Finally, miracle of miracles, cooking rolls around (never thought I’d say those words), and I practically fall into the lockers next to Seth. He takes my hand, rubbing his thumb over it. “You want to come over tonight?”
I feel a flood of relief (and hormones) and all the April crap flies out of my head. “Maybe.”
He grins. “My parents aren’t home.”
My heart starts thumping; I’m not exactly sure what that implies. “Um.”
“That doesn’t mean ‘Come over and sleep with me,’ by the way. It means ‘Come over and I’ll make you tiramisu and maybe make out with you on the couch.’”
I laugh, releasing the nervous tension that built up faster than I thought nervous tension could build in a person. “In that case, yes, I’m totally free.”
“Good. Do I need to pick you up? I can, but you’ll have to wait longer for dessert.”
“No, it’s fine. I can just borrow my dad’s car.”
The bell rings, signaling we have three minutes until class starts.
“Your dad lets you drive his car?” Seth asks.
“There’s basically nothing my dad doesn’t let me do.”
“Lucky.”
Seth loosens his grip on my fingers for just a second, and at that moment, I turn around and see Drew coming down the hallway. I snatch my hand back from Seth’s instinctively and he frowns at me. But Drew doesn’t see a thing. I don’t know why it matters. It doesn’t. But the fact that I’ve been dating Seth for over a week and Drew still (to my knowledge) doesn’t have any idea feels like a good thing.
I ignore the weird look on Seth’s face, and when the bell rings, we head to class and neither of us says a word about it.
Later that night, after my makeup is done in a way that took an hour but looks like it took five minutes, I sit at my computer. Ever since I wrote “How to Make Out,” my blog views have gone from high to insanely high. With that, so has my PayPal account. I’m almost halfway to what I need for New York. So obviously, my inbox is inundated with questions in that vein—questions I’m eager to answer even though they make me kind of uncomfortable. The thing is, I want New York. I really want April to stop being pissed at me for blowing her off that night (though, admittedly, she’s probably angrier that I haven’t really tried to talk to her since), and working this hard for the trip might force her into some level of forgiveness. And answering something stupid is probably the way to get that money.
How do I give … Whoa, yeah, not that one. I don’t care how much you paid me.
How do I hold hands right? That will earn me nothing.
And then, the moneymaker: How do I get rid of a hickey?
I take a deep breath and make my decision. Then I go downstairs.
“Hey, Dad, can I borrow your car?”
He’s sitting on the couch with Stacey, watching some sappy movie he would never have agreed to watch with Mom. But he looks up from what I’m sure is a captivating scene and answers, “What do you need it for?”
“I’m going to Seth’s.”
He reaches into his pocket and throws me the keys without another word. No “Make good decisions, sweetie,” or “Be home by eleven.” If I were going somewhere with Drew, he would have held on to those keys like his fingers were in rigor mortis. But with Seth, it’s easy. Nice change of pace.
I leave, not even obligated to acknowledge Stacey since she’s so sucked into her movie, and speed all the way over to Seth’s.
When I get there, I notice the conspicuous lack of cars in his driveway, which solidifies the “parents not home” claim, and twists a knot in my stomach. It feels a little prostitute-esque, getting a boy to give me a hickey for a blog answer people will pay me for. Maybe I am kind of a hooker, committing semi-sexual acts for money. I almost wish his parents were here, so I would have to reconsider. But they’re not, and I’m not going back on this now. Besides, I like him. So it’s not exactly the same.
I walk up to the door and knock, and when he opens it for me, the smells wafting out from the kitchen are like paradise. Coffee and cream and cake and basically everything that adds girth to your hips but is so worth it, you don’t care.
“Hey,” he says, kissing me chastely on the cheek.
“It smells crazy amazing in here.”
“Just wait till you taste it. Have you ever had tiramisu?”
“I’ve had tiramisu-flavored ice cream.”
He shakes his head and clucks his tongue. “So much to teach you.”
