes darting to my lips.
“It might feel real,” I say, my voice rough. “Kissing is like that.” I slide my hands into her hair again. She can’t know how many times I’ve imagined this moment.
“Not real,” she says, a catch in her voice. “Got it.”
“Are you sure about this?” I say, my desire warring with my hesitance. “What if we get weird around each other after this?”
“We just won’t let that happen,” she says.
I lean in and brush a kiss against her cheek. “I don’t think it works like that,” I murmur. But I press another kiss just beneath her ear. Another to her temple. I feel her hands slide around my waist, and my pulse speeds up.
She clears her throat and then says, “So, the face. And the ear. Both good.”
“Yes. Anywhere on the face, I would think,” I say, letting my lips trail down her cheek to the corner of her mouth. “It’s personal preference. You smell good.” I brush another kiss to the edge of her lips.
Her breathing is more shallow now. I can feel it against my skin. “And what do I do with my hands?” she says.
“They’re good where they are,” I say. “But just feel it out. What feels instinctive?”
She hesitates. Then, trembling slightly with what’s possibly nerves, she slides her hands up to rest on my chest.
I nod. “That’s good—”
But I break off, because her hands are still moving. One comes to rest on the side o
f my neck; the other threads through the hair at the base of my neck. I swallow, my breath hitching. “That works too,” I say, my voice rough. I move my hands to her back, pulling her closer.
I take a deep breath, feeling suddenly nervous. “I’m going to kiss you now.”
“Are you telling me that as a heads up, or is that something I should announce when I kiss someone?” Her voice is teasing.
“Heads up,” I say, feeling inexplicably drawn closer to her. “Just…so you know it’s coming.”
“I’m paying attention,” she says. Her words are barely audible.
“Good,” I murmur against her lips.
And then I kiss her. I press my lips to hers softly, angling my head slightly.
My knees go weak. My heart stops. My mind short circuits.
And the kiss has barely even begun.
I’m about to tell her to move her lips, but then she does it on her own; one arm tightens around me, and the other comes to my face.
And then she’s kissing me. She’s kissing me more than I’m kissing her.
My world stops completely.
I respond immediately, instinctively, deepening the kiss without even thinking about it, because I’ve already thought about it—so many times. There are fireworks going off in my chest and behind my eyes. One hand tightens in her hair; the other is around her waist, trying to pull her closer.
Mina.
Mina.
She’s everything. There’s nothing but her.
Our lips are moving together, insistent, impatient, hesitation completely gone. It doesn’t feel instructional. It feels real.
We shouldn’t be kissing like this—kissing like we mean it—if we don’t mean it. If I had my way, she would never kiss Jack like this. She would never kiss anyone else like this. Ever.
Seemingly at the same time, we both come to our senses.
We break apart, gasping, our breathing ragged. I feel like I’ve just run ten miles.
We’re silent for one long minute, the space between us filled with the whistling wind.
And I panic. This was a mistake. An incredible, mind-blowing mistake. How do I fix this? How do I ease out of this; how do I maintain what we have?
And how do I tell Jack that I’m scum?
Mina clears her throat. “So,” she says, her voice squeaking. “Ears and face. Move your lips. Do something with your hands.”
My fuzzy brain takes a second to catch up to what she’s saying, but when it does, such a profound sense of relief washes over me that I could kiss her again.
And again.
And again.
“Yes,” I say, doing everything in my power to sound calm instead of shaken to my core. “Ears and face. Move your lips. Hands,” I say. I swallow. “Good job.”
Then I pull my keys out of my pocket and press them keys into Mina’s hand. “You can drive my car home. I have to go.”
I turn away from her with a jolt of speed and jog all the way home.
28
Mina
There are not many things I consider myself an expert on. Not even flowers, and I know a lot about flowers.
But, as it turns out, I am an expert at avoiding things I don’t want to think about or deal with. It seems that introspective Mina can be put off after all.
On the first of the year, I get it together just long enough to call Jack, twirling my hair nervously as the phone rings.
I’ve liked Jack…well, for years. And now I’m going to break up with him? Is this something that can be worked out?
My first instinct when I saw him playing pool with Virginia was to blame Virginia, to hate her for the pettiness of trying to steal someone else’s…well, whatever we were. Someone else’s boyfriend? I don’t think Jack was really my boyfriend. I don’t think we were there yet.
But as I’ve thought more about Virginia, the only thing that keeps coming to my mind is the way she looked in the cafeteria, staring at her food, looking miserable and utterly pitiful.
I don’t understand her. So I’m choosing to let it go. I don’t want to waste any more energy on disliking her.
Virginia aside, though, my issues with Jack can’t be worked out. I know deep in my soul that they can’t. And what’s more, I realize, I don’t want to work it out. Because I kissed his friend. And even though it was pretty clear that Jack wasn’t feeling exclusive about our relationship, I still don’t feel great about kissing someone else. Because exclusivity might not be as important to Jack, but it’s something I want. And I can’t stop thinking about that kiss—about Cohen’s hands fisted into my hair, about him pulling me closer, about the impatience of his lips against mine…
He was right. The way I was kissing him—the way he was kissing me—it felt real. It wasn’t; I know that. But…it felt real. And I like that it felt real. So, no; I can’t work things out with Jack.
