When We Kissed

by Kim Roshell

  Even with Dev’s flaws, most of them exposed after a he’s deep in the cup, I’m 99.9% certain he wouldn’t take issue with Simone’s presence at our table. Pin something as vile as a bigot label on Mama? Never thought I’d see the day. Never.

  Tension starches her spine until every one of her vertebrae audibly clicks into a locked position. “Whatever for?” she repeats, this time more direct.

  Beyond stunned, I slowly lower my arm from the cabinet.

  “Simone’s my friend, Mama. Today ain’t the first time she’s been over. You’ve met, remember?”

  “Of course, I do. She came with Ashley, not to be here with you.”

  “You saying she’s welcome, long as Ashley’s here with her?”

  I really need clarity, because, well, this is my mama. Until a minute ago, she’s damn near been walking perfection. Confirmation of her status as a racist will sully my image of her in the worst kind of way.

  “You’ve simply taken me by surprise, Whitney.”

  “Guess we’re even.”

  “You’ll do well to watch your tone with me, young man. I’m still your mama.”

  Okay. Bad acoustics or not, ain’t shit wrong with Mama’s hearing. She’s picking me up fine.

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “It’s just that we must use caution with things like this. Your daddy’s a public figure, you know. Carrying on with that girl may give people the wrong idea.”

  You don’t say?

  “The world is far more tolerant of social mixing now than years ago, but there are still some lines better left uncrossed. I’m sure Simone’s a lovely girl,” Mama goes on, “and God rest those poor souls who took her in when nobody else wanted her, but you know like I do the damage of being maligned because of hearsay. She’s colored,” she adds, leaning in as if letting me on to some dirty, horrific secret.

  “Right.”

  Leave me in the sun for an hour, Simone will look downright pasty standing at my side. The last vestige of my innocence wants to argue the misnomer of people who look like multiple shades of brown being called black or colored. Seems a little backward, if you ask me. I vividly recall my fourth grade science teacher prattling on for a whole class period about the color spectrum, teaching us how what humans perceive as the shade of black is merely an absorption of light, thereby being the absence of color, whereas what we see as white is really the presence of all colors reflecting light as it hits them.

  While I’m arguing, I’d add how every time I set my eyes on the hue of Simone’s skin anymore, my foremost thought is how if she ever lost her clothes and let me at her with a can of whipped cream, I’d easily put myself in a sugar coma.

  I hold my tongue, not voicing either of these thoughts.

  “Gonna ‘head out, carry Simone home before it gets too late.”

  “That’d be best, honey.” Unrepentant relief glimmers in Mama’s eyes. She honestly seems to believe I’m in agreement with such an ill-conceived admonishment. Nothing could be further from the truth. She pats my cheek. “We’ll hold supper until you get back.”

  “No, don’t. Y’all go ahead, eat while it’s still hot. Told Dev I’d swing by the church, anyway. Gotta move some boxes for him. I’ll fix a plate when I come in, if I’m hungry.”

  I’m truly not anymore.

  “Are you sure? We won’t mind.”

  What do you do when the very sight of your own mother leaves you nauseous? The effort it takes to nod has me feeling queasy, the urge to spew so strong, I’m not sure I’ll ever stomach the scent of casserole again.

  “Tell Chirp we’ll read that story in the morning.”

  I turn to leave before I say something disrespectful.

  “Whit?” I stop in my tracks, earnestly praying she’s not winding up to pitch a little more of her toxicity this way. Using the abbreviated version of my name in deference to her usual penchant for saying my full name means she knows I’m on the edge.

  Anything besides an apology might cause me amnesia that this is the same woman who tenderly kissed my bloody scrapes when I fell or the same caring soul who helped give my pet turtle a proper funeral the day after my ninth birthday.

  “I only want what’s best for you, honey. Please believe that,” she speaks wearily to my back.

  My blood boils hotter. Diplomacy is a good quality, one I’ve worked hard to hone into my character. That said, my mouth has landed me in my fair share of trouble over the years. It’s watering with opportunity to take me there again.