I smile and head into the kitchen. “Anything I can help with?”
“Nope. Not tonight. Tonight I’m cooking for you, no lesson required.”
“So, how long until I can try this allegedly mind-blowing dessert?”
He grabs my hand. Seth, I have learned, is extremely into hand-holding, which is completely cool with me. We’re heading into this little room off the kitchen. It’s already dark and the TV is on, but it’s muted.
“We just have to wait a little while for it to cool.”
“Okay,” I say, and when we sit on the couch, the only light glowing in from the kitchen and the TV, I start fidgeting. Maybe I shouldn’t do this. Maybe this is crossing a line. No. I’m doing it. Maybe not yet. I don’t know.
“Let’s play a game,” I blurt out.
“What kind of game?”
“Two Truths and a Lie.”
He scoots a little closer to me. “I’ve never played.”
I cluck my tongue and grin. “So many things to teach you.”
He laughs.
“So the game goes like this. I’ll tell you three things about me. Two of them are true. One isn’t. And it’s your job to guess which is the lie.”
“What happens if I guess right?”
“Huh. I don’t know. I owe you a kiss, maybe.”
“That seems fair.”
“I’ll go first, so you can’t blame losing on not knowing the rules. I don’t have a license, I’m a sophomore, and my favorite color is purple.”
“Okay, I know you’re a sophomore. I’ve never seen you drive or wear the color purple. I’m going with … oh no, wait. You drove here tonight. You have a license.”
“Correct, sir. I owe you a kiss.”
“You do indeed.”
I lean forward and kiss him, not lingering. It’s the first question of the game, after all.
“My turn. I play pool. I’m terrible at math AND science. And I’m a virgin.”
“Ooh. It just got interesting. You do suck at math, and I’m going to guess science goes along with that. And you seem like the kind of guy who plays pool. I bet you have a table in your basement. I do not believe, however, that you’re a virgin, not after the length of time you dated Taylor Krissick.”
“Wrong.”
“Liar.”
“I do not cheat at these games. We never went all the way. I’m amazing at biology, though.”
“So now what? I got the answer wrong.”
“I think that means you owe me another kiss.”
I grin. “Fair enough. Where?”
He raises an eyebrow and points to his mouth. Not creative, but I can work with it. I grab his collar and pull him toward me and kiss him, long and slow. When he pulls back, I scoot closer to him.
“My turn. I’m deathly afraid of spiders. I’ve only really kissed two guys ever, yourself included, and I speak fluent French.”
“You hustled me, Renley Eisler. Baited me with easy questions. And now here we are. I’m going with French. You don’t speak French.”
“Au contraire, monsieur. I speak French like a native. I did have a pet spider until he died two years ago.”
“And the guys? Who else did you kiss?”
“That’s not part of the rules.”
“Fair enough.”
“So, you lost. Which means you owe me a kiss.”
He moves close. “Where?” He expects me to say the lips. I almost want to. But I also want to authentically answer that question. So I tr
ail my finger down to a point just below my ear. He follows my finger with his eyes and then stares at me for a second, but he moves forward then and kisses me, right where my finger used to be, edge of his lips just grazing my ear. Something about that spot sends shivers down my spine, and I wish he’d kiss me more than once. He lingers, then pulls back.
“Now me. My name is Seth Levine. I’m a senior. And I don’t want to stop playing this game and kiss you right now, more than once, more than for a second.”
The corners of my mouth turn up in a ghost of a smile and he leans in, kissing me deeper than he ever has. And from my limited experience, he’s good at it. His fingers press into my back and in my hair, kiss strong and unyielding and exhilarating. And then, like I figured he’d do, he trails his mouth over to my ear and down my neck.
I lean back against the couch, turning my neck toward him, blog barely registering in the back of my mind. He kisses my throat and then back up to my jaw, and my nerves are completely on fire. I can feel his teeth when he bites down just a little, not enough to really hurt, just enough to send those delicious chills everywhere at once.
