I roll my eyes at him. “You mean, you’ve gotten used to me.”
“That did take some time,” Noah shoots back. “Like I said, you’re sort of like a bulldozer.”
“You can’t keep comparing me to a bulldozer,” I say, hating that analogy.
Because even though I know what he means, it just makes me sound mean.
Or like I’m going to run him over.
Or poke him with one of those big bulldozer spikes.
“Pick a different analogy.”
“How about a delicacy?” he asks.
“In what way?”
“It’s like people who try new food. They smell it, look at it, and finally taste it. Most of the time, it’s shit, but then someone comes along and whispers that it’s a delicacy. It’s still shit, but their perception about it’s changed. So, finally, they try it again. A few more times actually. And eventually, they start to see the appeal and even enjoy it. And because it took so long to like, it becomes a delicacy that’s special. Thus, you’re a delicacy.”
“Are you saying I’m delicious?” I ask, teasing Noah.
Because I’m not sure where he was going with the whole delicacy thing.
I can’t decide if being a delicacy is a good thing or a bad thing because I’m pretty sure it could be both at the same time. I’m not even going to sit here and try and dissect it.
Instead, I’m going to pretend it was the ultimate compliment and tease Noah at the same time.
“I’m saying that it takes time to get adjusted to your flavor,” Noah stutters, furrowing his brow.
He glances over at me like he’s completely confused.
I let out a laugh at his expression.
“Ohhh, you’re saying I take time to become delicious,” I press.
“I didn’t say you were delicious. I said … I don’t know what I’m saying.”
Noah looks up at me like I’ve finally stunned him, and I have to admit, I feel victorious.
It’s not often that I fluster Noah, but today, ladies and gentlemen, I’ve done it.
“You’re mocking me,” he states, his eyes coming up to mine.
“Not at all.” I shake my head at him, trying to keep a straight face.
Noah cocks one eyebrow at me. “What would I be then?” he asks.
I blink a few times, actually thinking about it.
What would Noah be?
He’s moody.
Hot and cold.
He’s oddly funny.
Slightly over serious.
But at the same time, he takes forever to warm up to you.
But once he does, I think you’ve got a friend for life.
“A fine wine,” I finally decide.
“Really? And why’s that?”
“I think because you take time to open up. And there are a lot of conditions that are needed for you to even do so. Like, you need the perfect temperature, the right amount of aging. Then, even once you open up the bottle, you have to swirl it, let it get air in. But after all that waiting, you finally get to take a sip, and you discover that the wine was worth waiting for.”
“I’m worth the wait, huh?” Noah says, more pleased than I expected.
“What I meant is that you take a long time to age. You’re picky and stubborn and take forever,” I say back, narrowing my eyes in on him.
“True,” Noah says. “So, are you saying that you’ll only like me when I’m older?”
“No, you’ve already been opened,” I say, shaking my head.
I’m trying desperately to get him to follow along, but he keeps going off on these tangents that don’t apply to my actual point.
“You’ve uncorked me then, have you?” he asks with a grin. “That’s kind of dirty.”
“Noah,” I whisper out, my eyes wide. “That’s not at all what I meant.”
“What did you mean then?” he asks, amused.
“What I meant is that when I first met you, you were a freshly opened bottle that was too strong. If I had taken a sip, I would have spit you out. But only because you needed time to breathe. Now, you’re somewhat drinkable.”
Now, you’re drinkable?
What is wrong with me? I don’t even understand what just came out of my mouth, but it definitely didn’t make any sense.
“I’m drinkable?” Noah repeats. He presses his lips together like he’s trying to stop himself from laughing.
“You know what? I’ve decided we are both terrible at analogies and need to stop using them. So, let’s just forget this conversation. No more bulldozers or delicacies or wine. We’re just Noah and Mallory, all right?” I ask, hoping for this conversation to be over.
Noah shakes his head at me, his nose scrunching up. “No, I think I’d like to hold on to my analogy. I’ll cherish it. A nice, fine aged wine. You’ve heard my dad talking about a good bottle of wine. They have a sexiness to them. I really like that analogy actually. So, thank you.” Noah smiles at me.
I open my mouth to say something back to him, but Mr. Johnson starts talking, and I’m forced to keep my mouth shut.
I want to open it and start yelling that it wasn’t actually meant to be a compliment, that it was supposed to be a slam.
But apparently, I suck at slamming people.
Or maybe Noah’s just better at finding a compliment in an insult.
And I’m not sure which is more worrisome.
“All right, students, presentations are done, and I have to say, you all did very well,” Mr. Johnson says, sitting at the edge of his desk. His ankles are crossed in front of him, and his arms are folded over his chest. “We’re going to start on the next chapter today. It’s fairly lengthy, so it will take us well through next week to work through. Go ahead and open your textbooks to chapter three.”
I take my textbook out of my bag. I’m feeling annoyed at Noah, but I try not to think about it.