  “Yes, ma’am.” The affirmation leaves an acerbic taste in my mouth.

  I can’t leave fast enough. The abject horror bubbling inside of me threatens to incinerate me from the inside out, and the urge to flee my own skin stretches every fiber of my body.

  I charge out of the doorway, desperate for some form of relief.

  Only to run directly into another fire.

  “Simone.”

  On any other occasion, I love the way her cheeks turn that shade of pink that reminds me of the beginning of a new day, but not this time.

  She heard every word.

  Honest to God, I don’t think I’ve felt so ashamed in my entire life.

  “Look at it this way, Cowboy. At least you proved your mad skills on the court.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Simone

  “I’m so sorry, Simone.”

  “Don’t be.” I shrug off the apology. “She’s just gave us a shove toward the inevitable.”

  Best believe she won’t have to worry about this chick darkening her doorstep again, let alone accepting another invitation to add some color at her dinner table. Southern belle, my butt! More like drop that b, replace it with an h. That’s Whit Devereaux’s mother. If one good thing has come of this whole mess, it’s that I feel more like me again. More of that uncontrollable word-vomit crap for me? Nuh, uh. Whit’s “mama” fixed me, good as new. I should send her a thank you card.

  Take that back.

  Forget the card. I don’t want any part of me at that house ever again, not even my dried spit on a stamp.

  Much as I’d like to continue my silent tirade, I doubt Whit realizes he’s headed in the direction of Ashley’s house. Guess he’s already forgotten which girl he has sitting in the passenger seat.

  Forget him, too.

  “You’re going the wrong way for my house.”

  He doesn’t look too concerned. “I’m aware.”

  “Okay. Turn around.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Take me home, Cowboy.”

  “Whit.”

  “What?”

  “My name, Simone. Please use it.”

  “Seriously? That’s your biggest concern right now?” No answer. “If you’re thinking about taking me with you to your dad’s church so your other parent can give you the rundown on why I’m unworthy, I can save you some gas right now.”

  His already white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel tightens. “You and I need fellowship, but it won’t be at the church.”

  “We really don’t.”

  “We definitely do. If you think I’m jus’ gonna drop you off before we talk this out, you got another think comin’.”

  “What’s to talk about?”

  Too many emotions to count cloud his face in a battle between acknowledging the elephant crammed in the backseat and wishing he had one of those memory eraser thingies Will Smith used in that movie. A suitable answer is obviously a struggle for him.

  I could simplify matters for him, say his mother’s words hardly fazed me, considering rejection and loss aren’t new concepts for me when you think of how my own mother neglected me for the first five years of my life, and I’m technically an orphan. I could tell him I’m fine.

  Of course, such declarations would be boldface lies.

  He blows out a frustrated breath. “Stuff.”

  “I’d rather go home, Whitney.”

  My pulse skitters at his murderous scowl.

  “And I’ll take you
, Simone, after you go someplace with me.”

  I grip the door handle as he takes left down a narrow side road. “Gee, do I have a choice?”

  He shifts into another gear that makes the Jeep go faster.

  There doesn’t seem to be anyone else driving down this stretch, which is a good thing—glad I swallowed that second Whitney since chances are stupid-slim there’ll be anyone to flag down if he dumps me on the side of the road—but the sharper than usual turn along with the rapid acceleration is enough to spark a glimmer of fear in my chest. Anger, too. Four-letter-word-use, can’t-even-look-at-you, anger.

  Like it or not, I’m riding shotgun.

  I twist in my seat, so I can’t see him, which means he can’t see me—logic anyone under the age of five understands. Snap a million mental pictures in case I need to give Aunt Katie some landmarks, not that there’s much to see until we reach an old abandoned barn on the outskirts of the city limits, apparently, our destination.

  Gravel crunches beneath the tires as Whit guns the engine, wheeling the Jeep around the back of a dilapidated shed, grinding to a stop near the edge of what looks like a makeshift pond.

