When We Kissed

by Kim Roshell

  I swear, ignorance was so much easier, B.C. (Before Closet).

  Luckily, heartache and I are well acquainted. We’re old friends. We coexist. In a way, Heartache is my Mr. Right. Surely we can endure a few more months. Fight the good fight, accept the inevitable.

  Ashley and Whit. They’re together. End of story.

  “You need to go big when you ask me.” This demand issued between what sounds like yet another round of kisses.

  “Ask what?”

  “Prom, Whit. What else?”

  “It’s December, baby. Why’re we talkin’ prom? And, go big, why? You’re already my girl.”

  Stop listening, Simone.

  “Cards are dwindling over here, my lowly subject.”

  “Shut it, Ryan.” Once again, I’m losing this stupid game.

  I’m also losing feeling in my foot.

  “Timeout.” I set my hand face down on the table, lean forward to reposition myself on the hard plastic seat.

  “Rockin’ the sexy today, I see. Pink. Nice.”

  Ryan thinks he’s slick, tossing me winks every time either of us flips a card. His dimples aren’t that cute. This is nothing more than another diversionary tactic designed to throw me off. Look at him, he’ll think his flirting actually works on every female with a pulse.

  “Never took you for a full-lace kinda girl, but I gotta tell you, very good choice, Simone.”

  “Stop looking down my shirt, butthead.”

  “Have to close my eyes to do that, sweet thang. Surely you don’t want me to fubar this game,” Ryan huffs, his expression so incredulous, I have to stifle a laugh. “Besides, you have the advantage now, trust me. I’m good and distracted.”

  I readjust the neck of my shirt. “Time in.”

  “Might stand a chance of winning, if you’d let that slide a little lower. That way I’ll be too busy enjoying some of God’s greater work to pay attention.”

  “Ryan!”

  “Simone!” he mocks. “You flashed me, but did I complain? No, I complimented you. If anyone has the right to be offended, you’re looking right at him, missy. Apologize.”

  “Hold your breath and don’t let go until you hear it in a few hundred years.”

  “Not nice, Simone,” he scolds with a tsk. “Here I’ve been thinking you were all sunshine and brown sugar. More to you than meets the eye, I see. Think I like this sassy side of you almost as much as your lingerie choices. Speaking of . . . C-cup. Thirty-six?”

  Note to self: Do not wear oversized tunic-style sweater—which happens to be black, unlike the hot pink bra I neglected to change out of before I dressed for this regretful experience—around Ryan ever again.

  “Knock it off, Ellsworth,” comes a warning from The Forbidden.

  “Yeah, stop being a pig,” Ashley chimes in with far less heat in her tone.

  I flip another card onto the discard pile.

  “Having your teammates sing for me last year was cool,” she continues their conversation. “But maybe this year you can, I don’t know, do something a little more romantic? Throw in some flowers?”

  “Bein’ serious right now?”

  “Uh, yeah. It’s senior prom, Whit. Don’t you wanna make the whole thing memorable?”

  “Us bein’ there won’t be memorable?”

  “The whole thing, Whit.”

  “Silly to shell out a wad of cash and make a huge spectacle of myself when we know we’re goin’ together. Didn’t you and our mamas already do dress shoppin’ like a week ago?”

  They did?

  “What’s that have to do with anything?”

  He sighs. “I’d rather save money so we can do stuff this summer before—”

  “—we split up so you can go off to live your real dream?”

  Darn it, I could have played my seven!

  “We ain’t splittin’ up, babe. Thought we agreed?”

  “I thought so too, but you’ve been different ever since.”

  “Different?”

  “Yeah. Distant. Like we’re not so solid.”

  “Speed! Wanna bow down now or later, peasant?”

  “Hush, boy.”

  The screech of metal against the floor demands my attention. If Ashley’s bailing, she won’t be leaving alone. That’s the only reason I look, but wish I hadn’t. Now we’re both staring at her boyfriend, who’s currently standing on his chair.

