21 Stolen Kisses

by Lauren Blakely

  “And,” he said, brushing his lips against my neck, sending a shiver through me, “I want to be the one who takes you to the revival of Chess.”

  I wrenched back to look at him. My eyes were wide with excitement, I was sure. “Is there going to be one?” I asked, practically crossing my fingers and holding my breath in hope.

  He jutted up his shoulders. “Word on the street is Davis Milo is going to direct a revival,” he said, mentioning a Tony-winning director I adored.

  Sparklers ignited inside of me. This would be my dream date with my man. “We’re going to go. We have to go,” I said firmly.

  He rolled his eyes. Playfully. Oh so playfully. “Obviously, we’re there opening night.”

  I pressed my hands against his chest, staring at him. “Do you really think it will happen?”

  “I hope so. And when it does I’m going to take the woman I’m madly in love with. And I’m going to kiss her outside the theater, and during intermission, and maybe even when the cast takes its curtain call.”

  “Nobody kisses like us,” I said.

  “Nobody,” he repeated, then lowered his mouth to mine, claiming my lips in a hazy, heady kiss that melted me from head to toe.

  Eventually, we stopped kissing and I sighed happily, picturing our future. “I’m going to write you a love letter. I’m going to write a letter to you about all our kisses, and how much I love you,” I told him, cupping his cheeks.

  “Write it,” he said, both an order and a wish. “Write it and ruin me for anyone else forever.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Will a letter ruin you?”

  He ran a hand through my hair, sighed heavily. “I’m already ruined for anyone else.”

  We kept up during the fall and through the new year, juggling, and managing, and as my mom carried on with Jay Fierstein, I grew closer and closer to her agent, so close we started talking details about the future.

  Then those plans came crashing down in three seconds.

  *

  When my dad saw pieces of my letter in the early winter this year, he could tell from certain words in it that I was writing to an older guy, to someone who worked in an office, who wore slacks and shirts to work, who liked art. He asked if the letter was to Jay, his business partner. I sensed an opening. A chance to protect myself, to keep my own secret, to keep the guy I was madly in love with—Noah—out of the line of fire.

  I did what my mom had taught me to do all those years. Spin. Contort. Make a fable of the facts. I made myself look sad, forlorn, ready to cry as I claimed I’d been in love with Jay, but that it was all unrequited, that I just had a crush on Jay from afar. I even said, to make it more believable, that I tried to kiss Jay once. I said the kiss lasted for three seconds max. I said Jay pushed me away because it was wrong. That all the kisses I detailed in that letter were fictional, were wishes for kisses.

  That might have been my best performance ever—acting as if I liked Jay, when I hated him. Acting as if Jay was noble, when he wasn’t.

  But I knew my dad and Jay had been on the outs already. My dad had suspected that Jay was skimming some money off the top of the company, so their business partnership was already falling apart. I just delivered the punishing blow with those alleged three seconds that my dad could never get out of mind. Then I begged my dad not to breathe a word. I pleaded with him not to say a thing to Jay. I claimed I was so embarrassed over the whole thing. I told him I’d see a shrink. I’d do anything.

  My dad agreed to stay quiet. He never said a word to Jay about those three seconds. He never asked his business partner about my alleged crush on him. My dad did what he knew how to do. End things coldly and clinically and preserve whatever was still intact of his dignity. But those fictional three seconds that never happened did what I needed them to do—they protected me, they protected Noah, and they served as payback to Jay for screwing my mom behind my dad’s back.

  I know Jay deserved it. I know he’s scum.

  But it’s not as if I can take the high road here.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Noah

  The grassy, musty smell of old books fills my nostrils as I walk past tattered copies of Treasure Island and Moby Dick, the spines nearly breaking. As comfortable as I was as a kid with the divas of showbiz, with the velvet curtains, and late nights in lounges, I was equally at home in a library, the only place where my mom would leave me alone if she had to attend an audition.