  I suck in an involuntary breath—the kneejerk reaction I can’t shake, despite years of therapy. Panic torches my vocal cords until I see the visibly shallow depth. There’s less than a cup’s worth of water dampening the bottom.

  Whit shifts into park, or does whatever makes the engine sputters, then looks my way. He verbalizes the curse stuck in my throat.

  “You alright?”

  I nod.

  “No, you ain’t,” he argues, fisting a handful of his hair. "Top of all the other crap at the house, I done scared you. I’m really sorry, babe.”

  “Sorry enough to take me home right now?”

  “No.”

  “Then, stop apologizing.”

  “I have to. What Mama said . . . I . . . I didn’t know she’d be like . . . that.”

  “That?” I ask, clearing the remainder of fear from my throat. “You mean racist?”

  He winces. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  Truth, the apology sort of mollifies my bruised feelings. Not completely, just some. My shoulders rise, fall. Careless. At least that’s how I hope it looks.

  I peer out my window. “Where are we?”

  “Russell Farm.”

  “As in, Mayor Russell?”

  “Yeah.”

  I spin in my seat. “Are you crazy? This is private property!”

  “I’m here all the time. He don’t mind.”

  “Oh, sure because the two of you are such good friends.”

  “Matter of fact, we are,” Whit responds with far less snark. “His family attends our church. Told him how much this place reminds me of home. He welcomed me anytime, long as I don’t cause no trouble.”

  “Funny, seem like that’s all you have when we’re around each other.”

  “Sometimes trouble ain’t a bad thing,” he murmurs. “Anyway, you’re the only one I’ve ever brought here.”

  “Ashley? Ryan?”

  He shakes his head. “Jus’ you.”

  “So, bringing me here is what? Something to make me feel better? This the ‘you’re still special’ consolation for anyone not good enough to grace your dinner table?”

  His nostrils flare.

  “I meant what I said at your house, Whit. Our little experiment can end tonight.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “We’ve already accomplished what we set out to do, proved we can get along—”

  “We’ve proved a lot more than that.”

  True. “We also proved what happened in that closet, the whole kissing, attraction thing was really nothing.”

  “Nothin’ Simone?” he asks, a new edge to his voice that hadn’t been there before. “Sure ‘bout that?”

  Not going there. “You know what? We’re not arguing about this. In a few days, Ashley will be back. We’d have to stop spending time together like this anyway, otherwise, people will think there’s something going on between us that isn’t. If you want Ashley back, it probably won’t help if the gossip mill is churning out stories about you hanging out in the mayor’s barn with other girls, namely me. Stop tonight, we go back to normal.”

  “Been thinkin’ ‘bout that. I don’t like our normal. We need a new one.”

  “No, we don’t. Ask your mom.”

  The barb is out before I can catch it. Whit narrows his eyes, steels his jaw. Regret washes over me in an instant, zapping what’s left of my anger.

  He didn’t deserve that. Those things his mother said were cruel. Hurtful. Hateful. Still doesn’t issue me a license to fling her ugliness in his face. I saw firsthand how devastated he was, and that was before realizing I’d overhead. Far as he knew, I was still in the powder room where he’d left me. Had I been able to find the soap, I might’ve missed the entire conversation. I’d be mortified if Aunt Katie ever said anything so mean about one of my friends—anyone, for that matter.

  My turn to apologize, not that he acknowledges the gesture.

  Whit stares out the windshield, thumps his finger on the steering wheel along to some tempo only he can hear.

  “Know what helps me excel at most of the things I’m good at, Simone? Confidence,” he answers, without awaiting my reply. “Trustin’ my gut, and right now?” Finally, he looks at me, “My gut says even though you meant that apology, once I drop you home, you’ll do your level best to forget my whole existence by midnight.”

  My expression must speak loudly enough.

  “Hence the reason I brought you here, so you’ll forget bein’ with me is the last thing you wanna do.”

  “You can’t keep me here against my will.”