  Drawn by sheer inevitability, my eyes lower, starting at the bottom in this torturous slow-mo replay of sorts. Every detail I’ve avoided since the moment Whit arrived jumps out for my review. The scuffed Tims on his feet, the loose fit Levi’s that fail to hide those defined muscles. Heartache somehow stretches the distance, dragging my gaze along in inexcusable leisure over the slopes of his thighs, then slows the pace into a crawl. Lingers. Finally moves on over what I know is a taut stomach.

  “Next time, take a picture.”

  Is there anything I’m not showing Ryan today?

  I blink. Blink. Shut my eyes. Swallow.

  “Be cool,” Ryan whispers, and similar to his previous warning, thankfully I seem to be the only one who hears him because neither Ashley nor Whit are looking our way when I finally open my eyes. I give it my best shot, lifting my gaze into safer territory, though Heartache puts up a valiant fight.

  I focus on the once pristine white Henley that’s now stained with ketchup, the word PROM smeared across the broad expanse of Whit’s chest. A glob, that may have been the period on what I think is a question mark along his side, falls to the floor with a splat.

  “Have everyone’s attention?” Whit booms from his perch, totally unfazed by the stunned expressions of passing shoppers. “Though this is WAY early, I jus’ ruined a fairly new shirt so I, Whit Devereaux, can publicly ask Ashley Goodwin, my girlfriend, if she’ll do me the honor of allowin’ me to escort her to senior prom, way we’ve been plannin’ since last year, and if she accepts today, I’ll go BIG on another promposal in front of all of our friends.” Arms spread wide in demonstration, he adds, “I’ll even buy her flowers,” giving Ashley a pointed look. “We’re good. Okay?”

  She beams. Not a trace of apprehension that worried her tone a moment ago is visible on her angelic face. She jumps up and throws her arms around his neck (thank God she’s wearing black, too) after he steps down. “Thank you, babe.”

  “Uh, huh.” He wraps his arms around her waist, reels her in close.

  I suffer a million paper cuts to the heart, unable to tears my eyes away as Ashley presses her lips to the corner of his jaw, then his neck. Murmurs something that makes him bite his bottom lip.

  This is turning into a perfectly craptastic day. I look down at the cards Ryan just dealt.

  “Now, we just need to hook you up with someone, Simone,” Ashley announces, reclaiming her seat.

  “I’m, um, working on it,” I somehow reply around the bloody heart pulsating in my throat.

  “You mean with Shawn?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Williams? He’s a douche.”

  I almost look again. Almost.

  “So, you are feeling him? I know you’ve been trying to figure it out.”

  Am I feeling Shawn? Maybe? For sure, I think he’s cute. We have good conversation. Like Ashley’s boyfriend, Shawn’s more than the stereotypical jock. His grades might not put him on the front row come graduation day, but he’s smart. Follows the stock exchange, uses his free period to chat with the Econ teacher—for the fun of it.

  But do his kisses stir gnats, let alone butterflies into flight inside my belly? Inspire warm tingles, or ignite that spark of fear that my heart may be on the verge of an explosion, sure to splatter my blood all over a closetful of expensive winter coats?

  Negative. In fact, the only sensation I felt during our one and only kiss last night was . . . meh. I may not be ready for a boyfriend, but I want more than meh.

  Maybe I should move past these useless comparisons.

  Three sets of eyes burn my face. I keep m
ine on Ashley. “We’ve been friends a long time. You don’t just . . . flip the switch that easily.”

  While this logic makes perfectly good sense to me, Ashley lifts a contradictable brow. “I don’t know, Simone. I mean, Shawn’s hot, or whatever, but he doesn’t have the best reputation when it comes to relationships.”

  “Who says I’m looking for one? Maybe I’ll date a few guys over the next few months, weigh my options.”

  She snorts. “Yeah, right. This from the girl who’s turned down nearly every date invitation for, like, the last year and a half. At this rate, you’ll be voted Girl Most Likely to Have a Houseful of Cats.”

  Ouch. I fold the cards, settle back in my chair. “Gee, thanks.”

  “Lighten up, babe. Maybe Simone’s waitin’ for the right guy to ask. Wouldn’t want her settlin’ for jus’ anybody.”