  I find the small lecture room easily, and I slip in silently. The room is half full. A woman knits in the front row, and a man reads the paper in the back, and everyone is quietly waiting. I take a seat in the middle as Tremaine walks in. When he sees me, he stops briefly in his tracks, so quick it’s nearly unnoticeable. He nods and heads for the lectern.

  He clears his throat, says hello, and begins his talk. He chats about finding his passion, about how humor writing can help people learn to read, and about how important it is to chase your dreams. He talks too about the things that made him happy when he was a kid – reading, laughing, writing jokes. It amazes me that this guy is known for his sharp, espionage-centric hits, but literacy through comedy is what makes him tick. He doesn’t advertise these small moments in a library on a Sunday morning, but I’d heard he does them from time to time, and simply shows up, like when Woody Allen used to appear at bars and play his sax.

  After he finishes he chats with some of the crowd. I wait for them to clear, then head to the lectern, extend a hand, and thank him.

  “I was surprised to see you here,” he says, and the small grin tells me my presence is not a bad surprise.

  “I had it on my calendar. I’m a big believer in following your dreams. It’s always good to hear others talk about it too,” I say, looking him in the eyes, letting him know I mean this earnestly.

  “I’m glad you enjoyed the talk.”

  “Hey, David,” I say, tossing out a question as we chat in the quiet room, surrounded by old and new books, and the quiet hum of the air conditioner. “What else made you happy when you were a kid?”

  He smiles, and claps me on a shoulder. “Besides books and writing? Well, do I need to say it? The girls. Always the girls.”

  I laugh deeply, and he joins me. “They do have a way of making the bad things seem better.”

  “Girls are vexing and wonderful. I’ll take the bad with the good and the good with the bad. That’s what I really want to write next. Screw all this spy stuff. I want to write a love story,” he says, as he begins packing up his messenger bag, sliding his notes into a side pocket.

  “What’s the setup?”

  “The guy’s been in love with a girl for years,” he says quickly, as if it’s obvious. Maybe it is to him. Maybe it’s a story that comes from a certainty inside him.

  “Does he get the girl?”

  He winks as he slings his bag on his shoulder. “Tune in at eight and we’ll see.”

  “But of course not till the season finale,” I add.

  “And even then who knows if it’ll have a happy ending. Not all love stories do, but that doesn’t make them any less powerful.”

  I nod several times. “Truer words,” I say quietly, as we leave the room.

  “We’ll call it The One That Got Away.”

  A sad wistfulness drifts through my veins at the name. “There’s always a girl like that.”

  “Always,” he says, and he claps me on the back.

  Then I leave. Because I have a girl to see in Brooklyn in an hour.

  Kennedy

  You have never seen eyes look like saucers until you’ve seen Amanda take in the visual feast of Lane for the first time. Oh, and that thing people do when their jaws drop? Picture Amanda as a cartoon character whose mouth plummets to the ground like a cash register drawer, then cha-chings back up.

  “Amanda, this is Lane,” I say after we find Lane at a table inside a bustling Dr. Insomnia’s. The place is packed with Sunday afternoon coffee drinkers, and I have an hour with my friends b
efore I meet Noah. “Lane, meet Amanda.”

  “It’s a pleasure,” Lane says as he rises and shakes her hand. Then, like a character from a romance novel, he plants a delicate kiss on her hand. She blushes the color of a fire engine.

  “Hi-lo,” she manages, some combination of “hi” and “hello.”

  “Dork,” I say, and we all sit down.

  Amanda laughs, then Lane asks if we want something.

  “Caramel mocha pour moi,” Amanda says.

  To me, Lane asks, “Espresso for you, Kennedy?”

  “Mais oui.”

  While he orders, Amanda leans forward and grips my hand so hard I swear the veins are going to burst. “Holy Mary, Mother of God. He is like Abercrombie & Fitch made real,” she says, as her eyes do their planet-size imitation.

  “He’s not bad looking,” I say with a shrug.

  “How are you not madly in love with him?”

  “It’s not like that,” I say softly.

  “No. It is like that. It should be like that. How do you hang out with him all the time and not want to pounce on him? You’ve been holding back on me, haven’t you?”

  “I swear, nothing has ever happened. And we’re just going to prom as friends.”