Mr. Johnson takes us through the first few pages, but before I know it, the bell is ringing, and everyone is out of their seats.
“Somehow, I always manage to forget that Tuesday and Thursday classes are shortened,” I say.
Noah walks beside me out of class and toward my locker.
“It’s one thing Kensington School did right. I like the shortened classes,” Noah replies.
“Yeah, it’s nice to break up the day,” I agree.
“See you in Art,” he says, giving me a head nod as he keeps moving down the hallway.
“See ya,” I call out.
But he’s already gone.
I enter my locker combination to get out my Latin textbook, but my mind is on lunch. Because lunch is when I get to see Harry.
And I haven’t talked to him since last night, since I was at his house, in his bed.
And I miss him.
But mostly, I’m just excited to see him.
Lying in bed last night, I couldn’t help but replay our afternoon together over and over in my head. The way that his body had pressed up against mine. How everything had felt so right between us.
We’ve come a long way. And it’s kind of crazy to think about how your feelings can change in a week.
How they grow and develop.
I like that he tells me he cares about me and that he’s always showing me how he’s feeling.
I really felt that yesterday.
And Noah and I are finally actually friends. Things between us were different last night.
I was comfortable with him without feeling like it was wrong or too intimate. I feel like we can finally be close but also have boundaries.
I reach into my locker to grab my textbook, but my hand comes out with a note instead.
I look over my shoulder, making sure I’m alone to read it.
I unfold it and smile.
Mallory,
I wanted to tell you that I’ve been thinking about you all morning.
And if we’re being honest, all last night as well.
Excited to see you today.
We defini
tely need to come up with a plan for tomorrow night.
One that involves you being back in my bed.
X,
Harry
I reread the note, smiling to myself. I feel like butterflies are flitting about in every part of my body, and I can’t help but beam.
Because Harry’s been thinking about me too.
And that’s all the confirmation I needed.
I carefully fold the note, tuck it into my backpack, and head to class.
Straight to the point.
Latin
The second I sit down in Latin, Mohammad is at my side.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me that you were having a sleepover with Naomi Fleming,” he says, sounding insulted.
I roll my eyes in response. “There was nothing to tell.”
“Nothing to tell! Nothing to tell?” Mohammad repeats, his mouth falling open. “I disagree. And I want to know everything. What did you do?”
He’s perched on the edge of his seat, staring at me, and I already know he won’t stop bugging me until I tell him everything that happened.
“We had pizza,” I start, trying to work my way through the night. “And then …”
“Pizza? Really?” he interrupts, looking confused.
“Yeah. Why?” I ask.
“That’s just surprising.”
“And I’m continuing,” I say, trying to keep him focused. “After that, we put on our pajamas and face masks, talked, and watched a movie. Noah made popcorn.” I shrug. “That’s about it.”
“Could you be any less enthusiastic?” he complains.
“Well, you asked what we did. That was our night.”
Mohammad narrows his eyes in on me. “So, there weren’t any pillow fights?”
“Unfortunately, no,” I say, pretending to feel sorry for him.
“Hmm. And what about, you know, a little female-female exploration?” he says, his eyes brightening up.
“What does that even mean?” I ask, thinking about his words. Female-female. “Mohammad,” I say, finally connecting the dots, “are you asking if Naomi and I got it on?”
“What?” he defends. “It could happen. Maybe you both wanted to touch someone else’s boobs—for learning purposes, of course—and decided to experiment together. Or maybe you wanted to give each other snogging pointers.” He smirks. “There are so many options.”
“Sorry to burst your horny bubble, but there was no groping and definitely no kissing,” I say. “Believe it or not, we actually fell asleep by eleven.”
Mohammad sighs deeply, like I’ve somehow simultaneously destroyed his dream and let him down.
“Honestly, I’m gutted. But at least there wasn’t action going on without me. I think that would have been the bigger blow.”
“Well”—I grin, thinking about Harry’s note in my locker—“someone did get a little action.”
“At the sleepover?” Mohammad asks, his voice rising. “Wait, did Naomi and Noah hook up? Holy shit.”
“Eww. Stop, no. I might have seen Harry after school yesterday …” I smirk, raising my eyebrows at him.
Mohammad’s mouth falls open. “Holy shit!”
“I know,” I say, matching his excitement.
I can’t help it. I know I shouldn’t be saying anything and that it’s personal, but I didn’t talk to Naomi about it last night. I had thought about telling her, but I figured since she’s still friends with Olivia, it might be awkward.
And there was no way I was going to tell Noah. His head would have probably exploded, killing me in the process. So, I’ve been sitting on this all day, feeling like I’m floating away on a cloud but not being able to tell anyone why.
And I want to talk to Mohammad—because I’m bursting at the seams about it.
And I trust him.
“You got some action. I knew it,” he says, his pearly whites coming out.
I grin at him, feeling excited. “Wait, how did you know?”
“You’re practically radiating today,” he says, studying my face.
“What? Stop,” I say, giving him a shove. “I am not.”