  Does he not remember what happened the last time he so-called jumped to my defense? Ashley is still tripping over that night. This time, my gaze does land on him. Hard.

  He doesn’t even flinch.

  “Of course I wouldn’t! Look at her. Simone’s gorgeous.”

  That tone implied more leper than beauty.

  Anyone else would take the compliment and chill, but her tone puts me in my feelings. Thing is, sometimes, sometimes Ashley acts the tiniest bit jealous of me, which is silly because, hello? She has the guy sporting the ketchup stains. I doubt there’s anything remotely possible that I, or any other girl could do to jack her for Whit Devereaux’s heart.

  As if I need further proof, her dutiful boyfriend raises his head, his expression the picture of disinterest. Agonizingly slow, his perusal begins at my folded arms that are creating a shelf for the 34-C’s his friend scoped moments ago. Traces the peaks with his eyes, lets them dip in the valley. Lasers in on the hollow of my throat where my pulse thumps maniacally. Takes his time moving on to the visual critique crawls up to my face, and I’d rather ask the next ten strangers who walk by to judge my looks than to engage in this battle for composure as he scrutinizes every single pore.

  Look away, Simone.

  The caged bird inside of me wants to go for a Grammy. Ever since we kissed, it’s like the already flimsy barricade I’ve so carefully erected for protection from Whit is crumbling into a million pieces around my feet. Until I can rebuild, eye contact—any contact is simply too risky for my wellbeing.

  Yet, I sit here, doing exactly as I shouldn’t. Holding his gaze. Eyes wide open. No blink, no fight. No chance in Hades of going without scarfing at least a pint of Ben & Jerry’s tonight.

  Gonna need the big guns after this.

  His stare is so neutral, so unfathomable, I could probably put a bag over my head and get a better reaction. If Whit sees anything gorgeous this way, I can’t tell. Not that I’m interested in knowing what he thinks, because I’m not. Besides, his silence screams plenty on his feelings about Ashley’s assessment. Clearly, he’s not one of those guys who have to find a girl attractive in order to kiss them senseless.

  “Believe it or not, lots of guys ask her out, babe. Cute guys,” Ashley continues without awaiting his answer. She cups his cheek in her hand, causing the silver half of a heart charm dangling from a bracelet on her wrist to lightly tap against his jaw. “Not as hot as you, of course, but decent, you know? She shoots ‘em all down.”

  What she said is true. Lots of guys do ask me out and I do turn them down. I’m Simone Bruckner. The name alone spawns false interest. There are teachers who don’t care who I am beyond my last name. Also those same guys know I’m best friends with one of the most popular girls in the school. Like I said, girls wish they could be like her, or at the very least be associated with her. The guys are no different. They know she dates him, one of the most popular guys. Who doesn’t understand cool by association? Most kids start figuring that out after second grade. If I really felt most of those guys were actually interested in knowing the real me, not what my last name or connections would do for their position in high school hierarchy, I might say yes more often.

  But, hooking up with any old guy? Someone other than the guy I can’t stop liking, no matter how hard I’ve tried? That would be settling.

  Ashley’s right. I’m going to have cat hair everywhere.

  I finger the other half of that heart attached to the chain on my neck, remember why the battle must go on.

  “Okay, okay, I’ll be your prom date,” Ryan offers as though I just begged him. “I’ll even let you grind on me all night on the dance floor. My one condition is you have to put out at the end of the night. It’s only fair.”

  “Knock it off, Ellsworth.”

  “Hey, your turn to lighten up, dude. Simone knows I’m just fucking around about us being on the dance floor all night. We’ll have to spend some time making out in a dark corner before we head to the hotel. I’m all about the foreplay, baby,” he warbles in a pitiful bass that’s anything but sexy, which is exactly how he meant it to sound.

  I laugh. So does Ashley.

  I’ll translate that ominous noise Whit made as his intent to leave Ryan at the mall. In a bloody heap.

  So what? His friend has to think I’m ugly, too?

  Regardless, Ryan’s smile slips a notch as he clears his throat, heeding the indecipherable warning.