  “You told me on Friday you thought he liked you.”

  “I think I was wrong. I think it’s just a friend thing.”

  “Can I have him then?” she says, like it’s a joke. But I can sense the sliver of truth in her question.

  “Sure,” I say, feeling generous, because I’m going to have to find a way to let Lane down gently about prom anyway now that I’m back with Noah. Maybe I can maneuver Amanda into going. Maybe Lane can take Amanda instead.

  Amanda reaches into her purse and reapplies her lip gloss, smacking her lips together. “For real?”

  “For real,” I say, then I snort like a pig just for her and tell her it’s my totally honest snort.

  “I just don’t get it. I don’t get how you guys can hang out and he’s so hot and you’re not into him. Are you in love with someone else? Do you have a secret lover I don’t know about? C’mon, now is the time to fess up.”

  Like I said, Amanda will be a great reporter someday. She just has this way of sniffing out the story. But I’m like a sleazy politician who knows how to fool the constituents, because all it takes is one quick, easy fib. “Yeah, the headmistress at the Agnes Ethel School,” I say, and Amanda cracks up.

  Lane returns with our drinks, doling them out with his winning smile before he sits down at the table.

  “So, Lane, how do you feel about Kennedy finally bringing you out in public?” Amanda says with a wink.

  He laughs. “Clearly, I’m thrilled that she’s no longer embarrassed of me,” he says, segueing so easily into the conversation with Amanda.

  Soon the two of them are discussing everything from school to movies to the state of journalism, and it’s a volley rather than an inquisition, so I enjoy my espresso and the fact that I don’t have to navigate a new set of untruths. I join in from time to time, but mostly I let them do the talking and I let my mind wander to last night’s long-awaited reunion in Madison Square Park, to how wondrous it felt to be in Noah’s arms again, and to how I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care anymore about all the reasons I’m not supposed to do what I’m doing.

  I finish my drink and head to the counter for another, a little bit buzzed from the highlight reel I’ve just watched in my head. As I wait for my drink, my eyes wander to Amanda and Lane, who are chatting like they were born to chat with each other. When my drink is ready and I return to the table, Amanda is telling Lane about our English teacher who claims to be from Stratford-on-Avon, but she overheard him at a restaurant talking in a standard American accent.

  Lane laughs. “I wonder what other dark secrets he’s hiding.”

  I expect Lane to give me a look when he says dark secrets, a wink and a nod to my shared secrets. But he doesn’t. The remark is real and he means it for her. A tiny bead of some strange foreign feeling – maybe jealousy? – snakes through me. Then I remind myself that Lane’s not mine, I have someone, and I don’t even know why I’d feel any envy at all.

  “He’s probably never even read Shakespeare. He probably does his class prep with Wikipedia,” Amanda says in her own version of a British accent.

  He leans in closer to her, narrows his eyes, and nods his head knowingly. “I have a feeling all the teachers in all the world are doing that very same thing. I’m convinced there is a vast conspiracy of Wikipedia-inspired teaching in all of high school.”

  “We really should uncover it,” Amanda says, scooting nearer too as she folds her hands together on the table.

  “Yes, let’s put your reporter skills to good use,” he says, and the weird, misplaced sensation worms its way faster through me, wriggling and squirming, and I tell it to stop, I shout silently at it to leave me alone because I don’t have feelings for Lane.

  Then it hits me.

  It’s not envy. It’s worry. It’s the fear of my worlds colliding. It’s the fear of Lane, who knows about Noah and my mom and all her affairs and all my lost friends, smashing into Amanda, who I’ve managed to shield from the dirty sides of my life. I’ve kept these two friends separate for so long, and now I understand why I erected a wall. Because I need them both, and I’m terrified of losing Amanda if she learns about my after-hours life, and my after-dark mother. I’m petrified of secrets leaking from the sordid side of my life into the clean side.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket, and as they chatter more about their hypothetical plans to unveil the laziness of academia, I seize the opportunity to look. It’s Noah, telling me he’ll pick me up in twenty minutes on the corner of Jane Street and Eighth Avenue.