  He sighs. “Not my goal, Simone, and you know it. Why’s it so hard for you to accept we—as in both of us—like spendin’ time together? Fair warnin’, before you screw those pretty little lips of yours up for a denial, if you’re so dead set on backin’ out of our agreement, I may as well go for broke and use my lips against ‘em to prove otherwise.”

  I open my mouth to warn him to stay back if he doesn’t want a taste of his own blood, but stop. I study the shape of his lips, notice how the bottom is slightly fuller than the top. Something I wouldn’t have noticed had he not extended such a blatant invitation. I mean, really, it’s not like I wish I had another shot at teasing them with my tongue. Not knowing what I know now about his mom.

  His groan sparks flutters in my belly. I bite the inside of my cheek, force a groan of my own into timeout. There will be no more of that.

  I mean it.

  I do.

  Really.

  Whit leans his head back on the headrest, squeezes his eyes shut. Rubs his hands over his thighs fast enough to send smoke signals. I watch him swallow. Once, twice.

  Not for the first time—millionth is probably way more accurate—I’m struck by his masculinity. His aura alone exudes it, that something that goes beyond the Y chromosome or the obvious differences that makes a guy noticeably male. Blame it on pheromones. Or, maybe the way the muscles and veins flex and bulge beneath his skin.

  Whatever, I’ll let this one last good look burn on my memory, pray my heart won’t ache every day for the next sixty years, or so.

  He mutters something under his breath about strawberries, snapping me out of my self-destructive haze.

  “Don’t wanna lose you like this, Simone” he states, his voice hoarse. “Your friendship. I know we ain’t been at this long. It’s been less than a week, but I won’t be able to walk past you in the halls like I don’t see you. Hell, I ain’t been able to do that in months.”

  “We have to.”

  What I see that Whit doesn’t? Regardless of the hatred his mom spewed less than an hour ago, she fixed our problem. Whatever this was—Curiosity? Lust?—should never have left that closet. It’s an undeniable truth we need to face. Like adults. Something no kid our age wants to do. Sure, attraction happens, but that doesn’t mean it’s al
ways good, right? Besides, with school and all the other baggage I carry around every single day, my life is too heavy as it is. I don’t need this confusion with Whit Devereaux added on top—friendship, or otherwise.

  That game got out of hand, we kissed. It was good.

  It was amazing.

  And yeah, saving me in the pool? Monumental. He’s the second guy to rescue me from a potential watery grave, but of the two, he’s the one who made me feel safer than I’ve felt since before my parents and Ben died without me. I won’t deny the whole after-hours care package delivery ranked pretty dang high on the swoon scale, too.

  This still has to stop. Tonight.

  So, it’s over. Officially.

  I should be happy. Which doesn’t explain the stinging behind my eyelids or why I’m having such a hard time finding my voice.

  “How could she say those things?” I ask, speaking more to my reflection in the window than to him. “I’m smart, a hard worker. I mean I know I’m not Ashley, but some people say I’m pretty.”

  “You’re gorgeous.”

  “I try not to be mean to anyone,” I continue, dismissing his comment. “Well, except for Beckham. Sometimes he just asks for it—”

  “He has his moments.”

  “—still, I thought I was at least likeable, you know?”

  “I like you. A lot.”

  “Your mom doesn’t, though,” I say, turning to face him. That warble in my voice is embarrassing. The fat tear I swipe away pisses me off. What that woman said shouldn’t matter. Why am I letting it? “Without getting to know anything about me besides the color of my skin, she ruled out any possibility of anything. Don’t you see that? You can know me as long as I stay outside and don’t visit too often.”

  “Simone—”

  “We’d never work, Whit. You know it, I know it. Maybe if . . . well, no.” I wave away my foolishness. “There really isn’t a maybe, is there? Ashley will be home, and no matter what she’s done, it doesn’t change the fact you two have some things to settle.”

  If I’ve learned nothing else over the past few days, I’ve learned Whit’s decision to do anything except follow his grandfather into politics would be a crime. The boy’s a natural. Arguing is so second nature, I can tell by the jut of his chin he’s already composed a solid rebuttal in his head. I dig past my emotions, mirroring his expression.