We both completely forget about the tiramisu cooling in the fridge.
19. How to Cover a Hickey
The next morning is Sunday. I sleep in way too long. When I finally force myself to get up, I check in the mirror, and, sure enough, there’s a little purple mark just below my jaw. It’s far enough back that my hair could cover it if it had to, but that’s not quite enough material to post on. So I head to the kitchen.
The frozen spoon does nothing but make my neck cold. Though on second thought, it might make the color go down a little. I try massaging it to get the blood flowing there again, and that really does nothing. So I try running a hairbrush over it (which hurts and makes it worse), but after a few minutes, it starts to go down, and then I try the spoon again. Not too shabby.
Several combinations of makeup later, and I’m writing a post.
A few minutes after I hit PUBLISH, my phone buzzes.
Hey stranger.
Hey
Come over. It’s been a hundred years since you came over.
I smile—I see him like every day when he gives me rides, but it’s been a while since we just hung out. I shut the phone, not bothering to text back. I’ll be at Drew’s within a couple minutes anyway.
I knock on his window and he slides it open. Expert Ms. Calloway avoidance.
“I’ve missed you,” he says, wrapping me up in a hug.
“You too.”
He sits back on his bed and I sit beside him. Despite the fact that the last time we saw each other was … tense, to say the least, it doesn’t feel weird to me anymore. And Drew seems totally normal. He flips on the TV and we just hang out wordlessly until a commercial comes on.
“So,” he says, smirking, “‘How to Get Rid of a Hickey,’ huh?”
Everything on me flashes hot. “What?”
“I don’t remember even kissing your neck. Did I?” From the corner of my eye, I can see him grinning deviously.
“No,” I say, voice quiet.
“Ah, so you’re fibbing on the blog now, oh certified expert.”
It feels like a long time before I finally answer, “No.”
He glances over at me, then flicks his gaze down to my jaw. His face falls immediately. “Oh.”
And then nothing. This overwhelming sense of guilt floods over me, which is totally ridiculous. I didn’t do anything wrong.
“It’s Seth, isn’t it?” he says, voice so quiet I can barely hear him over the TV, which wasn’t loud to begin with.
I don’t look at him. “Yes.”
“You guys together now?”
“Yeah.”
“For how long?”
I sigh. “About a week and a half.”
He’s quiet. Really quiet.
“I should have told you earlier,” I say.
“No, it’s fine. You don’t owe me an explanation. It’s not like our little make out session in the woods meant anything.” There’s not a hint of sarcasm in his voice, which makes it way worse.
“Come on, Drew.”
“Seriously. You don’t have to tell me about all your romantic conquests. It’s fine. I don’t tell you about all of mine.”
“Okay,” I say, beginning to wish I hadn’t come over.
“I did have this girl a few weeks ago, though. Amazing. Like, seriously amazing. I almost invited her over for round two. But, you know, policy.”
I’m totally silent, frowning deep.
“And you call that a hickey?” he continues. “You should have seen the marks I left on this girl. And a lot more places than just her jaw.”
My pulse jumps and I can feel my fists clench at my sides.
“Not that that’s a totally unprecedented event. Before that—”
“Drew!” I say.
He turns over to look at me, almost sneering. I’ve never seen a look like this on his face. Ever.
“What?”
“Stop.”
“What? You jealous?”
I get up out of the bed, stiff and shaking everywhere, instantly angry.
“You’re just being an idiot. Why would I want to hear about all the places you’ve bitten girls and all the different sexual partners you’ve had in the last month?”
“If you’re not jealous, why do you care?”
“Because it’s disgusting,” I shout, shaking harder now.
“Well maybe I don’t want a detailed description of how some douchebag guy you’re dating sucked on your neck for three hours.”
“Then stop reading my blog, stalker.”
“Maybe you should stop whoring yourself out for your precious readers, and it wouldn’t matter what I read.”