  I’m about to reply I’ll be there when another text pops up on my screen: Such a delight to have coffee with you, too, D. Until the next time …

  Forget the snake of worry. Now, it’s a dragon of rage because my mom sent a text to me that she meant to send to Amanda’s dad. I close my eyes and let the ball of anger course through me, traveling through my body, until I am gripping my phone so tight, I want to throw it across the coffee shop.

  “Excuse me.” I push back quickly, heading to the street, and call her.

  “There you are, baby. I’ve missed you.”

  “You sent me a text you meant for him,” I hiss. “For D. Honestly, Mom. Can’t you even make sure your texts to your boyfriends go to them?”

  She gasps and it sounds so natural, like that’s exactly how she’d express the shock of a misdelivered text. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I meant to send that to Diana. She’s one of my new writers on the show and we just met to discuss a new storyline that I’m so excited about.”

  “Do you honestly think I believe that?”

  “Baby, stop this. Please. There’s nothing going on at all with your friend’s father.”

  I seethe inside, and speak through gritted teeth. “Daniel, Mom. You know his name. You used it the other day.”

  “Daniel,” she says lightly as if it’s the first time she’s even breathed it. “Yes, that’s it. Daniel. Thank you for reminding me, dear.”

  “I have to go. I’m sure Diana’s storyline is just fantastic,” I say and stab my finger against the End Call button.

  I stare at the phone. The phone is my mom right now, the phone is all the things I can’t say to her, and all the ways I contort the truth too.

  I take a deep breath. I inhale. I count to three. I start to reply to Noah, the one thing that will calm me down. But my fingers are shaky and I mess up the words. I try again, and my fingers slip once more. I glare at the phone like it’s my mortal enemy, like it’s a teeny tiny little person with her arms folded across her chest, feet planted firm on the ground, standing guard against me.

  I flash my phone a dirty look as I chuck it at the sidewalk. But it’s a sturdy bastard, so when I pick it up, it’s still ticking.

  “You okay?”

&n
bsp; It’s Lane.

  “Fine,” I grumble.

  “What’s going on, Kennedy?”

  “Nothing. Stupid phone not working. It’s all frozen,” I lie.

  “Perhaps this might not be the best way to fix it though.”

  “Where’s Amanda?”

  “Right here.”

  I turn around and Amanda’s standing on the sidewalk too, hands parked on her hips. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” I mutter. “I have to go.”

  Amanda grabs my arm. “Hey. You just threw your phone on the sidewalk. You’re not leaving.” She turns to Lane and tips her forehead to the coffee shop. “We’ll be inside in a minute.”

  I love her for taking charge, for not letting Lane be the one to talk to me, even though he’s the one of them I could tell. He’s the one who knows about my mom.

  But he obeys, and retreats inside.

  Amanda wraps an arm around me. “Are you pissed at me for talking to Lane?”

  Amanda is very direct. Amanda is also very wrong. “No,” I say, taking some small comfort in my ability to tell the truth for one second.

  “Really?” She gives me a pointed look.

  “Really. I’m fine with it.”

  “Because it seemed like you were pissed that we were chatting.”

  “It’s fine. I swear it’s fine,” I say because I have to keep my worlds separate. The walls must be maintained.

  “Then why did you throw your phone?”

  Sometimes I contemplate telling Amanda about my mom. But then I remember Catey, and how she’s gone from my life. A few months ago I ran into Catey at a nearby bookstore. While waiting for a coffee in the bookstore café, I scanned the crowds and saw her by the magazines. She raised her hand to wave, and I waved back. Before I could even process that it was the same Catey, the guy behind the counter handed me my drink, and when I turned around she was gone.

  I look at Amanda, at her blue-gray eyes, her long dark-blond hair, looped into a low ponytail, and the prospect of us being reduced to a random bookstore encounter someday keeps my lips clamped shut. Although I want to tell her that our parents suck, that her dad is a jerk, and that my mom is the worst kind of woman, I know that if I open my mouth, the best friend from high school will be out the door too.