  “Jokes aside, I’m down for some ebony and ivory, if you are, Simone. Neither of us have dates before tickets go on sale? Consider me your arm candy for the evening, ‘kay?”

  A bruised noggin. The lightweight insults from Ashley. A flagrant dismissal. All three wrapped up in an offer for a pity date.

  Merry Christmas to me!

  I blink, try to swallow around the knot in my throat. “Pass, but thanks, Ryan. You’ll have a line of girls who would love nothing more than to scandalize themselves on the dance floor with you. I’ll go ‘head and save my precious toes from getting trampled in the stampede. If Shawn and I don’t work out, I’ll find someone else.”

  He tilts his head, eyes narrowed. Gives me an odd smile. “Don’t be so hasty. Take a little time, think about it. Besides, I think someone sitting at this table will be a whole lot happier if they knew you were going with someone who wouldn’t take advantage of you, no matter how hot you are.”

  “I really would, Simone,” Ashley confirms.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Sometimes in life, bad examples teach us the best lessons.

  —Granddaddy

  Whit

  “Supper won’t be the same without you come fall, honey.”

  I glance Mama’s way, smile. Shovel in a mouthful of the wretched peas she insists on serving every time she serves meatloaf. She’s a quintessential Betty Crocker with most food, but there’s nothing she can do with peas to make them delicious.

  “Speak for yourself, Mama. I’m lookin’ forward to it. Means I get his room,” my fifteen-year old brother Cooper announces. His glass hits the table with a noisy plunk. Milk sloshes over the sides, seeping into Mama’s festive red tablecloth.

  “I’ll be back for holidays and breaks, knucklehead.” Our rooms are near identical in size. Only difference is mine has built-ins for electronics and some books. I have the bigger closet, too. “Not leaving forever.”

  “Well, I hate college. I think you should stay here.”

  Cheyenne’s used to getting her way. She’s the baby. That’s what happens. Talk of my impending departure hasn’t gone any better with her than it has with Ashley. My first announcement of what I thought was fantastic news took place at this very table, Ashley sitting to my right, Cheyenne, my left, and by the end of the evening, I felt unsure which of them needed consoling more.

  Apparently, the decision is destined to end in a draw. Ashley has been giving me the cold shoulder every other minute, while my sweet baby sister has become a ruthless thief. Cheyenne’s taken to squirreling some of my things in her closet. Small things: An old Gameboy I used to carry around everywhere I went, some worthless baseball cards. A camouflage watch, one of those starters
with the looped Velcro closure that I stopped wearing around the same time I discovered my first man-hair. Few shirts I wear whenever I’m hanging around the house. Don’t have the heart to tell her everything she’s swiped, I’d planned on trashing anyway.

  I reach over, tap her on the nose.

  “Don’t you want me to get a good job, Chirp-Chirp?” I ask, calling her by the name I use in deference to Birdie, a name she decided everyone should call her when she turned four because it sounded more “sophisticated.”

  Hazard of hanging out with Nana’s auxiliary club.

  Her hair swishes back and forth over her shoulders as she shakes her head. “You don’t need a good job. You can work with Daddy.”

  I choke back a laugh, fork in another mound of peas since they’re nothing to smile about.

  Dev—calling our daddy by his name is our one act of rebellion, Coop’s and mine—would like nothing more than for the two of us to join him, carry on his legacy. Working under the same roof as my whiskey-loving father? Last place I want to be, working with him for the rest of my life. Honorable as his occupation may be, the idea of becoming Dev’s protégé is enough to send me searching for a very tall building from which to take a flying leap. Again, not because of the job itself, but because of who he is in spite of it.

  Pretty sure Coop feels the same, judging by that scowl on his face.

  I focus on Chirp, mostly to draw attention away from my brother’s blatant display of unadulterated disgust. As usual, Dev sits at the head of the table, one hand wrapped lovingly around a highball, his food barely touched. Coop’s attitude will only set him off.

  “Don’t frown, cutie. I’ll call you lots. We’ll video chat.”

  “Promise?”

  “Course. You know I won’t be able to go for long without talking to my favorite girl. Who loves you more than me?”

  She beams. “Nobody.”