I recoil and shake my head, hard. A huge vein pulses in his neck and his eyes are cold and hard. “Why are you being like this?”
“Because, Renley, I …” he trails off and leans back against his headboard. “I can’t do this right now. I have my own shit to deal with, and I can’t add you to it all.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means I need a break from this twisted, screwed up relationship.”
I step backward. It feels like someone just knocked the wind out of me. “What?”
“You just … after the other day, it’s not the same. I can’t do this. Be with you all the time, wanting to kiss you, knowing what it feels like to kiss you. Wanting to touch you and knowing what that feels like, too. It’s screwed up.”
“So you’re what? Ending everything?”
“No. I can’t do that either. I just know that this”—he points back and forth between us—“isn’t normal. And it’s not something I can honestly handle, not with you jerking me around and then getting hickeys and who knows what else from some other guy. I’m not pissed, I’m … I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine. I just …” He looks totally tortured, which would make me feel worse if he weren’t about to thrust what feels like shards of glass into my heart. “I just need you to leave me alone for a while.”
I blink rapidly and bite down and suck hard on my tongue. I heard once that if you do that, it’s impossible to cry. And I won’t cry. Not right now. Not in front of him, this way. So I stumble out, out of his window, and say, “Okay. Bye.” And I turn around and run all the way back home, because if I don’t, I’ll lose it right there in his bedroom.
This sucks. This whole thing sucks. I can’t think about it. But I can’t not. This is not fair in the slightest. What gives him the right to decide who I can date? Who I can kiss? Who can give me hickeys wherever and whenever I want them to? I can’t stand this, and I’m about to actually hyperventilate.
Without really thinking, I pull out my phone and send a text to Mom. I don’t think about when she’ll answer, or if she will. I just do it.
Mom I really really need to talk to you. I’m having the worst day.
And SEND.
Seconds later, it’s
marked as delivered. She hasn’t read it yet.
And now I’m back in panic mode, knowing she won’t respond and neither would Drew and April hates me and Seth wouldn’t understand.
There’s a knock on my door, and I don’t tell whoever it is to come in, because if I do, I’ll make it as far as “Co—” and then I’ll explode.
My dad cracks the door open anyway and I crawl into my bed, pulling the covers up to my chin. “Honey?” he says.
Apparently hearing someone else speak was enough to open the floodgates. I break into giant, gasping sobs, and he freezes.
“Leelee, what’s wrong? Something with your big trip?” He rushes over to the bed and I just shake my head and throw my arms around his neck. His shirt is drenched within thirty seconds. I grab a hold of him tightly and he hugs me back, strong arms anchoring me there, letting me freak out. Eventually, I’m able to calm down.
“What’s wrong?” he whispers, chin atop my head.
“I can’t,” I say in hiccupping little syllables.
“You can tell me anything.”
“I want to talk to Mom.”
He’s quiet for a while. “Do you want me to send Stacey?”
I shake my head hard. “I think … I think I just need to sit here for a while.”
He doesn’t break the hug for a good long time, which is okay with me. But after a while, he leaves, and he turns off the light. It’s midafternoon, but I curl up on my side and, without meaning to, without knowing I’m doing it at all, I fall asleep.
It’s dark when I wake up, and I can feel the cold air sighing in through the window I never closed. The thing that sucks is I don’t feel any better.
There’s one message on my phone, and I reach for it hesitantly. My pulse jumps. It’s from Mom.
Sry u r having a bad day. Sux. Am out w/ hubs + daughter. Talk 2 u l8er? Xoxoxo
And like a whole line of emojis.
I throw the phone down. She won’t call me later. All I am is a reminder of what she used to have, and of what Dad and Stacey did to her. She has another cuter, less painful three-year-old daughter with her “hubs” and if that’s enough for her, fine.
But damn, I wish I could talk to her. I can’t. And honestly, that hurts worse than Drew.
How to Make Out Page 12