“You are,” he disagrees. “I can’t believe you and Harry finally shagged.”
“What?” I almost shout.
I look around, realizing that we’re still in class and that I need to keep my voice down. “We didn’t do that.”
Mohammad rolls his eyes. “How was it?”
“Do you really want to know?” I ask, my lips pulling back into a straight line, wondering if I should just stop this conversation right now.
“I don’t even need to ask,” Mohammad says, waving his hand at me. “I already know my boy’s got moves.”
Mohammad sits back in his chair, looking way too pleased with the situation.
“You look … proud. It’s kind of creepy.”
“Of course I’m proud,” he says, leaning toward me. “Look at you. You’re like Miss Sunshine today instead of Miss America.”
“Clever,” I state, shaking my head. “But I am happy. And I’m allowed to look happy.”
“This isn’t the look of just a happy woman,” he says, pointing to my face. “This is the look of a woman whose recently had her feathers ruffled—and in a very good and satisfying way.”
I wrinkle my nose at his statement because ew.
I’ve had my feathers ruffled?
Isn’t that a bad thing?
And I don’t want to look like that.
But Mohammad is grinning at me like he’s a proud father, and I’m so happy about Harry’s note that I can’t help but smile back at him.
“We need to work on your word choices,” I tell him. “But I guess, yes, I am happy about what happened.”
“I’m going to have to ask for some pointers because, from the looks of it, Harry really unwound you.” Mohammad laughs.
“What does that even mean?”
“It means, you were wound up so tightly in class yesterday that I thought you might rip in two. And now, here you sit, completely chill. I told you yesterday, girls need three things.”
“Are you saying that getting a little action has made me less grumpy?” I ask, taken aback.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” he replies, his eyes sparkling. “How far did you get anyway? Tell me third.”
“It’s personal.”
But Mohammad raises his eyebrow at me, and I give in way too easily. “Second,” I answer.
“Shit, that’s not even that exciting.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” I say, a little offended.
“That’s all right. Maybe if we’re both lucky, we’ll get to third this weekend,” he says optimistically.
“Wait, what do you even consider third? Because third to me is … only mouths,” I say, eyeing him.
“What! Oh no, third is anything below the waist.” He grins. “Second’s just groping.”
I roll my eyes. “Either way, I guess it was more than groping and less than mouths.”
“The power of a finger.” Mohammad beams.
I shove him, but he just bursts out with laughter, grabbing the attention of our entire class.
“Anyway,” I say, lowering my voice to barely a whisper, “it was definitely intense.”
“I’d imagine. Guys get straight to the point.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, leaning in closer.
“I mean, girls will slip their hand in your pants and say, Oh my, what an accident. What just happened? I guess I can touch for a minute. Oh, do you like that? They play coy and pretend to be shy about it. And let me tell you, it’s effective. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with being direct and knowing what you’re doing, but the game-playing can be sexy. Guys are just different. Once you give us the green light, we go for it. We know we have one chance to make you moan our name, and we’ll do everything in our power to leave you panting at the end of it.”
“Mohammad,” I say, my eyes the size of saucers, “guys aren’t—or shouldn’t be�
��like that. Sex—or any intimate moment for that matter—is about the connection. It’s a relationship.”
“Of course,” he whispers, agreeing with me. “But it’s also an opportunity to show you why we should be allowed to connect with you—with our penis.”
I shake my head at him. “You’re the only one who sees it like that,” I say, not agreeing with him.
“I think you just don’t pay attention,” he counters.
“Well, can we agree to disagree?”
“We can.” He smiles easily, and then his eyes dart upward like he’s thinking. “So, who else knows about you and Harry then?”
“Just you,” I admit. “I didn’t tell Naomi. I thought about it, but I’m not sure. It’s private, but I felt like you and I are close, and you’re close with Harry, so …”
“Wait, does Noah not know?” Mohammad says, his gaze back on me.
“Obviously not. He’d freak.”
“He would freak. Or will freak. I mean, he’s going to find out.”
“How?” I ask, my whole body tensing.
“Wait, has he seen you and Harry together yet, like since?” Mohammad asks.
“No.”
“Right. Well, be prepared. Because he’s going to know.”
“How?” I ask again, frustrated. Because I just want him to answer my question!
“He’ll know the second he sees you two together. These things are always obvious,” he says, sitting up straighter.
I look down at my textbook, wondering if he’s right.
Will Noah know?
And will he be upset?
But if no one confirms it, he can’t actually know.
At least, not for sure.
He will just … suspect.
And besides, it’s kind of an obvious next step. I mean, I told him yesterday I was thinking about Harry being my boyfriend.
“Let’s hope he doesn’t,” I comment back, not wanting to think about it. I don’t want to worry or feel guilty.
Because I’m too happy to feel like I did something wrong.
And I haven’t.
I don’t owe anyone any explanations.
Especially not Noah.
More than friends.
Art
London Prep: Book Two Page 25