Wow. I’m really doing this. Nerves bubble in the pit of my stomach.
When Jack answers, his voice is the slightest bit irritated. That’s understandable. I bolted from his party without so much as a goodbye.
“What?” he says, sounding tired now.
I swallow. I have to tell him, but that doesn’t mean I’m excited about it. “I kissed Cohen,” I say, the words pouring out in a rush. “And I’m sorry, Jack. I really am. I shouldn’t have. But I don’t think—” I begin, but I stop. I clear my throat and try again, less timidly this time. “I don’t feel that way about you. I don’t think we should go to the dance together. Or see each other anymore,” I add.
Jack sighs. “Agreed,” he says. I’m not surprised, and even though I have no right to feel this way, a tiny part of me is hurt by how resolute his agreement is.
“Right,” I say. “Well…bye.”
“Bye,” Jack says.
And that’s that. It feels sort of surreal, and strangely anticlimactic. I wish I had a way to commemorate this moment; a way to remember the life milestone of breaking up with your first boyfriend.
Regardless, it doesn’t matter. I push it out of my mind, because it’s done, and I honestly don’t regret it. Then I shove everything about Cohen and that kiss into a little compartment in my mind. Because how do I handle the shift in our relationship? Last night I just blurted out the first thing I could think of, but it worked okay. We both seemed able to save face enough to say goodbye. Do I just pretend it didn’t happen?
I have no idea. So, like I said, I’m pushing Cohen and the kiss—the amazing kiss—into the corner of my brain until I’m forced to deal with them.
Immature? Yes. Undoubtedly. But let’s just call it self-preservation.
I have to work on New Years’ Day. It sucks, but it’s one of the downsides to floristry; you have to work most holidays. I managed to avoid Christmas—and endless pots of poinsettias—so I really should be grateful.
And I am, in a way. Mindless work with flowers and customers takes my brain away from places I don’t want it to go. And New Year’s isn’t nearly as bad as something like Mother’s Day, or, heaven forbid, Valentine’s Day. Valentine’s Day is just one big party of red roses. Mother’s Day is better; the flowers are more varied and much more colorful. But both of those holidays involve tons of customers. New Year’s isn’t as terrible. Plus, now that it’s January, I can start getting really excited for my meteor shower. I’ve been excited for months, but it’s different when you actually get close.
Shana and I end up prowling restlessly behind the counter for a few hours. She delves into her stash of mystery novels after telling me about her New Year’s Resolution (to exercise twice a week). When she asks if I have a resolution, I don’t know what to say. I had a resolution, even if it didn’t line up with New Year’s, but everything is muddled in my brain right now. Have I been stepping outside my comfort zone? Yes. Definitely. And I have been speaking my mind, I guess. I’m trying to remember my worth.
But those things are personal. So instead of answering her, I end up tugging at the fraying hem of my apron while
my mind whirs. I help people whenever they come in, but I’m fully aware that I’m not devoting as much of myself to the job as I usually do.
I’m choosing to blame that squarely on Cohen.
I have about an hour left at work when Lydia bursts through the front door of the shop, sending the bell jingling loudly.
“Oh,” I say, surprised. “Hi, Lydia. Do you need flowers?”
“No,” she says, wearing a determined expression that makes me a little nervous. “I need to know what happened last night.”
Nope. Nope, nope, nope. Not opening that box.
“Well, I’m sort of busy right now,” I say.
Lydia casts a sarcastic eye around the shop, which is totally empty.
I sigh. “I can only talk until customers come in.”
Now she looks at the clock, which displays that there are thirty minutes left until closing. “No one buys flowers at eight at night.”
“Fine,” I say. My voice is snappier than I’d like it to be. “But I don’t have to tell you everything. Some things are private.”
At this point, Shana looks up from her book. “I’m just going to go in back,” she says, her expression disconcerted. “Let you guys sort out your business.”
When Shana and her book have gone through the swinging door, I look at Lydia. “Some things are private,” I say again.
“Normally I’d agree,” Lydia says, completely breaking the rule about customers being behind the counter as she comes back and sits on the stool next to mine. “But Cohen came home at 12:30 last night, drenched in sweat and totally out of breath, looking panicked and miserable. I asked him what was wrong, but he wouldn’t tell me. He went in his room and called someone”—I assume Lydia knows this because she eavesdropped—“and said something muffled about being sorry for something, and then he just went to bed. Without taking a shower, which is so gross. So what happened? What did you do to him?”
I forget myself momentarily and tilt my head as I study Lydia’s impassioned face. I never thought she’d be the disloyal type, but I guess I hadn’t pictured her as the hunt-down-the-one-who-did-you-wrong type, either.
Eye of the Beholder (Stone Springs Book 1) Page 22
